Letter from Meg

Letter from Meg

Dear Lyceum, 


My world has always been smaller rather than larger but densely packed like a well stuffed suitcase. With no time to consider the luxury of `going to the theatre` those rare visits are little stars in a big sky filled with the blue of the far north. Clouds come in from the Arctic to cut the edge of whatever complacency the sunshine brings to our ordinary lives. My theatre is digital. A little open door to `beyond` the borders .A digital language I struggle to comprehend.I am more at home with a spade and a rake 

and tea for two and a blether. 


The skies are my observatory. They are the tunnel vision though which I look out each morning with the relaxed body language of someone who is not allowed to go anywhere. 


I do each day what I pledged to do from 2014onwards; I write. I was plunged into a different freedom then. Widowhood. A readjustment of the perpendiculars of everyday living. 


But not Isolation. Isolation gives a bitter taste to everything. As I settle into the arms of it I shuffle myself trying to get comfortable in the uncomfortable chair it appears to be. For this is not solitude and like the actors on your stage I have new lines to learn. The language of Isolation is not the language of Solitude. The latter offers solace the former, intimations of loss and a fear for the future where an` app` will tell `someone somewhere` who I visit, talk to, and where I am. I am walking into one of those stories where people have their mouths stitched up so they cannot give an opinion. This is a nightmare I will resist with every breath I take. 


Covid-19 is not to blame. All the years leading to this time have been degrading our sensibilities and our concerns for the `real things of life`. The world has not given credence to the creative soul of humanity.The acquisition of power and money is to blame for Covid-19. The invention of germ warfare is the negative side of our incredible ability to heal.The world chooses. It has chosen wrongly.The scales are imbalanced.The voices of creativity are muted by the grinding wheels of inadequate governments, the power seekers rule. 


When your stage opens again I pray for your freedom. I pray for the young people waiting in the wings to tell their stories. I pray for the wise ones who write from experience that they be listened to. I pray for all those, artists, poets, actors to express their vision for a better future. I pray their mouths will forever be un-stitched.  


Meg Macleod

Tags: From Audience