Description:This show is a re-reading of Virginia Woolf’s diaries. After penning “A Dream Attached to a Horse That Doesn’t Fall off,” which re-read Christopher Columbus’s diaries, and Butterfly and Yoke, which re-read the diaries of Vincent Van Gogh, this trilogy concludes by returning to Woolf’s journals. The previous research and experience guided the approach for this new piece; which aims to create a compelling theatrical space. In the previous performances the language approached poetry due to the madness of Columbus and Van Gogh. However, here, Woolf has yet to cross the threshold into insanity, which differentiates the piece from the previous two. Woolf’s mental state before killing herself and the situation of those days inBritain during the war was brought into the decor and mise-en-scene. 

From the play: 

Virginia: I’ll die in four days.ــ I commit suicide. This is a sudden reaction. Don’t know what. I have not thought about it. Though, I have tried twice. But I ‘m not ready for this one, at all ــ I’ll go out in the twilight. For a walk. I want to breathe a fresh air, being alone and think about nothing ــ I don’t hate thinking. I love it, but now I’m bored. I’m bored of thinking so much about death London is being bombed, constantly. Our boys are resisting. This is our optimism. But it makes us disappointed, the city is constantly burning, the siren of trains full of corpses and wounded. In all efforts for being  hopeful, I am almost exhausted and totally disappointed ــ I walk near the Oz River. The cold breeze dries my body. I am ridiculous as a scarecrow. I am laughing after so many days, I draw my overcoat tightly. We have our winter clothes on, and I ‘m still wearing my long jacket throughout winter Here at the bank, a lot of noises. Voice of Breaking waves. Noises of Splashing water. Crows noise. So many crows in the sky. Stones are crunching at my feet. I like it .Because they make me stumble. They make me grab nothing in the airــ I reach out take a stone. Look at it. It is wet, big and smooth. I should throw it away. But I put it in my pocket. I reach for another one, take it. And I reach again and again. I take them at random. Now my pockets are heavy with stones and my legs are in the river. It’s cold. Cold of spring torrents. I am heavy. Heavy because of stones and water. Heavy because of waves and crows . Heavier than the thoughts I wish to get rid and can not ــ I sink. I sink to the bottom of the Oz river. I die this way. I drown myself in this way.