I wrote this a couple years ago. It was published in a small newspaper in Malibu CA. I wanted to share it here as I gather and collect things I still do have. Although I don’t smoke weed anymore I leave this in as its all a pure account of this experience. Hope u enjoy it.
Becoming Cassandra
Strong wind muscled its way into sounds of moaning through the small openings in the windows in my old house in The Berkshires. The gusts are strong since the house is on top of a mountain but aside from that, all is quiet. I have the task of learning my lines for the role I was cast in as Cassandra in Aeschylus’s version of Agamemnon. I find half a joint on the window sill in my kitchen, take a puff, and exhale a small plume of smoke. I take my script upstairs with me into my bedroom, get comfortable, and begin to meditate on this character. I read over the lines, the intensity of her psychic visions, pleading, and hysteria. I know her. I feel her. She lives within me. I love her and must honor her voice. I close my eyes and breathe deeply in and deeply out as I imagine her. I imagine me as her. I begin to see me as her. I breathe deeply in and deeply out. I start to see the heights of emotion I need to reach to do this woman justice, to convey her desperate message. “Earth! Oh Earth!”, “Apollo!” I see myself on stage in a plain white dress with an open back and strings that tie behind my neck to hold my breasts up. I have been held prisoner and used as a sex slave - part of my punishment for not desiring Apollo as he did me. I see my uncombed hair falling around me blown into knots, coated with salt from the sea air and the hot breath of men that use my body for their pleasure. My skin taught with semen, salt, and blood from fighting while being raped. Im wild on adrenaline and exhausted. I breathe deeply in and deeply out. My vision getting sharper. I feel the rage. I feel her tears. I see her against the the black backdrop of the stage in the spotlight. I get her. I am her. I breathe again, put down the script and smile.
Day one of rehearsal and I’m off book. The hot and listless surge of emotion boiled up from every corner of my being - so happy to have the words for it. So tasty and satisfying were the words to match such emotional heights. On the night of the performance in the moments until I spoke, I meditated on stage. I brought fourth to mind the memories the awful memories - ingredients from my internal kitchen - each memory adding spice and flavor till I was stewed and marinated in their juices. The words called out of my heart and hit the audience like arrows. I am Cassandra. I am saying goodbye to these sickening psychic visions Apollo has cursed me with only to be dammed by others disbelief. I see my bloody death. I have been raped and taken as a sex slave. I know too much. I scream out my lines with a lump in my throat holding back the tears of rage and frustration until the last moment when I say goodbye to my life. My performance is met with thunderous applause. I’ve not known many things as satisfying as the gift of becoming Cassandra.