In rehearsals last week, I unexpectedly made both myself and my director nearly cry. I wasn’t trying to, promise, but I had delivered one poem with such a rush of intense anger that the reflective moment afterwards took on a shocked resonance that really worked. Will I be able to recapture it in every performance? I don’t know, you’ll have to come along to one of the shows and tell me if I managed.
The poem that catapulted us both into a state of shimmering grief was Eight Finger Eddie And the Freak Family Goa, the longest narrative poem in the show, and a source of personal pride to me (my first ever sestina!) It’s based on the real-life memoirs of one of the first ‘freaks’ to make Goa their home, a man who was still living in Anjuna when I was there.
This section of the show starts with this:
And somehow arrives here. Which is why we wanted to cry.