Landslide After Rain

I hate Bump Out. 

Not just because it’s dusty and grimy and you sweat and get splinters or an aching back from the 90s vacuum pack. 

Bump Out is the landslide after the rain you so desperately wished for over months of drought.

Much like a farmer who watches every drop of storage water and manages their supplies waiting for the right time to use them, you have tirelessly rehearsed again and again. You’re grappling with your approach, contemplating every move, every look, every line, every take of air so that when it is performance time and the lights rain on the stage it is just perfect. The seeds that were sown so long ago, even before you auditioned, are finally fruitful.

There’s nothing quite like that feeling just before the lights go on. The beginners are up, anticipating, expecting, holding their breath. The skies open and you exhale as those first lines trickle out and before you know it, you’re running in the downpour, soaking wet but completely at ease knowing that all that preparation is behind you, a thick coat against the cold. 

And you get to do it night after night. With each performance there are different bursts of sunlight and moving clouds, but that’s all part of the fun - ducking and weaving in and out of the weather with the motions and moods of the cast and crew. Occasionally, you can be left stranded in a deluge, but most times there’s the offer of an umbrella. A line forgotten - a question to prompt. A book missing - another on hand. A tea tray left - a swift move in the dark. 

The brilliant thing about community theatre is that even our audiences can be forgiving. They don’t mind the occasional drizzle - a little trip up that makes them feel part of it. They sponge it up like a secret they now hold. They can have a chuckle and acknowledge that these performers and makers are human just like them - leaks and all. 

The lovely thing about true community theatre is its ability to include everyone. From the spritely youth to the forgetful fellow, there really is no-one who is not able. Capability is something that requires nourishment and cultivation - a sprinkling of kindness and acceptance is all it takes for someone to feel that they can.

More often than one might think, the onslaught of the day may accompany us to the theatre at night - the wet patch in one’s boot from the drudgery of a crappy work day.

That happened this week.

A friend had been almost washed away by the waters of work - he was literally gulping for air when he arrived pre-show. He came into the green room gasping - his face dejected and mind elsewhere. He let it gush out for a few of us mates and, despite him feeling little better, I think it helped him dry off somewhat. He performed in his damp attire, perhaps with slightly less vigour than usual, but he did it. He managed to slip and slide through, and those mates around him held him firmly in their grip, making sure he could.

It’s not only our hard work for months on a production, but it's that coexistence with people we may not always socialise with - those who know, see and affirm our capability and cognisance under pressure, through the thunderstorm of it all, that makes Bump Out so damn hard. 

The show ends with a torrent of elation, pride, fulfilment and camaraderie and then it all simply gets pulled down and packed away as though the side of a mountain has cascaded and the field you were so happy to harvest is simply…gone.

And once you’re home and the dust, the grime, the sweat, the splinters and the aching back are healed and washed away you are left with a memory. Of a time well spent and a tale well told with people who were well worth telling it with.

Yep. I hate Bump Out.

But next week a new team bumps in.

The planks will be set, the timbers will be shivered and a pirate ship will set sail with a new crew aboard and their own tale to tell.