Stopping

"Most stories have a hero who finds
You make your past your past."


-- Joshua Radin, "Brand New Day"


--


Once you leave school, yearly calendars revert to what they were before schools imposed vacations on them. There is no "summer" except for the change in temperature and your monthly electric bill. I'm starting to learn that. I think that's one of the reasons so many people get depressed in the years after they leave college. That, and getting older and working and not drinking as much and stuff.


Another result of no longer living in a "school year" is that there are beginnings and endings randomly placed throughout the months. For example, it's mid-July and one friend of mine just started a new job, and in two days another friend leaves his job, and in seven weeks, I'm leaving my current job. And we're all moving at different times, too. When I go to restaurants and see teenagers working their "summer job," I have to remember what that was like. To work at a place knowing it was temporary, knowing your identity didn't necessarily have to be tied to this organization in any way, knowing that there were things in the system that you'd do differently but that there wasn't enough time to bother.


Granted, not all teens leave their summer jobs in the fall, but most do.


It's different now, and I don't need to say why. Knowing that if you wanted to, you could slip into complacency. You could be like the person upstairs at the corner office, working in middle-management because they were ambitious when they got here but not enough to jump ladders for a better position somewhere else, or maybe they married a local, or maybe "the right time never came."


I guess that's all some people want in life, but I never want people to say or think that of me. I think that's what people originally meant by saying that someone was "going places."


--


When I was in Omaha last week, my sister and I talked about what it was like to come back after being away for so long. My sister said she feels vindicated every time she runs into an old classmate whose life has fallen to shambles in the last two years--not that she relishes their misfortune, but that she just knows in those moments that she made good decisions. It makes her feel better about being in the Navy, a state of being which gives her a lot of grief.


I'll be honest--I feel good, too. It makes me feel better about moving back home, because it's my choice to do so.


I think a lot of people know they live in a free country but don't live free lives. They don't go places. They don't save their money so they can do good things or have good times. They either see their families too much or too little. They don't know the good places to eat in their own town, and they don't read books or go on walks. They don't escape sadness.


--


Now that I'm back, I'm back in The Nerd rehearsals, which have been going for a few weeks now. We blocked some of my character's big scenes last night, and it was the first chance I've gotten to play with the other cast members.


I can definitely tell they've spent some time gelling while I was gone. It's hard to put anything into Jell-O once it's set, and I spent most of my breaks reading quietly just because I don't want to be the guy who thinks he knows what everyone's talking about.


I'm not shut out, though. Theatre people are naturally warm, welcoming folks. They smile a lot and tend to reference movies that we all have seen.


It's a mix of feeling incredibly young (most everyone else has "retired" from acting at least once) and inexperienced. Like I'm relearning how to act. Which might be a good thing. I imagine the ability to reboot each time a rehearsal process begins is useful.


But as I told a friend today, even though The Nerd is no masterpiece, it's still nice to work on a play of substance. On material instead of bits, on action instead of mere business, on lines that don't come from the back-issues of my childhood. It's been two years since I've had the sense that I was "creating a role," instead of trying to fit myself into the cookie cutter. It's nice.


--


Contrast that to this morning: I entered the summer camp also in medias res, trying to figure out where, in the midst of juggling and scenes and an ever-changing schedule, I fit in this year. What do I teach? Who do I work with? What do we work on? When?


It's mildly controlled chaos. I don't want to badmouth anyone in my organization. But everyone's a bit clueless about what is supposed to be going on. Or maybe they just suppose what is going on. I also don't want to complain too much about being back at work, because who doesn't want to complain when you've been on vacation for two weeks?


Long and short: I'm not convinced that there's any real point in me being there for five hours of my day.


--


I think it has a lot to do with what I mentioned before, that I'm leaving in seven weeks at the end of August. That's too short a time for any long-term projects of real merit, but it's also too long to have anything culminate during the camp.


This is exactly why I didn't want to give anyone my notice back in April.


I'm leaving soon. This simple fact underlies everything I do for the next seven weeks. I keep preparing myself for a climax, only to find that I've somehow ended up in the dénouement.


--


It's raining today. I drove to the office in the afternoon, during the worst of the storm, and when I passed a semi I noticed that the truck slowed down considerably. Of course, it's because big trucks like that need more time to stop, more space to slow their momentum.


The process of stopping is just that--a process. It can't happen instantaneously.


The problem is, when your foot's on the break, there's not much else you can do.

Perks

"My sister said Mary Elizabeth is suffering from low self-esteem, but I told her that she said the same thing about Sam back in November when she started dating Craig, and Sam is completely different. Everything can't be low self-esteem, can it?

My sister tried to clarify things. She said that by introducing me to all these great things, Mary Elizabeth gained a 'superior position' that she wouldn't need if she was confident about herself. She also said that people who try to control situations all the time are afraid that if they don't, nothing will work out the way they want.

I don't know if this is right or not, but it made me sad regardless. Not for Mary Elizabeth. Or for me. Just in general. Because I started to think that I don't know who Mary Elizabeth was at all. I'm not saying she was lying to me, but she just acted so different before I got to know her, and if she really isn't like what she was at the beginning, I wish she could have just said so. But maybe she is like she was at the beginning, and I just didn't realize it. I just don't want to be another thing that Mary Elizabeth is in charge of."

-- Stephen Chbosky, The Perks of Being a Wallflower


--

Sometimes, books smack you in the face.

I read that passage less than an hour ago, back on the plane. I had a window seat in a very small plane. I think there were only about 30 people on board. On the left side of the aisle there was only one seat in each row, but on the right there were a pair of seats. Next to me sat a very attractive blond girl. She was 16-26 years old. I'm serious. She could have been any of those ages. Usually you can be more specific than that, but her appearance defied such estimation.

When I read the above passage, we hit major turbulence. This will seem like it's straight out of a romantic novel, but it's not. There's a major storm north of Indianapolis right now, and we flew right through it from Milwaukee. I had to close the book because the vibrating words were making me nauseated. Also because the behavior of Mary Elizabeth (who is dating the main character in the book) reminds me of how I behaved during my last long-term relationship.

It's shaming.

--

The blond girl was reading Eclipse, a book in the Twilight series. She wasn't assigned that seat originally, but she swapped with her friend.

I always feel awkward when someone sits beside me on an airplane. It's even more awkward for me if the person who was supposed to sit beside me decided not to and I can't figure out why. I don't feel so awkward if the other person is already seated and I come down the aisle and sit down beside them, because I am the visitor, in a way, and I introduce myself and strike up a conversation and sort of go through the obligatory smalltalk airlines have thrust upon modern travelers. But when it's the other way around, when I'm already seated and the person moving down the aisle realizes the number on their ticket matches the number of the seat beside me, I feel like the host, and I sort of wait for the other person to introduce him/herself.

But. They. Never. Do.

I don't generally have social anxiety (not the kind that makes me sweat or my heart race) but there are times when I recognize that I am dwelling on something that other people probably think it's weird or creepy to dwell on. This was one of those times.

They switched, and the blond girl (why did she have to be cute?) sat and acted like there was no one where I was, and she opened her book and started reading. Because I was reading, too, I had two thoughts in rapid succession:

1.) Hey! We're both reading books!


2.) Who cares, weirdo? Don't you dare say anything.


So I didn't. It was probably a good decision, but I had to stop myself from imagining what we might have talked about if she had had the (un)common courtesy to introduce herself and make smalltalk.

--

"Hi, I'm Brook."

"Chris."

"Nice to meet you."

"You, too."

"What are you reading?"

"The Perks of Being a Wallflower. My sister gave it to me."

"Sounds good. This is my third time reading Eclipse. I'm kind of obsessed."


"I respect that. You a fan of the movies?"

Maybe she would be, or maybe she wouldn't be. Or maybe she wouldn't really know. Definitely, she would think that the books were better.

"Fair enough. You know, I was just there."

"Where?"

"Forks, Washington."

"Really? What were you doing in Milwaukee?"

I'd give her a brief summary of the last two weeks.

"Wow. You've been busy."

"Yup. Well, enjoy your book."

"You, too."

--

But instead, it was like this:

Forty-five minutes of silence pass in a 55-minute flight. She sneezes.

"Bless you," I say.

She sneezes twice. I stop myself from saying, "Times two," and just give a stupid smile.

"Thank you," she says.

We go back to reading our books. I read the part where the main character talks about hating it when the girl he's dating keeps recommending stuff to him and then talking about herself more than him or the stuff she just recommended, and then the main character's sister offers an explanation. Then the plane lurches down and my stomach becomes my throat and then sinks into my butt, and I have to close the book.

--

Now I'm blogging and self-consciously wondering whether this blog is another form of my recommending complex or this is just the result of a lot of caffeine and not much sleep. I'm sitting in the Indianapolis Airport's baggage claim area on a very comfortable padded bench. A Mexican gentleman approached me a few minutes ago and asked to use my phone. He looked desperate and he had a bunch of folded, printed-off papers in his hands. Numbers are circled and highlighted all over. I made the instant decision to trust a stranger. His side of the conversation makes it sound like he was supposed to have been met by a driver by now.

I stopped listening to my iPod, which was playing Bob Dylan's "Girl from the North Country," which is a very good song if you have never listened to it. Not my favorite Dylan, but better than anything on Modern Times.


Chbosky's book is also very good, if you have never read it. Up until this point I've been pretty happy every time the main character reads a new book, because I've read all the books he's reading for the first time. I can't articulate exactly why it made me happy each time, but it did.

--

I should call a taxi.

--

Flight

“I’m gonna move

I’m gonna go

I’m gonna tell everyone I know

Looking for a home in the heart of the country.”

-- Paul McCartney, “Heart of the Country”

--

I’ve decided what is my favorite part of flying. It is not the take-off, and it is not the cruise; it is the part between those two, the climb.

Why?

The clouds, mainly. It has to be a cloudy day, partly cloudy, not overcast, and preferably with at least two different kinds of clouds. Different kinds of clouds form on different layers in the atmosphere, which means there is variety. I like when the plane climbs and you’re sitting by a window, and you become equal with the clouds, and then their superiors. But then they subvert you again by becoming a fleet of ships floating to battle in the air.

When you are on the ground, clouds are two-dimensional things that move sideways across your vision. But climbing to their level is like watching a painting become a sculpture. A mural changes with dimension to a diorama.

--

Writers have characterized the plains as looking like patchwork quilts from the air, but this is not entirely true during the climb. You can see the general squaring of fields because of roads, but even this isn’t through and through, because roads just outside a city like Omaha are slanted and curved all the time. And within the squares of farmland, there are squiggles and mazes that have been carved by farmers who understand how to navigate topography with their tractors. There are levees and shelterbelts of trees, and on days like today (after a raging morning storm) the creeks invade their banks like smudges of a pencil line.

--

I stare at the wobbly wing of this aircraft and think about the days when I was a boy who wanted to be a fighter pilot. I biked to the base library every Saturday morning to play chess for two hours with the Chess Club, and then I would waste away the afternoon poring over the same dozen books that were filled with all the unclassified information about our nation’s airborne fighting machines. I learned the kind of engines an F-15 Eagle has, and how they are so powerful that this jet is the only one in the world (or at least it was at the time) that could accelerate while flying straight up. And how the F-16, even though it only has one engine, is the only aircraft that can make a turn without losing altitude.

Then, I learned a sad bit of information. There was a height requirement for military pilots. I think it was 5-8, making me four inches too short. Tom Cruise, even though he played an F-14 pilot in Top Gun, is also too short, and so is my dad. That’s why when my dad joined the Air Force he didn’t go to school to become a pilot, but instead was trained to operate field radars, which at the time required constant maintenance to be done in very tight spaces. Later he became an instructor at the NCO Academy at Lackland AFB in Texas, where he taught guys older than him how to be good leaders and use proper grammar on their paperwork and stuff like that. Then he became a computer programmer, which turned out to be something that he really loves doing, and which is the thing he still does even though he’s retired. Just goes to show you that dreams can be deceiving.

--

I feel the vibration in my seat. It is not like a massage but it is still kind of relaxing. On supersonic jets, you’d think that you wouldn’t hear much because you’re going faster than sound, but sound travels much faster through metal and plastic than it does through air, so it’s actually just as loud, maybe even louder. Not that I’ve ever been on a supersonic flight. That’s just one of those things I read in those books.

I think about all the loudness and strength and force and absurd commotion it takes to get a single aircraft to fly. All the fuel that burns in the engines, the turbines that blow all this air, all the surface area of the wings, all the sensors and whistles and locks and streamlining. It’s not like a boat, which is effortless. A plane is all effort.

It sure takes a lot for us to do what birds do by instinct with unmatched grace. They also have the luxury of flying together. Humans have to separate for safety. To fly is to be sequestered, compartmentalized, searched and isolated. Birds fly and we marvel. We fly and everything else tries to ignore it. Or the engines swallow a swallow and the plane crashes.

That’s something that always bothers me whenever I go to air shows. The noise. There’s something thrilling about being sound-pounded, but as anyone who’s had to sit through an awful band at a concert knows, too much sound is just too much. It’s annoying.

--

I see a field of electric windmills and I can’t remember if there’s a better name for these devices. But these rows in the Iowan farmscape look to me like white toothpicks stuck in a splotchy, green tablecloth.

Most of them aren’t turning, I guess because it’s not that windy of a day. But then I see one windmill whose blades are slowly, steadily rotating. It must be facing the right direction, angled just so.

I think that’s a lot like genius, talent or godliness: someone facing in just the right direction.

--

We’re descending. The sculpture will become the painting again.

Emergence

"So, everyone asked me to stand up and read the poem. And I wasn't shy because we were trying to act like grown-ups, and we drank brandy. And I was warm. I'm still a little warm, but I have to tell you this. So, I stood up, and just before I read this poem, I asked everyone if they knew who wrote it to please tell me.

When I was done reading the poem, everyone was quiet. A very sad quiet. But the amazing thing was that it wasn't a bad sad at all. It was just something that made everyone look around at each other and know that they were there. Sam and Patrick looked at me. And I looked at them. And I think they knew. Not anything specific really. They just knew. And I think that's all you can ever ask from a friend."

-- Stephen Chbosky, The Perks of Being a Wallflower


--

I was scratching Ajax's belly when I told my dad that when I get my own place in Omaha, I might get a dog of my own. Dad said that could be a good idea, as long as my landlord was okay with it, and I said I knew. Then he said that if they get another dog, it won't be a Bichon Frise like Ajax.

"Why not?"

"I've never seen a dog this needy. They were bred to be lapdogs, sure, but I have never seen a dog whose sole ambition was to be in a person's lap."

It made me think a bit about what makes someone needy (as opposed to affectionate), and that made me think about something I have tried not to think about in a while: my family got a dog two years after I went off to college, and the running joke for a while was that Ajax had "replaced" me. I don't think about it much anymore just because it's silly to take a joke like that seriously, and it's hard not to think about something like that without taking it seriously. But maybe there's something of me in that dog, or vice versa, that is a bit cloying.

--

Went to my baby sister's soccer game this evening. It took place in an open field not too far from our house, down a hill from a Jimmy John's and Burger King and the Chinese restaurant where I got my first job. The sky was as big as the atmosphere and the sun made twilight behind clouds. It was pleasant.

And for the first time, what I suspected would happen, happened. I began to second-guess my decision to stay in Omaha for a while. I began to think about the field and the big sky and feel trapped inside all this space. It's moot.

Then I remembered that I was seeing my baby sister's soccer game, which is something I haven't been able to do in a long time, and then I met the boy who wants to date her. Then Nebraska seemed not just all right but good, and I remembered that any place, even a hometown, takes time to get back into. I may have to go a few months without working in a theatre. I should prepare myself for that necessity.

--

My mom's wedding dress was ruined by a local seamstress, so she took the dress, along with my sister and my lola, five hours into Iowa where her cousin could work on it. (Her cousin is a seamstress herself.) She appraised the garment and said that the damage was too much, they would have to start over. It would take an entire day, maybe more. Welcome, emergency.

Long story short: my mom, sister and lola are in Iowa tonight. There are two days until the vow renewal ceremony (essentially, it's the wedding my parents were too poor to afford 25 years ago), and a dress is being stitched overnight. Crisis averted.

Isn't it romantic?

--

My middle sister, the one who went to Iowa for the night, has been suggesting I read The Perks of Being a Wallflower, and so far, it's pretty good. (Yet again, I'm unable to resist the call of another book.) It's full of honesty and simplicity. It's been a perfect fit for my mood the last few days: tired, a little listless, retrospective, and--oddly--focused.

Lately, I confess, my pursuit of Orthodoxy has slowed. It's no excuse, but life keeps getting in the way. Vacations. Wedding. Family. Driving. How to keep the fast? How to hear the Liturgy?

In some flailing attempt to make myself feel better about this, I have downloaded a lot more Orthodox podcasts tonight. I'll listen to them, in lieu of something better, whenever I can.

--

There was this place we went in Washington, that stretch of gray coastline. Two rocky islands, topped with dense forest, stood about a mile offshore. There was the hint of brown and green amidst the black lines of the cliffs, and white crests exploding all around. Dead trees all around us, smooth rocks lain like walkways in the sand. Cold moisture. No sun anywhere. Some Asian backpackers and our bearded tour guide and us and no one else.

The guide told us on the bus that the Indians who live here believe spirits live on those islands, and that is why they hardly ever venture out there. Standing on the beach, feeling chills, contemplating the scrape and shatter of the ridges, there was no question as to how the tribal wise men looked out to the sea and perceived the emergence of earth, and thought it sacred.

--

Everything is going to be okay.

Reviews

In a Twilight book shop, having just finished
the first chapter of the third book. Is the
disgust clear enough on my face?

"JOHN. They were attentive.
ROBERT. Yes. (Pause.) They were acute.
JOHN. Mmm.
ROBERT. Yes. (Pause.) They were discerning.
JOHN. I thought they were.
ROBERT. Perhaps they saw the show tonight (pause) on another level. Another, what? another...plane, eh? Another level of meaning. Do you know what I mean?
JOHN. I'm not sure I do.
ROBERT. A plane of meaning.
Pause.
JOHN. A plane.
ROBERT. Yes. I feel perhaps they saw a better show than the one we rehearsed.
JOHN. Mmm."

-- David Mamet, A life in the theatre: a play


--

I tend to do this thing, and I'm not entirely proud of it. It feels dishonest to me, or like in doing it I'm preparing to be dishonest later.

This thing I do is reading reviews of a book after I've finished it.

I try not to read reviews beforehand, relying more on the book's reputation, my friends' opinions, or--call me crazy--my own reaction to reading the first chapter. Stephen King suggests reading the first 10% before deciding whether to continue to the end. I've appropriated that rule. So if I read the first 45 pages of a 450-page novel and still don't care about the story or characters, I put it down. Sometimes I return to it later, as I did with Roth's The Great American Novel, and find it worthwhile (most books are, if given your attention). But for the most part, I am reluctant to reread a book that I know from experience is boring.

Why do I read reviews after the book, then, if I consider myself enough of a reader to be discerning? Why does it matter what anyone else thinks?

Tough question. I guess it's the same reason anyone first seeks the opinion of others after sharing a common experience, rather than coming right out with one's own criticism: "Well, thank God that's over, right?...Right, guys?" I have this desire to shape my reactions based on others'. It's like research for a thesis. And it's not like this is exclusive to movies, either. I check RottenTomatoes.com to see what enlightened film-seers have said about the movie I just paid to see. What have the experts said? Where do I agree and disagree with them? How can I frame my opinions in such a way as to sound educated and well-read despite the fact that this is the only book I've read (or movie I've paid to see) in the last three months?

More tough questions.

--

My sister is playing Zelda on the Wii right now, and I find myself distracted by a parabolic spectacle: Link "activates" a monolithic suit of armor by throwing something at it, and it comes to life, hopping on its stone pedestal of a foot in whatever direction Link is running. It holds a massive hammer and resembles a soldier in Zigzag's army from The Thief and the Cobbler. It follows Link around for maybe a minute until it has been led to a particular spot, and then it stops, raises its hammer, and smashes whatever is before it. Then, its act of violence done, the runic glow fades from its body and it turns back to lifeless rock.

I can't help but think that, in some way, reading reviews post-book is like leading the statue to smash something. I seek it out. I activate it. It comes with me. I show it the thing I want to smash. And in a single, irreversible blow, it destroys the thing that was.

--

King also says not to read the summaries printed on the backs of books, because they weren't written by the author but by some post-grad publishing house clerk who just had a one-night stand with the book, having scanned it in five hours, once.

Also, not to read reviews printed on the first ten pages because the people who wrote those either weren't good enough to be hired by the publishing house, or are friends of the author returning a favor.

I wonder how he'd feel about me blogging, then, having never been hired by a publisher or befriended by a reputable author. There is a "Chris" sound in "hypocrisy."

I know the hatred of critics is a popular one, but I also can't shake that most of the artists I admire detest the very idea of criticism. Not just that they feel uncomfortable having their stuff reviewed, but that they feel dirty because of it. For King or Mamet, their venue is the popular one, and their judgment can only come from their audience of readers or theatre-goers. (And for those who intrinsically despise those two, I'm sure we can find a common role model who hates critics, too.)

Criticism is a coulda-shoulda business, one that keeps amateurs out of the ring through mere intimidation. And the sad thing is that those who have gone to college have been trained to do the same. Myself included.

I need to try to be more a fan of good art than a critic of bad art. As my grandma should have taught me, if you have nothing nice to say...do you really think writing a paper about it will make you feel better?

--

That said, I thought the newest Twilight movie was suck-awful. And I didn't have to read any reviews to reach that conclusion.

Railings

It's not Shakesbear from Stratford, but it is
from the Rocky Mountain Chocolate Factory
in Seattle, WA.

"But it seems that He's told me,
The life that He's showed me
Is a life mostly spent on the road
But when the world's empty charm
Has done all of its harm
I know that His love waits for me in you arms."

--

-- Michael Card, "Home"

--

So:

I abandoned my plans to update at intervals during the trip to Seattle. I was having too much fun to write about it.

But:

Space Needle couldn't compare with the Fish Market. It was also Gay Pride Day the first full day, and my little sisters and I saw (for the first time) naked painted bodies on bikes. (Take this as you will, but I can't decide whether the cheers of pride supporters on the sidelines more resembled fans or spectators, or whether the whole affair was closer to art or the circus.) Also, walking around Seattle is a joy in itself, full of breeze and changing smells and music coming from interesting places. An elderly hippie had a gray parrot that did tricks. A dozen Chinese and one American sat with right arms raised to their chests in still and silent protest to "Genocide in China." Breakfasts ranged from piroshki to blueberries to eggs'n'spam'n'rice to Clif bars, lunches were mostly coffee, and dinners were either quite expensive or free. (Vacations are different when you fund them yourself.) There were three Starbuckses surrounding our hotel, the Hyatt in Bellevue, WA, which seemed to transport us into a James Bond movie while making us feel obscenely rich and poor at the same time.

We enjoyed several forays, including an excursion to Forks, WA. This is apparently where the Twilight story is set, though the movies have all been shot in Forks, OR, for some reason. It rained and it was creepy, but the beach skirting the Pacific Ocean--whose storms have decimated the coastal trees and swallowed the trunks only to regurgitate them like ancient ruins or modern debris onto the bleak sand--melded beauty with the creepiness. My baby sister, who considers herself a fan, was comically horrified at the religious devotion of other tourists to the Twilight saga. Then we watched the new movie and I criticized the hell out of it. The day ended with a long drive and a ferry ride.

Speaking of boats, we saw (and toured) the carrier wherein my sister works. Not gonna lie, it was pretty damn cool.

I tried oysters. We watched the World Cup. We slept a lot because we got up early a lot. It was a good vacation.

--

Nebraska welcomed us back, tired and car stiff. Today I helped my dad install the final railings on the deck (a lot of measuring, cutting and wedging) and pressure-wash the grill (a lot of holding, spraying and flying carbon). It rained most of the day, the microscopic kind of drops that feel like your arms are falling asleep.

My mom has her and my sister's dresses mostly ready. The colors are black and ivory, which means that not only will I get a black suit (my first) out of this trip, but possibly also an ivory vest and tie and black shirt combo. That would be sharp.

I taught my mom and dad how to waltz this morning. They subsequently decided not to waltz at the reception, but at least they learned how to lead and follow, which is really what people need to learn anyway if they want to "learn to dance" with a partner. Steps are easy; the subtle physical expression of trust is hard.

I'm home for them, for their 25th anniversary and the commemorative renewal of their vows. To help run the event, to walk my mom down the aisle and be my father's best man. To eat fine beef at the reception and hopefully drink champagne. To drive them away from the bubble line in a comical circle in the parking lot, cans rattling under the bumper, only to return to the curb, where by the selfsame bubbles they will be received again. To pose in pictures looking awesome in a new suit. To enjoy a wider sky. To out-shenanigan the dog.

To be back home.

--

One last thing: Theatre, by David Mamet, is an amazing little book. It's a breath of fresh air. Read it if you're into theatre, and especially if you went to school for it.