I'm going through a mental crisis. It may be rooted in a lack of meaning and a sense of value, or it may simply be that I am tired of what is around me and that I want a way of life. One night - the night that we went through a long hibernation, when we returned to Twilight - we were in that tiny room, and he was in the dark of the computer screen on the office table, and if I thought about it, I turned my blinds towards the cold and depressed streets, and a desolate and desolate air came to my head. I told Traventore that I might be leaving, and the city was too big, like a black hole, to devour everyone in it. You go in there and you don't know where you are or who you are. I didn't want to run away for a while. I fantasize about going back to a small town in the south, where no one caresssss, to a specific life that can be touched; a life that should be warm, without distance and, above all, without pain.
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The origin of this crisis may have originated in rehearsals at the ruins theatre or even earlier, perhaps starting one Wednesday in the summer. On that day, I went into a broken building full of Sabbunk's breath in front of the sun, and I first saw the curvature. And I'm doing a stupid comedy that I think can be crucified to the shame of the dramatic history (and that I've been paid back so far), and I need something to clean up the mental pollution that is going on. I am still concerned about this until now, and I suspect that the curriculum vitae that I have not hesitated to submit after seeing the recruitment of the iceberg is, to some extent, the beginning of a series of tragedies, like the first breeze instigated by the wings of the butterfly.
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The group wandered around like a gypsy, ran over various borrowed rehearsals, and my first problem was at the "Waste Theatre". The ruins are not theatres, but real ruins. It is a furry room full of plastic and wood crumbs, which is full of paint. We're going to read the play in this ruin-filled aesthetic cement box.
I was very restless on the day of the ruins theater. Every day, I sat in a bamboo chair at the door, wrinkled my eyebrow, staring at the dark house, and I thought if this place really turned into a theater, would anyone come? Will someone really come to this place without a subway? "Man is pain" was one of the most frequent words in my mind during that period. "Infinite pain". I took everything very seriously inexplicably, and even as an initiator, I was more careless. But my near-morbid stubbornness has not improved the reality of my inability to do so. The crew has no money, no space, probably no audience. Life is truly calm and clear, and you know it, but it's still rehearsing every day, moving like Sisypsy, almost self-impressive.
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When we went to the park's hotel that day after rehearsals at the ruins theater, I became more and more uncomfortable. At first I thought it was low blood sugar. It doesn't seem to be any good either. I was crouching on the steps in front of the hotel and began to wonder if I had formaldehyde poisoning. I went home in a cab before I finished eating and changed my destination to a hospital emergency. I almost died in the car. Throats can't breathe like lead, heart beats fast, hands and feet numb, limbs numb and vision begins to blur. I think I'm about to die. That felt very real and strong.
"Can you drive faster, Master? I'm not comfortable."
"You can't drive fast when you're stuck."
The eccentric and careless tone of the driver made me think he was the dead man who came to ask for his life, otherwise he could not explain why he did not fear the death of the passengers in his car. There's a traffic jam on Yellow Springs.
Fifteen minutes in the car is as long as 15 years.
The doctor gave me a full set of tests and gave me a box of pills and sent me home. They told me I didn't have a problem. This obviously doesn't explain my experience of dying.
I really realized what happened to myself was a month later. I went to the psychiatry section after several more near-death experiences and "everything normal" hospital reports. The diagnosis was that anxiety was accompanied by depression - so I started taking regular medication.
It's also the same time that the original stage is yellow. The group was temporarily disbanded.
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Then I got sick again in the rehearsal of another play, and the next day I wrote to the director to tell him I couldn't work. I officially entered a long hibernation. It was also at this time that I met a girl who, just a month later, sentenced us to death in cold violence. I feel like a joke.
During that time, I was afraid of the night, and I was lying in bed like, "a very slow, painless death."
It could be drugs or something, and I'm starting to get numb, like a dead body, and gather all senses and consciousness, including ideas. My old system of values seemed insignificant at this time, and I began to doubt myself and to try to escape. I was exiled by my own spiritual world. I don't know where I'm going. It's important to get away now. But I am well aware that running away doesn't change anything, that my fantasy is like Paris on the Road to the Revolution, that everything will be better in Paris, that pain will disappear, that familiar things will come back, that I can find my faith and the disintegrated spiritual world, and that I hope to influence myself through some kind of major decision, but it is likely that nothing will change, but that there will be only one place to suffer - whether in Paris or anywhere.
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With this mental torture, I went back to the theatre, back to where I started, to the little broken building that looked at Kyoto, where there was a ten-square-square-square house, and the blackest corridor and toilet I had ever seen. The team was re-established and re-enlisted, and this time we were at the point of departure and were hoping that something unexpected could be created in that cabin. When I was asked what kind of attitude I had towards the play, my answer was that I had no attitude, and I didn't know what it would look like, but only one step. I didn't lie, I was in a state of uncertainty when I said this, and for a few moments I felt like I was dead, buried in the ruins or somewhere else, somewhere in Beijing.
One night I opened the door of the rehearsal room through the dark corridor, and saw the light in the small house dark, the smoke around, the music coming from the corner from time to time, and a few individuals standing or sitting or sitting on it. I wonder what the existence of this picture means in itself. I don't think I know the answer. We're actually no different from hippies. They're under the bridge under a barrel of fire, and we're under the same roof. I laughed. I realize that it is a rather ridiculous thing to hope for anyone or something to save myself, but human instinct compels itself to seek help or to become part of something greater. Beijing is getting colder, and now I'm in the right distance from the city, and it takes some courage to wander around the edge of a black hole. I don't know if I'm going to disappear in the crowd or run away before I disappear, before I get through this cold winter with the heating of the rehearsal room.
JIANG
2021.12.18 Beijing
The following is an introduction to the experimental work " icebergs " mentioned in the author ' s paper
Click on the top poster to learn more.
The first of the plays, " icebergs ", produced by the North Wind Theatre, will take place at 7:30 p.m. on 1 January 2022, with the joint production of eight of the poster's members. The site is located in Beijing and is close to the subway station. The fare is set at $200 each and is limited to 15 precious seats (first-to-first-to-first) and you will contact these "living people" at a very close distance, which will definitely be the most unique one in your life.
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