Le Temps
The broadcast is timed to the second, each moment controlled, measured, and recalculated as the segment unfolds live on the air. One missed cue, leads to another and the show can quickly unravel into chaos.
I always get a crushing pressure in the middle of my chest before the show starts. My anxiety constricts the flow of breath to an impalpable silence. I’ve forgotten how to breathe. Can I anticipate where the errors might be? Can I take measures to prevent it from happening? I take in a quick, deep gulp of air and release it, molecule by molecule, with slow, precise control; my chest raised, stomach tucked in, forcing the pain under my sternum to ease.
I remind myself that controlling time is not my job. Like the cult, art-house film Metropolis, I’m just a gear in a larger wheel. If I do my part, the wheel will turn on it’s own. Time belongs to the Line Producer, and then the AD, and is simultaneously communicated to the floor by the Stage Manager who says, “We’re going on in ten, nine, eight….three, two, __.” “One” is never said out-loud. Instead the talent begins their monologue like a horse released out its iron gate.
The show starts, and to my surprise, most of my anxiety dissipates. There are no retakes, each moment is broadcast live and then it’s gone. Mistakes, when they happen can’t be corrected. I can’t control this reality. These moments are constructed for me. I’m only responsible for all the other moments of my life, after the euphoria of another day at work subsides.
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