Courtesy

“D, world destruction
Over and overture
N, do I need
Apostrophe T, need this torture?”

-- They Might Be Giants, "Don't Let's Start"

--

Continuing the music binge. They Might Be Giants’ 1986 self-titled album has some awesome nerd rock. “Youth Culture Killed My Dog” and “Number Three” geek me out. Radiohead’s Hail to the Thief. I do most of my listening in my head, between earphones, tethered to the laptop by a frail, black wire. is all right, too, along with the Wallflowers’ Breach.

--

Got a rough one-third packed and ready to go to the New Place. Soon I will rediscover the torture of stairs, the agony of a heavy-laden step. But I welcome the change, the upward shift. With the christening of the New Place, an overnight trip tonight, a triple-show day tomorrow, this weekend looms with the promise of headache. And next weekend is just as stacked: seeing friends in a show at a closing theatre, watching the Reds play poor baseball (in a private box with co-workers), driving to Hillsdale for graduation (and my birthday), driving back for my girlfriend’s birthday and parties into the pre-dawn of the weekend--and back to the grind on Monday.

--

The in-between days are fuzzy. Schools whiz by, the faces of children lost in the haze; outside the box, confusion mixes with splendor as clouds freeload above the river valley to drop majestic rain. Muddy footprints on sidewalks wash and dry into thick scars of dirt as the sun emerges.

As I stop and signal, black teenagers glare at me through the windshield as they cross the street, me in my glasses and spiky Asian hair, me and my courteous wave. Don’t worry, I think to myself; I’m just a lazy pilgrim, passing through at everyone else’s convenience.

--

I am beginning to lose faith in the idea of professionalism--at least, in theatre. Or maybe I am gaining faith, storing up hopes, investing in expectations.

Maybe it's just that I haven't worked long enough yet--or haven't met those who survive the first trying years of an acting career to emerge humble and sans swagger--but I feel floored by how un-professional so many theatre folks are. I guess it's the young ones that always get you down; I don't know; we're all supposed to be young at heart but old in mind and word. At least, that's what I've always thought.

All I know is that work does not have to be a constant battle. Art might, though.

Or maybe it's the other way around.

These derisive snickers exist everywhere, I suppose. Secretaries sneer at the backs of bosses just as teachers sigh and sob in the lounge, just as actors backstab backstage, where the lights are dim, the curtains drawn. I mean, I bitched about directors in college. How is this any different?

I guess if you do it to someone who remains ignorant of your disdain, you don't have to answer for your opinions or misplaced self-righteousness. If your poison works its way through the veins, though, the brain finds out eventually. The killing might be done by that point, anyway. The only thing for it is to be an antidote, darning the dope, high above the mucky-muck.

There is hope in the reminder that it is also a job--work, slaving, activity within boundaries. If it is only fun, all else fails.