transcribed from paper journal ... March 23, 1997 ~ 9:03 p.m. When we were in the line, Andy, who had come from Pennsylvania expressly to see RENT for the first time, explained to me: You know, seeing this show might just change my life. Maybe not completely. But maybe in small ways. Despite the fact that I am beyond annoyed at this whole hostel experience, I refuse to fall asleep without setting some thoughts down. It's kind of hard to imagine what I can say, because pure emotion isn't easily transcribed into letters, words, and sentences -- it isn't really hitting me, due to exhaustion and sleep deprivation and uncomfortably loud and crowded surroundings, what a significant journal entry this is for me, in my life -- so often I've written of trivialities, filling pages with series of empty nothings -- I can't believe what I'm writing, where I am, what it means...really, in the grand scheme of life experiences that mark and shape my heart and my memory -- Today, after twenty hours of frostbitten revelry on a slab of concrete on a New York street, I saw RENT. Saw seems to be such a limiting verb, because my eyes were my windows, but something deeper in me was struck by the wonder of it all. It's like it shook every cell in my body, rattling me down to my core, as I sat in a daze of disbelief that I was actually there. There, in the flesh, in real time, sitting front row center, just feet away from the faces and stories I have played out in the longing of my imagination for so many months of internet searches, magazine cut-outs adorning my walls, and races to tape TV appearances to watch and re-watch, in an effort to fill the sense of void which pierced itself through me that night of the 1996 Tony Awards when I first heard those songs. When this story, for me, first began. I just wish I could be alone and cry like I want to. I don't think I have the words to explain the degree of impact that finally seeing the show had on me. I'll never forget the feeling of seeing to whom, exactly, glances were directed and lines delivered, or the expression accompanying them that let dawn on me a whole new understanding of the subtextual nuances of communication and the feelings behind them. I quaked at the talent of Daphne Rubin-Vega (Mimi) as she hung over rails and shook her hair loose in a trail of glitter during Out Tonight. I'll never forget the sheer, animalistic lust that I felt for Adam Pascal, accompanied by the amazement of the rugged purity of his unleashed vocal chords. Rugged purity sounds oxymoronic, but somehow, in his outcries of confusion, loss, and hope, it was completely sensical and possible. I guess the primal female in me couldn't help but eye those tight plaid pants and have subconscious, if rapidly passing, visions of graphic fantasy involving what was inside of them. I'll never forget Jesse L. Martin as Collins, who brought an unmatched dimension of joy and energy to that stage, and who shook the building with the depth of his heartbreak during the reprise of I'll Cover You. I'll never forget how Anthony Rapp, as Mark, managed to move through several hours of madness, flailing his arms and telling his story while conveying vulnerablility and strength at the same time, and somehow managing to stand firmly as the center of the story, as its heart. I don't think I can express how I felt as I watched the energy bounce back between the characters of Mark and Roger, as they knew each other better than anyone, as they urged each other and questioned each other with challenges with no easy answers. What You Own was remarkable, a blend at the utmost of the stirring power charged in the union of their voices. And Wilson Heredia as Angel -- Angel, indeed. His portrayal was so pure and so sweet, it seems impossible for me to separate the actor from the whimsical, optimistic spirit of his Angel, in near perfect physical form -- my admiration for his physique wasn't about lust, but absolute appreciation and wonder for something that encapsulated so ideally the smooth, strong line of his unifying, caretaking, miracle-working character. To people living with-living with-living with-living with-living with, not dying from disease... To me, that cry resounded most innately in his voice, and in the twisting of his shoulders, sheathed in shiny orange and green. La Vie Boheme was a celebration beyond a celebration -- swimming in the air between the writhing, jumping bodies was something almost mystical that stirred a joy in my own heart. I use the word "heart" for lack of a better expression for that churning, spinning warmth that I literally felt inside my chest. You know how in moments of extreme, gut-hacking sorrow, when you're choking like you'll cry until you collapse in despair and exhaustion, you can actually feel your heart breaking, right there inside your chest? That's the best comparison I can make, but I was at the other end of that emotional threshold. I could feel my heart burning with a steady joy. It was almost spiritual. That might make sense to no one but me, but I guess that doesn't really matter. The second act came after a fairly speechless intermission, when I sat immobile, not wanting to move and accidentally wake myself should it just be a hallucination by breaking the silence among us -- except for when Shelley said to no one in particular: I think I need to prepare myself emotionally for this next act. She paused, and concluded, It's not possible! She was so representative of the sense of grappling with the feelings that I felt, and not really understanding how to deal with them, because they were new. As for me, the tears started falling when the characters of Mark and Roger first walked on stage, and they fell in a fairly constant stream for the rest of the show. There was no sense trying to stop them. It was as if there was no way to, because I wasn't even thinking about them -- they were like an actual physical response -- the feelings I was feeling, I guess, couldn't contain themselves. They were so intense that they manifested in a reaction of constant, silent tears. I don't think I saw one song not through blurry vision. By the end, as Mimi lay there seemingly lifeless until she popped up, I was in a state verging on outbreak. Then she said, And I swear, Angel was there! right to Collins, just for him, and he looked back at her in hopeful gratitude and put his fist to his chest -- and then: Turn around, girlfriend, and listen to that boy's song! and she turned around to look at Roger, who was sobbing and sort of cowering like this was too good to be real, to be happening to him -- I just wanted time to slow down -- and the rest of the cast circled around them in a chorus of Without You and No Day But Today, and Mark's film flickered behind them in the all-encompassing beauty of candid reels, and the singing grew louder and richer, and then Angel walked out to join them ... and it was perfect. Only as the lights flickered out for a moment did I allow myself to finally collapse into the sobs of disbelief, thankfulness, relief, and sadness that it had ended, and I would leave the characters there, on that stage, and probably never join them again -- and then they bowed, and we stood, and they smiled at us -- we, 34, whom they had seen shivering in our sleeping bags the night before -- it was like a dream. And afterwards, as we crowded outside the theater to say goodbye, in a whirl, we were all seeing each other through eyes that had cried, knowing it was ending, our fleeting contact with each other, and we all embraced and vowed to send pictures, and Andy hugged us, and I saw in him the same choked-back emotion that was inside of me, ready to spill. He looked at me, touched my arm, and simply said, Forget small ways, and then he was gone. I wonder if any of us will ever see ourselves quite the same again after making this journey together, and having so much time to hear ourselves talk to each other, and laugh, and sing. How did we get here, how the hell? It was everything I thought it would be and so much more. I'll take with me the brilliance of the music and of the performances and the lesson that I hope will sing in my heart long after I leave this time and this place... There's only now There's only here Give into love Or live in fear No other course No other way No day but today journal archive © Copyright 2000 By Secret and Divine Signs