Mykull, A Frail Dirge

“Nothing happened in the years prior. Nothing that you care to hear mentioned, nothing fascinating that needs to be reported. More to the point, if there’s something from your history you hate, erase it. Done. Ripped from the roots. Where I come from you have to pay a fee to have the city take out the garbage. But if you burn it, no one will know. If you drown it, it will be imperceptible. Take it far away to hide it - then you have power.”

I left the room shaking almost uncontrollably. Of course I had known what I was getting myself into, going to watch a staged reading of Annjilla’s play “Mykull, A Frail Dirge”. The play dealt with disturbing issues using very powerful imagery: it was difficult to watch, or even listen to. We had read the play in a theatre class of mine multiple times; each time it was slightly different, as Annjilla edited and cut and rearranged and tweaked it. That was the purpose of the class, really: to workshop new plays, to prepare them for the stage.

Reading Annjilla’s play week after week was one of the hardest things I’ve had to do. It drained me emotionally, and, knowing what I would have to face in class, I was tempted at times to make myself ill and unable to attend. How could I sit in class week after week and listen? It was like lacerating a healing wound, over and over again. And it hurt. Every word stung. Annjilla is simply a genius; she has a way with imagery that very few have. There’s undeniable power in her words. There were times that all I wanted to do was run out of the room, with my face buried in my hands to hide the tears. Had I been sitting any closer to the door, I probably would have.

After reading the play for the first time, we discussed it and went through related improv scenes so that Annjilla could watch and flesh out her ideas. It was necessary that we have a “safe” word – tiger – which could be used, if people got too uncomfortable, to instantly stop the scene and bring us back to reality. We held onto that word like a lifeline. It was our safety net, and yet many people - including myself - were afraid to use it, afraid of being perceived as weak.

I had to refuse to perform. I knew that I couldn’t handle being a part of the scene, but that no matter how bad it got, I wouldn’t bring myself to call tiger. So I watched. And silently cried. I was being ripped to shreds, every line a worse torment than the one prior. Tears glistened in the eyes of a few of my classmates as the intensity in the room became elevated, but I wondered if I was the only one who was quite so deeply affected. I stayed in my seat, my knees pulled to my chest and my eyes riveted to the scene unfolding before me. I wanted desperately to escape. But something kept me from leaving. Maybe it was my stubbornness - I /would/ face this challenge, no matter the pain it caused.

Perhaps that was the reason that I went to tonight’s staged reading and subjected myself to the agony I knew would come. Or perhaps it was because I was required to attend for a grade. Either way, I went. And left shaking.