By Creekside this morning, taptapping on this hired pc, I shyly invoke Blakeian sprites of Spring: today, Vernal Equinox: same lighthours as darkhours. Is it arbitrary, credulous, plain silly of me to fancy this an astronomically-auspicious day on which to show our Blake in premiere to London?
Seriously, that doesn't matter; but I joyously take any observably cosmic cue for the greening, the springing-forward of our metropololitan debut - as a great omen. Yet I'm trying not to be superstitious. Towards the end of run/reheasal yesterday, actor David and I looked up into the black drapes of the "flies" and mused on the life-echoes that might haunt this creekside space.
Here the waters meet, not common even in this capital where so much happens at once. I daydreamed the spirits: neolithic folk, Boudiccan Britons, their hapless Roman occupiers, the uncounted generations down to Dickens' umbral villains and killers, to luckless cadavers in Deptford muds.
Still, keep it cheery, Paul. Blake is in us, I know, empirically, truthfully: we set his words, we act his boy-visions. Blake is in me thro' his works' enduring. I hope my shaky candle is worthy.
Next week we'll do it all again for Bristol, my adopted home. Now that is scary.
(Although tonight's show starts in just under nine hours, my adrenal addiction has already started pumping in my veins wee, slightly-paralysing doses of The Fear.)
I hope my falsetto isn't too false, my distortion-effects not overly so.
What would Billy Blake make of us?
Pray for us, William.
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