Wednesday 4.3.9

Took the bus to Jacinto Vera and worked with F on his first big speech. Word by word, line by line, drinking maté all the way. Told him to use the other actor to arrive at wherever his character might be going. V arrived around 4.15. By 5 we moved back to the last scene. Kept going until 8.30. F’s head was clearly exploding. Called a halt. Even though I would have happily kept going until the cows came home.

My cast doesn’t really do drinking after rehearsals. Besides they’re probably desperate to escape the task master. Then again it’s a different rhythm. It’s drinking maté and smoking on the streets. Watching the world go by. Teaching me odd snippets of Uruguayan slang. Which I generally forget. Some of it will stick. We had an interesting discussion about how to translate the words: Fucked Up. One’s option is desquisiado, another enfermo, said with the stress on the middle syllable.

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On the bus, a kid got on and played a few songs, busking, him and his guitar. Blackbird by McCartney, then a song in Spanish punctuated by bursts of siritup, l’il daaliin, by Marley. The songs were more touching that they should have been. After the first, the bus clapped. The conductor gave the kid the nod to continue. All senses heightened just that fraction, emotions nearer the surface. The dangers were obvious. He wondered how many tweaks of the emotional volume would be needed before every time a busker sung a Beatles cover, the bus would flood with tears, passengers scooping themselves off the liquid floor. A society in total touch with its senses, destined to grind to a halt at any touching moment.

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