Countdown Update! 46 days to takeoff and “Critics” wrote reviews…
Let me start by explaining how a woman, who, I have never met and does not know that I exist. Oh wait, that is a running joke in my life! (My bio dad has no idea I'm alive.)
TO THE POINT!
Ruth Wilson did more than perform Marisa Coulter. She exorcised her. She took a character soaked in contradictions, love and cruelty, intellect and wrath, and made her a cathedral of pain and power. And in doing so, she catapulted a dream I hadn’t said aloud in twenty-one years straight into the daylight. (If you would like to see my Marisa Coulter character study click here)
She wrote my soul while it was on fire, not just burning politely like a scented candle, no. From the fallout of a man-child who cheated on me while pretending he was capable of love.
And now? My Irish-English-French-Scottish butt is going to London and Oxford.
I do not care what any newspaper print Gobbler (HDM reference IYKYK) said in their damp little column.
I do not care if the pacing is "glacial" or the lighting is "too conceptual" or if some sleep-deprived reviewer with a tight deadline got lost in metaphor and missed the miracle entirely. (I am going to stop checking my Google Alerts now.)
Because I’ve been counting down for 239 days. I crossed time zones and sanity to get my ticket. I woke up at 4 a.m. and refreshed that booking page like a woman possessed by Broadway banshees.
A “friend” of mine thinks I should refund my one-way ticket to spiritual combustion because someone named Gareth (not actually his name) thinks the set was "minimalist"? I’m sorry (I AM NOT), Gareth, I didn’t realize your soul was on the line.
And when she walks onstage and breathes like she means it, then I will have won. The critics can keep their tepid adjectives.
Anyway, carry on with your day!
*My Evidence*












