There’s joy in learning how to cry

Tuesday night at Meisner 4 we each read our Spoon River piece out loud, then put our copy away and said it again in our own words.

I’d read it at least one hundred times over the week and had very little reaction to it. Just words on a page, words in my head.

By the time I finished saying it in my own words I was trembling and on edge. (half ready to cry, half afraid/wanting to hide) By the time one of my classmates had finished her piece  More

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Nelli Clark

I WAS only eight years old; And before I grew up and knew what it meant I had no words for it, except That I was frightened and told my Mother; And that my Father got a pistol And would have killed Charlie, who was a big boy, Fifteen years old, except for his Mother. Nevertheless the story clung to me. But the man who married me, a widower of thirty-five, Was a newcomer and never heard it OTill two years after we were married. Then he considered himself cheated, And the village agreed that I was not really a virgin. Well, he deserted me, and I died The following winter.

          – Spoon River Anthology

This is the part I’m learning for Meisner 4. It’s a stretching piece for me. Much more vulnerable than I normally let myself be on stage. Or ever.

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