By Chris Stewart

Catfish

2010-10-13T11:27:00.002-04:00

"And I got the part. I began to take classes. Sense-memory exercises. Practice making things real. Before your performance create a reality for yourself to step into. I remember that when I began taking class we'd have a pretend teacup and pretend to drink from it. How hot is it, how full is it, is there a saucer, is there a spoon, are you going to put sugar in it, how many lumps. And then you sip it, and others were transported by this stuff, but I never found any of it helpful. What's more, I couldn't do it. I was no good at the exercises, no good at all. I'd try to do this stuff and it never would work.... I'd look ridiculous as I held my pretend teacup and pretended to drink from it. There was always a sly voice inside me saying, 'There is no teacup.'"

-- Philip Roth, The Humbling

--

Really need to stop buying books on impulse. Not that I need to deliberate for weeks and fill a special jar labeled "next book money," but two days ago when I walked into the Bookworm in West Omaha the first title that jumped at me (actually it was the humongous "ROTH" printed above the title) I removed from the rack and stuck it under my arm, and there it stayed until I laid it on the checkout counter.

Full disclosure: I was there to buy The Great Gatsby, because my baby sister just started reading it in 11th-grade English and when I scanned my stacks for my own copy, I was shocked to find I never had one.

Anyway, The Humbling is good so far: sort of like Roth's Everyman but with a theatrical bent. The protagonist is an ailing actor bewildered by the impotence of his lost talent. Some great passages in there that every actor can relate to (and maybe any artist: at one point he says, "You can get very good at getting by on what you get by on when you don't have anything else," which is sort of brilliant).

--

Snapped at a co-worker last night. Felt bad about it. Maybe "snapped" is the wrong word. "Coldly accepted criticism" is more accurate. I was swamped. I felt he was telling me how to do my job. I coldly accepted his criticism.

Went through a phase when this was the norm. After working in Scotland a few years back, I caught this (European?) snobbishness that made me assertive and assholish when I came back. I wrote emails with flippant confidence, I spoke to superiors with audacity and passivity, I kissed a girl out of nowhere and nothing, for no real reason. I bought booze specifically so I could talk about it. I tried to give looks to people that implied I was waiting for them to make up their minds. I swaggered.

The chill lasted about half an hour, when I felt guilt like a headache. I apologized and he said he was only trying to help and I said I knew.

--

Catfish, incidentally, is only showing at one cinema in Omaha, about fifteen minutes west from work, and I got out there to see it. Was very excited, was ready to enjoy. Go figure: I enjoyed it. Probably a better movie about Facebook than The Social Network, which is really a myth about how websites are created and a parable of wealth. Catfish is not as shattering as the trailer suggests--it's more like a slow spiderweb cracking a windshield. Not so much a movie with a twist as a movie with a paradigm shift that keeps pushing and pushing.

See it if you get the chance.

--

Rehearsals start in a few days. It'll be nice to do That again.

Backing

2010-10-09T09:47:00.000-04:00

"What Corrigan wanted was a fully believable God, one you could find in the grime of the everyday. The comfort he got from the hard, cold truth--the filth, the war, the poverty--was that life could be capable of small beauties. He wasn't interested in the glorious tales of the afterlife or the notions of a honey-soaked heaven. To him that was a dressing room for hell."

-- Colum McCann, Let the Great World Spin

--

Been almost a month, I think, back in Nebraska. I brag to distant friends and former co-workers that I have accomplished a lot in a few weeks, but really I have settled a lot. I've settled more than I've sought, attained, conquered. I feel like the heyday of my comeback (such as it is) was the second week, when I nailed three auditions in a row, callbacks subsequent.

Bam. Bam. Bam.

And the truest accomplishment in the days following? I finished White Noise. Helluva book. Those last 50 pages are a vicarious speed race confrontation with death and a smooth denouement chaser. And somewhere, a voice on a TV said, "Woo hoo!"

--

So, the jobs. I'm in a show at the local children's theatre, The Rose, which runs in a little over a month, for a little over a month. Rehearsals start next week. I'm getting paid--plus--and they've cast me in a spring show, too, playing a flamboyant-tortured-artist-teen. Through the bam-bam auditions, a director funneled me to a talent agency's auditions, where I read one day as a confused patron chewing beef jerky and the next as a puppeteer/cashier trying to sell a lottery ticket. And aside from a brief, ill-prepared foray into the world of Aussie accents, and a grungy visit to read for an independent film, this is what I've got. By way of auditions and roles, anyway.

I'm teaching, too. My high school drama teacher owns the local dance academy, and every Thursday night I teach the "Broadway" classes: improvisation intro, voice control, expressive movement. Brief lectures. All girls. Forty-five minutes. Out by 7:15.

And yes, I'm working at a restaurant. Chic and corporate, with bulbous chandeliers and onyx walls, steps of service, pricey cocktails. Had the first blowout VIP party last night, and I bar-backed. Never done it before, gonna do it lots more. There is education in the handling of wine bottles, life lessons in the observation of drinkers, parables in the crating of glasses. It means I'm on a track (of sorts) to becoming a bartender. Months. Until I can flip and shake and twist and shout. I'm also one of few employees allowed into the wine incubator, a glassed-in tower in the middle of everything like a wine phone booth, a shoe box of silence. And maybe it was the deejay's choice of music, the smell of citrus squished into mats, the trimness of the clientèle or the impossibility of crowding behind that bar, but I had a lot of fun. It's challenging, but fun.

Being a server's assistant is cheesecake. Bar-backing is peanut brittle.

Sushi

2010-09-28T16:11:00.000-04:00

"We sat in a blood-red booth. Orest gripped the tasseled menu with his chunky hands. His shoulders seemed broader than ever, the serious head partly submerged between them.

'How's the training going?' I said.

'I'm slowing it down a little. I don't want to peak too soon. I know how to take care of my body.'

'Heinrich told me you sleep sitting up, to prepare for the cage.'

'I perfected that. I'm doing different stuff now.'

'Like what?'

'Loading up on carbohydrates.'

'That's why we came here,' Heinrich said.

'I load up a little more each day.'

'It's because of the huge energy he'll be burning up in the cage, being alert, tensing himself when a mamba approaches, whatever.'

We ordered pasta and water."

-- Don DeLillo, White Noise

--

Prior to today, I could have counted the number of sushi rolls I'd ever eaten on one hand. The last time was in Seattle, with my sisters, and it was bought in a grocery store but also delicious. I remember the one with the salmon meat wrapped around the rice because I liked it the most. Up to that point, I thought sushi referred to the seaweed wrap and how it was rolled and sliced.

Today, I had an outrageous amount of sushi. Something like twelve samples, and this after trying more than a dozen of the restaurant's "American" dishes.

I am bursting and my stomach is making massage noises.

--

We've been training for almost a week. The first few sessions were mainly lectures and (embellished) readings from packets we received. We were given CDs with menu items and photos, told to study everything. We were given another set of CDs which contain daily quizzes, reviews to be completed before moving on. We are given gold coins for answering questions and volunteering to do odd jobs like picking up hole-punched paper circles from the carpet with chopsticks. These coins can be redeemed later for all kinds of "expensive" prizes.

We are told this training is very cutting-edge, experimental, intuitive, effective.

This morning after a break, my table's discussion turned to note-taking and typing, the latency of abandoning college habits. Someone mentioned finding herself unable to take notes by hand during classes. I contributed that my baby sister is allowed to use laptops during her high-school classes, that her teacher gathered email addresses from each student on the first day of school and created a website for literary discussions, that she is allowed to email her teacher until midnight with any questions about homework.

I remember being in tenth grade and having my CD player confiscated during biology. I think that might have been around the same time I heard a pop-music ringtone for the first time.

--

One of the sushi samples dropped from my pinching chopsticks into my square soy sauce bowl. Sushi chefs, we were told, cringe when people dunk their rolls into soy sauce because it overwhelms any other flavor. It's true.

We were also told that sushi refers to the rice, not the fish. So you can prepare sushi rice and eat it with beef or chicken and it would still be a sushi dish. Sticky rice is not sushi rice. Wasabi is almost always made from paste before it is made into a condiment, because fresh wasabi is extremely potent and pricey.

I'm proud to say that I learned a lot and tried everything (except the sliced ginger). I have a lot of studying to do.

--

Last night, I had this idea for a short story:

A young man moves back to the Midwestern suburban home of his adolescence. There is a neighborhood association that regulates things like weekly lawn trimming and property lines in a democratic fashion. The residents realize--with satisfaction--that no one on the block smokes anymore. One night, the young man has a cigarette and flicks the butt onto the sidewalk, where it is discovered the next day.

A Girardian sacrificial crisis results.

--

There are training sessions during the day and in the evenings. Yesterday, I went in the evening. A completely different vibe. Fewer coffee mugs. Only half of the trainees smoke. More arms tucked over the backs of chairs, more wisecracks, more Yes's than nods.

This morning, I downed three cups of coffee by the end of the first hour.

Three more days of food tasting, followed by some mock service sessions (I think of them as improv rehearsals) and then a simulated business day with invited guests. We are warned constantly about Secret Shoppers. More people arrive every day and they have stopped introducing themselves. The kitchen clanks and wafts, the construction sectors grind and sputter and ratchet, the lighting fixtures get fancier and fancier.

Faces are getting familiar. The restaurant is opening soon.

Bread

2010-09-23T13:35:00.003-04:00

"INTERVIEWER

Mr. Wilder, why do you write?

WILDER

I think I write in order to discover on my shelf a new book that I would enjoy reading, or to see a new play that would engross me.

INTERVIEWER

Do your books and plays fulfill this expectation?

WILDER

No."

-- from an interview with Thornton Wilder, "The Art of Fiction No. 16," The Paris Review

Been a while, blog, been a while. I intended to document my roadtrip from Cincinnati to Omaha, on a daily or even semi-daily basis, and even made a thing of telling friends and family to check the travel blog regularly for updates. I ended up only posting once or twice during the first half of the trip. I guess I gave it up once I realized that after driving through the night, meeting and remeeting dozens of people, walking a city or two, drinking, laughing, eating burger after burger, remarking and observing and perceiving--that after all that, the last thing one wants to do is sit down at a computer and type. Much less when you're borrowing internet from the friend waiting to take you somewhere. Better to check Facebook and email and give the laptop a rest.

So now, here I am, and here we are. It is raining: strange raindrops falling in crosshatch because of confused wind. They seem to tickle the trees, which squirm and jerk. My Panera lunch (I've budgeted one meal out per week) is finished. Nearby, a group of seniors sip soup, and to my immediate right, a trio of business lunchers stab at Romaine cuts. When the third luncher arrived, she showed her shoes in a kind of shuffle, saying, "This one's a seven, this one's a six," which got a laugh of familiarity (Oh, Karen, you never change). Earlier today, in a Wal-Mart parking lot, I saw a woman who looked exactly like Kathy Bates driving a big red pickup.

I am back in Nebraska.

With things to show for it, I am proud to say. After sending dozens of job inquiry emails, creating and recreating ten versions of my work resume (Office-Admin, Publishing, Coordinator, Childcare, etc.), dressing up for five interviews and making it to four auditions--all within a fortnight--I arrive at today, a bleary Thursday, all set with a job and a show.

The Job. Tonight, I start training at a new restaurant opening in Omaha next month. I have signed a release in which I promise not to mention the company name in any website or blog, but I will say that the prospective clientèle are affluent travelers in the city on business (TIP$). It's not catering, thank God, but it is food. I interviewed this morning with a law firm for a position as a legal assistant, too, and will hear back sometime next week.

The Show. I'm cast as Slightly Soiled in The Rose's Peter Pan, which opens this fall. This is great news because The Rose is a professional children's theatre, meaning I will be paid. Also, their scope provides opportunities for growth. In other words, I can continue being a professional actor while staying close to home. (At home for the moment, but more on that later.)

I met with my high-school drama teacher a few days ago. She owns the local dance academy and has asked me to help teach some musical theatre classes, perhaps to grow a separate program out of it. There's the 2011 summer camp, too, and we're thinking about possibly collaborating on writing a new adaptation of a popular kid's book. I'm just glad for honest and creative work.

Other achievements from the past week and a half include helping my baby sister to beat the Super Mario Bros. Wii game, taking my grandma out for a spin in my classy gold Dodge Neon, running around with Ajax, and attending two Antiochian Orthodox services (so far). I plan to attend a Greek one this Sunday, but the one I went to last week is very beautiful, very swanky.

Readingwise, I have run into a bit of a snag, but it may help me resist what a friend has diagnosed as "book polygamy." I still have The Brothers K and White Noise to finish, and at the base library I picked up Lolita and Let the Great World Spin. But when I went to the local library to get a card, I was informed that our house is in a "no man's land as far as libraries go," and as a result I was considered a nonlocal. See, Nebraska has a library system based on townships, not counties, meaning that your house has to be located within city limits in order for your membership to be free. However, the zoning is based on county. The long and short is that while the post office believes we live in Bellevue, the library does not.

So I'm without free library privileges for a while. Quite a switch from Cincinnati, where at one point I had cards for libraries in four counties.

Other switches from Cincy:

There are fewer Starbuckses here. I chauffeur my baby sister after school. Uniformed folks are everywhere, as are men in button-up shirts without ties and short-haired women in pantsuits. Nights are quieter. Gas is a quarter cheaper, but there's corn in it.

This weekend is my sister's Homecoming. She's going. Nebraska plays on Saturday, and after job training an old friend and I are going to hang out. He owns two gas stations, I think. He wants to move to LA and get into movies. Someday soon some former teachers and I are going to have lunch and catch up. I am going to spend that time getting used to calling them by their first names.

It's good to be home.

Drive

2010-08-30T09:59:00.000-04:00

"There's never gonna be a moment of truth for you
While the world is watching."

-- Ben Folds, "Learn to Live with What You Are"

--

It struck me that maybe my favorite part of working here has been the morning drive. Fifteen minutes, always northward, never a need to speed. And I've never written about it. So:

--

It is a Ben Folds morning. Start up and the world moves to "Rent a Cop," the pound of piano in a go-get-'em, push-onward rhythm. My window is down as I navigate my neighborhood, and the bass is intense. When I stop at a corner, a trio of sullen teens glare in the direction of my blare. I set off. The sun seems big, extended streaks of shine on the hood and in the mirror's view of the trunk.

Halfway done with the highway and a state cop SUV pulls up alongside like a protector and a menace. The car is magical, magnetic, magnanimous--it slows all traffic around it. Like a heroic film cliche, the statie pulls out ahead and leaves us in his wake, so much exhaust. It passes a ratty van and in the gust a piece of duct tape peels and flings from the van's body, spinning laterally in the air like a lawn ornament in limbo, standing and twisting in space. It does not hit my windshield.

I stop for tea at a gas station. I have never been there before. An ethnic man, burly in a blue checkered shirt, stands behind the counter, eying customers. I zero in on the Arizona fridge. A black youth slides through the aisles with stealth. The cashier accuses him of trying to steal some Jolly Ranchers. They argue. The cashier gives up and says, "Seventy-five cents." The youth slaps a dollar bill on the counter. "Keep the change," the kid says, and swaggers out. An elderly black lady is buying cigarettes next. She asks what that was about. The cashier says, "I saw him." He comes around the counter and points at a shelf of candies. "This stack was like this," he shows with his hand, "and then he was there and it's like this now. I saw him. I saw him." He repeats it to himself as he rings up the woman's cigs. "I saw him. I saw him." When it's my turn, he notices my tie and says, "Good morning, sir." I say, "Hey." He says, "I saw him." I say, "Okay."

Back in the car, skirting a construction crew within a block of work, a car comes at me in my lane. It slows to a confused halt, the driver realizing that this is a one-way street that is blocked off behind me, ahead of him. He creeps his car backwards like a small mammal, shifts, and makes a turn.

I get to work. I write about the drive.

Bursting

2010-08-24T18:33:00.000-04:00

"Make no mistake. I take these children seriously. It is not possible to see too much in them, to overindulge your casual gift for the study of character. It is all there, in full force, charged waves of identity and being. There are no amateurs in the world of children."

-- Don DeLillo, White Noise

--

The Nerd ended, as all shows do. It was fun, as all shows are.

I am glad it is over, as I always am.

In attendance were three co-workers, four college friends, and six former students of mine. They aren't the sort of statistics one ought to read much into (nor are reviews), but it's interesting. And something worth remembering, I guess. Students see shows. So do friends.

--

One student dropped by today with her family to present me with a gift. A beautiful little card, a gift card to a hip food place nearby, and a baggie of chocolate-covered espresso beans.

The mother mentioned that she figured I'd be cleaning out my refrigerator about this time, seeing as how I'm a week away from moving and all. And the thought crossed my mind that I really ought to be cleaning a lot of things right now. Instead, here I am, the last one to leave the office again, listening to The Decemberists and wrapping things up.

I've already eaten four beans. My chest is bursting; my eyelids have forgotten how to fall.

--

In preparation for the road, I've been increasing my listening options exponentially. A lot of Death Cab for Cutie albums, a lot of showtunes, a lot of spoken word. Maybe I'll make good use of the radio this time, too.

For nights and stir-crazy hours, I'm planning to take a pair of Netflix DVDs along: parts one and two of The Corner. I'll watch what I can, when I can, maybe in the corners of Paneras and parking lots.

And Lord knows, I'm traveling with plenty of books.

--

I just need to get rid of furniture, and I'm set. I told my sister last night that all I really feel like keeping are books, movies and clothes.

--

So: I'd better get to it.

Apologetics

2010-08-20T09:56:00.005-04:00

"We are interested in doing good children's theatre, and in providing a valid learning experience. Therefore, we prefer children who want to learn about the discipline and skills of the art of performing first, and who want to have fun second."

-- mission statement of the Caryl Crane Children's Theatre

--

Mission statements are generally not worth the ink with which they're printed. They are full of words and commas, lists of usually three slightly dissimilar abstractions pertaining to the industry. It's true especially of arts organizations, where the mission statement is debated at length as if it were equal in importance to a Constitutional amendment. Words are dissected, spliced, compounded, and ultimately rejected. I've only ever been a part of two such sessions, and I never want to be a part of one again. It's like writing an English paper with a dozen suddenly disagreeable people. And at the end of all the arguments, you're left with an almost perfectly meaningless jumble of nice-sounding phrases that no one really likes. And this is the banner you have chosen for your group. You put it on flyers, brochures, posters, websites, ads, merchandise...this is what patrons will read right after they see your company's name on a piece of paper and right before they decide whether you're worth spending money.

The longer the mission statement, frankly, the easier it is to ignore. It's like a tax code no one will enforce.

All that said, the mission statement from the Caryl Crane Children's Theatre in Huron, OH (the town where I spent two summers at the Huron Playhouse), is solid. Why? Two reasons:

1.) It's short. We live in a quick-paced society, and the faster you can spit out your mission, the better. The fewer words that appear as a blob of text on an otherwise stunning layout, the better.

2.) It's honest. They clearly know what they want from their students. They communicate that clearly, too, with a directness most arts organizations lack. The diction is simple. They don't say, "quality entertainment that enriches students academically, socially and emotionally;" instead, they say, "a valid learning experience." This implies, too, that other groups may not be able to offer a valid learning experience, just the outward signs of one. And not only does the second sentence pose a sort of challenge to prospective students, but it also tells you the priorities by which the program operates. Notice the sentence structure: "...we prefer children who want..." It's the language of Help me help you, give and take.

I guess I should also add that their tone is unapologetic. Too often, in matters of business and marketing, the arts appear to be apologizing for themselves, for their very presence, as if they are severely out of place. It's true that the artistic community has reason to apologize if they are not serving the greater good, or if what they produce is not enlightening or intriguing, or if they are asking for money that ought to be given to more practical, helpful groups. But something like a children's theatre is always going to fulfill those criteria--they serve the community, the kids are enlightened and intrigued constantly, and they usually subsist on donations, cheap tuition, and low ticket prices (if any). There is no reason to apologize. At the Caryl Crane, they don't.

--

Been thinking more about this kind of thing lately. Subjects pertaining to how the arts are perceived and how they present themselves. I'm thinking about pursuing a graduate degree (Masters of Arts Administration) with the ultimate goal of starting my own theatre company. Like Eminem at the end of Eight Mile, I think I just need to do my own thing.

I'll spend the next months preparing for the GMAT and revising applications. The University of Cincinnati has a dual-degree program, as does the closer-to-home University of Wisconsin-Madison, which results in an MBA and MAA. That's what I'm interested in if I am to go back to school. "In this economy," and all that.

I thought briefly about some MFA programs, but from what I've seen, it all still comes down to whether you're any good at the thing you studied. You have an MFA in Playwriting, great, but has anyone outside of obligation ever produced your plays? You got your MFA in Acting, sure, but you still had to audition to get your last job, right? I'm not trying to discount anyone's degree or life choice. I'm just saying that for me, given my current ambition, an MFA would not really help.

Is that too apologetic?

Casts

2010-08-12T17:02:00.002-04:00

"at least someone came to see us"

-- caption under the latest photo of me tagged on Facebook

--

I'm glad to be "at least someone."

Context: some of the kids at The Children's Theatre STAR program performed at a Pops concert at the end of July. The composer was the music director at our camp, and he wanted to give some selected students a chance to show off, get us some publicity, etc. The concert was on a Friday night, after the final day of classes. We had rescheduled one of our performances so that this small group could do the Pops gig.

During that day, it became more and more apparent that no one was planning to attend the concert. Our best singers were performing in front of thousands of people, and maybe none of their teachers would be there.

It seemed wrong.

Two of us ended up going, me and one of the dance teachers. I can't blame anyone for not going--people are busy, and really, how many things are going on on a given Friday night?--but I can say that the kids were ecstatic to see us. We got hugs. And, apparently, someone took a picture of us snapping along with what I can only assume was a doo-wop song. And you can kind of tell from the picture, but it was a gorgeous night.

I should also mention that a lot of these kids' classmates came, too.

--

Best show of The Nerd was last night. So far. By far.

--

Rumors notwithstanding, we have cast all four shows for the 2010-11 season. People will find out within a week from today.

I've noticed that some of the rookie teens who were called back must have misunderstood our notification policy. I received a call today from a girl who sounded frantic about not getting a call yet. I told her it was next week. Then I saw another teen who had updated a status bemoaning failure. Don't fret yet, kids. We need a week to make all the arrangements before we can mail out contracts.

I've also noticed that even though I'm within 20 days of moving and leaving this company, I'm still saying "we."

--

Study guides comprise the main part of my workload these days. Years ago, when I worked for the publishing company in Hillsdale, I spent the last few weeks of employment doing the same thing I'm doing now: namely, scanning through the educational benchmark standards of various states. At the publishing company, it was only Michigan's. But here, I'm looking at Ohio, Indiana, and Kentucky.

(I thought about putting in links to those websites, but who the hell's gonna read that stuff?)

I know states have to have educational standards. But these tomes of regulations are so dense, so poorly and ambiguously worded, that I believe I'm losing brain power by reading through them. Not that I think they should be glitzed up and filled with colorful diction. Just...I don't know. Maybe they should just not have so many standards about so many things.

Here's a sample, taken from Kentucky's reading requirements for 4th grade:

Student demonstrates extensive

understanding of literary, informational,

persuasive, and practical/ workplace

texts.

Demonstrates an extensive

understanding of literary elements (e.g.,

setting, characters, plot, and

problem/solution) when reading literary

text

Demonstrates an extensive

understanding of text features (e.g., lists,

tables, graphs, etc.) when reading

informational text

Demonstrates an extensive

understanding of fact and the author’s

opinion when reading persuasive text

Demonstrates an extensive

understanding of text (e.g., locating and

applying information for authentic

purposes, interpreting specialized

vocabulary, and following directions)

when reading practical/workplace text

--

I wish I didn't have to read this stuff in order to create an effective, marketable, relevant study guide. But I do.

--

On the upside, I got a call about a job in Omaha. We'll see about it in a few weeks, I guess, but it would be a great part-time gig if I can land it. House management for a solid venue. Could be just the thing.

I've also been nibbling at acting and directing work in the area. For now, I'm only going for gigs that pay. Gotta have my own standards.

Shortly after signing on to play Peter Pan in the spring, I found out that the main children's theatre in Omaha is doing Peter Pan - The Musical! this fall and winter. Auditions are days after I get back home. You bet I'm gonna be all over that audition. I won't play Pan, but I also don't have to. And that is a very cool thing not to have to do.

And, oh yeah. I bought a harmonica last week.

I can play three songs.

I can fake many, many more.

Rags

2010-08-11T17:28:00.000-04:00

"They are in a great hurry," said the little prince. "What are they looking for?"

"Not even the locomotive engineer knows that," said the switchman.

And a second brilliantly lighted express thundered by, in the opposite direction.

"Are they coming back already?" demanded the little prince.

"These are not the same ones," said the switchman. "It is an exchange."

"Were they not satisfied where they were?" asked the little prince.

"No one is ever satisfied where he is," said the switchman.

And they heard the roaring thunder of a third brilliantly lighted express.

"Are they pursuing the first travelers?" demanded the little prince.

"They are pursuing nothing at all," said the switchman. "They are asleep in there, or if they are not asleep they are yawning. Only the children are flattening their noses against the windowpanes."

"Only the children know what they are looking for," said the little prince. "They waste their time over a rag doll and it becomes very important to them; and if anybody takes it away from them, they cry..."

"They are lucky," the switchman said.

-- The Little Prince, by Antoine de Saint Exupery

--

As I've been making my way through this brilliant book, I've been wondering if anyone else thought to adapt it for the stage. Of course, someone else has. Of course, a group of those someones made it a musical. Of course, it's also a film.

A famous film. Who knew. If your best thoughts aren't stolen by the ancients, then at least they are stolen by pioneers of the entertainment industry.

Still: it would make a wonderful children's play. If you could just get some widely focused spotlights on the stage, you could do the different planets very nicely.

--

The children's play that I am actually working on, Wait! I Want to Tell You a Story, continues to go well. I returned to the daycare today. I had each kid read two different characters. About half of them can read, and half of the ones who can do so haltingly, with an unnerving staccato like someone laying heavy bricks and wearing clicky shoes,--so there's that obstacle. But at least a few of them can at least read well, and to them I've given the choice roles, the ones with changing intentions, more lines.

Between readings, a skeptical child asked at my elbow: "Have you ever directed anything before?"

"Yes," I said. "I've written some plays, too."

He didn't seem impressed. "Huh."

Kid'll be on some theatre board someday.

--

We've plowed through auditions at The Children's Theatre. Callbacks end tonight, which is devoted entirely to Disney's The Jungle Book Kids.

It's a subdued spectacle. Kids show up with their parents and the downstairs heats up, they check in at my table and ask funny questions and the parents wince or chuckle and tow their offspring toward a chair. They put on expensive shoes with the seriousness and familiarity of monks at prayer. They go into the room sweating and emerge smiling or on the verge of tears. They know what they have done. The parents know, they know the body language of talented children, and even if it is not their child sobbing in the corner, their eyebrows dip and their mouths open with sadness. This is completely different from adult auditions. Adult actors have learned to trap all responses inside their chosen outfits, behind trim binders full of material, under heads of immaculate hair. Adults know not to ask questions lest, and they watch these emotive children fall from professionalism with all the grace of tipping file cabinets. Adults hang themselves on the walls, impassive portraits waiting their turn to be seen, appraised, and passed by. Adults understand economy of scale and opportunity cost--they scrutinize constantly: If I don't get this, I can go home early, at least. My November will be free and I can visit my cousin. I can audition at another place next week. I don't know or care where my next job comes from--I just want to get there.

But for the kids, this is it. Here, now. Their hopes are raised, and they will be dashed before evening's end, and they are the only ones who know it, because they are the only ones who want it badly enough.

--

If you told an adult, after a poor audition, that they had to buy new expensive shoes and work tirelessly for hours on perfecting their performance, they would nod, drive home, and try to forget about ever wanting to work for you.

If you tell that to a kid, they will nod, ride home, and do exactly what you say. (If they want it badly enough, that is.) They just might blow you away the next day, because adults have also trained themselves to stop expecting great things from children.

Valiant

2010-08-06T15:20:00.004-04:00

"The most valiant thing you can do as an artist is inspire someone else to be creative."

-- Joseph Gordon-Levitt, in Details magazine, July 13, 2010

--

Yes.

And whether that someone else is a kid in an acting class, a chuckling grandma in the first row, or a free-thinking, educated adult capable of making deliberate positive changes in his/her life, it is still valiant. I'm proud to be among the ranks of inspirers.

--

Also: I made the Enquirer. The article is flattering, full of etymology. If you're in the Cincinnati area, come see The Nerd, my last show here...

...my last show, that is, until next spring. When the world premiere of Disney's Peter Pan Jr. hits the Taft Theatre stage in April, yours truly will originate the title role.

That's right. I'm playing Peter Pan.

When they first offered me the role, I respectfully declined. But months later, the offer has been renewed, and I simply cannot turn it down. It's work--good work at that, well-paying work--and it's a world premiere; Disney has never before allowed any theatre to stage a version of their 1953 movie. They workshopped it for months. They revised the script multiple times. It's unclear how involved they will be in the rehearsal process, but there's a good chance they will see the show. And if they like what they see...hey.

Plus, I'll actually be able to put "flight" on my resume.

--

I was sitting at my desk, about to make a phone call to a parent who wants to schedule a last-minute audition tomorrow for her son. I looked down at the Post-It where I'd scribbled her number, and the last digit, a 4, looked odd. I touched it and a bent fleck of eraser stuck to my finger. It was a 1.

--

The time has come for me to start wrapping things up at work. With my boss going on maternity leave, I have absorbed a healthy load of paperwork, mostly preparation for the upcoming school tour. Van oil changes, study guide designs, stuff like that.

Possibly my most valiant task is to leave a record of my WorkShops here. Each teaching artist for TCTC can do any of the WorkShops and adapt it to their own style, and I have done just that with about half of the offerings in our repertoire. My approach hasn't always worked--sometimes it fails outright--but anyway, there is some knowledge to be passed on.

For instance, this week I started a "From the Page to the Stage" residency at a daycare half an hour away. (This is the place where a kid called me Jackie Chan.) Apparently, this WorkShop has never been booked before, so it's crucial that I chronicle how it goes. So far, we've only introduced ourselves and chosen a book (page) which we will adapt into a play (stage). There's a final performance in two weeks, in the late afternoon just as parents are about to pick up their kids. Next week we'll cast and block, and in the third week we'll rehearse.

The book? Wait! I Want to Tell You a Story, by Tom Williams. I just finished the adaptation today.

The choosing of the book was interesting. I went to the library's children section to browse, and a librarian asked to help. I told her what I wanted: a short picture book with a large cast of characters that would appeal to a wide age range. The librarian told her fellows, and soon there was a squad of six or more librarians scanning through the aisles of skinny spines. They plopped thin, jacketed hardcovers in a pile and kept searching. At the daycare, I showed covers and held a vote, and then read the most popular ones, which were voted on again. There was Lincoln-Douglas-style debate which allowed the kids to make arguments for or against certain picks. Then we had the final vote. They picked the story in which a muskrat, about to be eaten by a tiger, belays his demise by telling a story...in which a frog is about to be eaten by a shark but belays it by telling a story...and so on.

I had hoped they would pick Edwina, the Dinosaur Who Didn't Know She Was Extinct, but for a purely selfish reason: I want to adapt it into a play anyway.

--

Here's to valiance.

Apostrophe

2010-08-04T17:56:00.000-04:00

"And just so you don't think this is a one-time occurrence, here's a brief list of some reasons why I kinda suck:

I wrecked my mother's car
I lost my cousin in a mall
I killed a fish and a plant and a squirrel
I lost my father's autographed Mickey Mantle ball
And rode my bike into a nine-year-old girl--
But she was okay
And I keep telling myself,

Oh, life goes on
Things will be okay.
Though the car and fish and ball and plant and squirrel are gone
Tomorrow's a brand-new day."

-- "Along the Way" from Pasek & Paul's new musical Edges

--

I've been living off of others for the last month. It's getting worse. Today, I ate nothing but what co-workers had brought to the office for "everyone" to eat. I suspect I'm the only one who's been sneaking cupcakes and pizza slices this week.

Someone thrust a can of sparkling water in my hand. I thought it was regular soda until I took a sip and there was no sweetness in it.

My boss insisted I eat a chicken tenderloin prepared by his wife, who is also my boss. "No thanks," I said. "I have four," he said. I ate the chicken with my fingers.

--

Blogger tells me I haven't updated in almost a month. It's been busy: teaching, rehearsing, movie watching. And I had been anticipating today as the busiest day of all--first day of auditions for The Children's Theatre, opening night for The Nerd--but out of nowhere, I have nothing really to do. For a solid hour. I've eaten. I've put up signs. I've updated lists, answered emails, even helped clean the rehearsal room. The silence is dubious: some undone task is lurking, somewhere.

--

The summer acting class, my main reason for staying in this area through August, was a little disappointing. Having missed the first week, I was lost for a while. I didn't know what the kids had been told and taught. And anyway, the structure was so different this year that I didn't get the chance to correct the mistakes I made last year.

Still, it was not all bad. The kids were great this year, talented, polite, malleable. We got some scenes worked into the final performance, which did not happen last year. Kids learned to juggle. We played improv games and started to see significant improvement. It was funny and fun. And while the sound of fifty tap shoes is still one of the most hideous noises I have known, I do think the camp was better this year.

--

One of the older kids sang a song called "Along the Way" from Pasek & Paul's Edges, which I quoted before. It's a great song, one I had never heard before, and I'm totally stealing it as an audition piece.

--

The night before their final Sunday matinee, I had a few drinks and grew very maudlin. I held some thank-you cards and had an apostrophe (the literary element whereby a character addresses an absent or abstracted audience).

I imagined telling the kids the next day that I would miss them. I said things like, "it has been an honor and a privilege and a blessing," and I got choked up. So I tried saying things like, "I hope you enjoyed our classes at least half as much as I did," and I chuckled because I sounded like Bilbo Baggins. Or, "you've all worked so hard," which sounded cheap. I looked at the thank-you note again. I said a lot more that night that was basically a jumbled-up version of things that sounded better in my head. It was hard to think about leaving, perhaps never to teach a group of kids like this again.

I decided it would be best for me not to say a word about it, to the kids at least. It was best.

--

Yesterday, I taught a workshop at a daycare thirty minutes away. This daycare is awfully run. I was in a room with a half-wall beyond which another class with a loud teacher made all sorts of distracting commotion. It's a residency workshop, too, so I'll have to do six more of these at the same place. We're supposed to put on a play by the end.

The teacher corralled them to me and I had them sit on the floor. I rose to introduce myself and one of the kids, a little buzz-cut'd punk wearing a camouflage jacket in August, proclaimed, "It's Jackie Chan!"

--

Life goes on.

Stopping

2010-07-13T17:47:00.001-04:00

"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

2010-07-12T01:13:00.000-04:00

"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

2010-07-11T21:26:00.002-04:00

“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

2010-07-08T02:38:00.003-04:00

"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

2010-07-06T13:45:00.001-04:00

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

2010-07-05T21:09:00.007-04:00

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.

Indy II

2010-06-26T13:58:00.001-04:00

"Gracias."

-- the end of all Indianapolis International Airport's announcements, which are done in English and then in Spanish

After wrangling with and succumbing to the airport's Boingo scam, I'm back online.

There's an hour before we board. As I told my sister, whom I will see in a matter of hours, I'm surrounded by fogies and farners.

The MegaBus got me to Indy, and I had only a vague idea that I needed to head west on Washington to find a Green Line stop to shuttle me to the airport. Along the way, I stopped at the Pita Pit and grabbed a gyro pita with hummus. I took it to go and dragged my suitcase to the Circle Center, where I sat in the shadow of the Civil War memorial and ate my pita and took a few pictures. (I'll upload them later.) There was a car show but not many people. Some teens wearing lanyards ignored me as I wiped sweat from my forehead and crouched on the steps, delaying the inevitable dragging of the suitcase to the Green Line stop.

It wasn't far, and it didn't take long. The next time I travel so much by bus, I'm going to pay my fare online in advance or (this is more practical) just plan to have exact change. Paying the airport shuttle fare with a credit card is just ridiculous. The driver refused my twenty with reluctance, then asked for plastic. I handed it over and as she swiped it, I felt awkward just standing there so I said, "That's the thing about ATMs, huh? They always give you large bills."

"Hm."

--

Got to the airport and, having checked in yesterday, breezed past the check-ins and made straight for the bar. Enjoyed an overpriced Jack and coke and watched some tennis on the high-def. Buzzed, I breezed again, this time to security, where I extracted my plastic baggie of liquids, chucked my Aquafina bottle, took off my belt and shoes, and removed all electronics from my bags. (I had to be reminded about the shoes, but otherwise I was prepared, having paid attention when I watched Up in the Air.)

The seats are filling around me. I need to read or something.

Indianapolis

2010-06-26T11:10:00.004-04:00

“They love my little mustache

They love a man in uniform.”

- Ben Folds, “Rent-A-Cop”

8:15AM

I was just kicked out of a public restroom in the mall. I was evicted while evacuating.

The bus stopped at my apartment’s corner. The machine ate my five and I had to get change from two Latinas who boarded after me and who stared suspiciously when the driver told them to give their cash to me. I sat in the nearest seat, tucking my briefcase under and hooking a finger into the handle of the suitcase. Halfway towards downtown I realized I should have hefted the suitcase onto the rack beside the door, but the vacant and judging eyes of the other passengers held me to my place.

I got off at 4^th and Vine, a block east of where the MegaBus will pick me up and take me to Indianapolis. Awkward and conspicuous, I entered the Starbucks there, stuffed my stuff in a corner, and ordered coffee. I’m drinking it now. My phone buzzed to remind me of the time. I got up and returned to the sidewalk.

This suitcase was with me years ago when last I flew on a trip to Scotland. When the black case slid out of the flaps and down the ramp and onto the revolving oval of Baggage Claim, I saw that something black and spindly had been taped haphazardly to it. When it got to me, I saw: the towing handle, the kind that retracts into the back of the bag, had popped out of its holes and some handler had made good by going for the packing tape. (There. All better.) Fast forward to today. My luggage transport options are to bend in half as I walk like a hunchback with the de-armed suitcase in tow, or to lug it around. If I lug it, I rock as I walk. If I bend over, it can roll. To rock, or to roll?

Starbucks inexplicably didn’t have a bathroom, so I walked to the mall lobby that doubles as the pick-up zone for MegaBus. I knew the food court there, and its restroom. I was impatient on the down escalator. Sbarro, Chick-Fil-A, Cajun and Japanese portals. Tall white faux-marble columns. A dry, greening, metal fountain like the ruined bastion of modern art in the center of an army of shiny tables. No one was there, of course, except for an old man reading the funnies and not laughing. Restrooms in the corner—I beelined. At the entrance, leaning on a bar and watching his watch, was the mall cop, a thin-mustached young guy who took one look at me and my big black bag and straightened his posture. (Terrorist?) I smiled. “Good morning,” we said, cowboys in some vacant modern saloon.

I’ll spare the in-stall details. An old man—maybe the same guy who was reading the funnies—tried the door, peeked through the crack. “Excuse me.” Shortly after he found a throne of his own, the mall cop’s voice came reverberating around us: “Two minutes.”

I didn’t know what that meant. I chose to ignore it, returning to my reading.

Later, as I washed my hands, the mall cop’s image appeared in the mirror like Dracula behind me. “Two minutes,” he repeated.

“Cool,” I said, not knowing what else to say.

The mall cop disappeared and then reentered. “I don’t mean to be a dick,” he said. “But sometimes guys sleep in here.”

“No problem.”

I took everything back into the food court, where the old man had been replaced by an old lady reading a magazine at a different table. I sat at a table at the foot of the escalators, extracted my laptop, and started typing this entry. A few minutes later, the mall cop swaggered by and told me to have a nice day. Then the Mexican workers who run the Japanese portal arrived, eyeing me with confusion like I was a redecoration they didn’t like.

Just now, a bald, older mall cop descended the escalator like a god. He’s been adjusting a sign (PLEASE KEEP ESCALATOR LANDING CLEAR) for two minutes. He walked away.

The changing of the guard is complete.

“In a cold place

You know well.”

The Good, the Bad & the Queen, “Northern Whale”

9:15AM

Aboard the MegaBus. Fifteen minutes to go.

The driver and a loader checked me in and took my suitcase. I took a seat but then saw a sign (THIS BUS HAS FREE WIFI AND 110V POWER OUTLETS) that moved me. Amidships there’s a pair of table with seats facing inward. I sat across from a speckle-skinned blond woman who sneered when I put my briefcase across from her. An obese hipster girl—also a blond—across the aisle offered to share her table. I thanked her but started to get situated anyway, only to realize that the outlet in the ceiling is so far from the table that the adapter box would be dangling precariously from the power cord at eye-level of the speckle-skinned blond. “On second thought,” I said, and switched to the port side, which for some reason is raised about two feet higher than starboard. My power outlet doesn’t seem to work, but the obese hipster blond—who also has about a dozen piercings just in her face, including the unfortunate Chicago Bulls-esque circular nose ring—offered to switch out whenever my battery drained. I bet she’s really nice, but I doubt we’ll actually talk on this two-hour journey.

The speckle-skinned blond turns out to be a snob. Her cell phone rang—loudly—and she hissed at it, “Jesus Christ.” She answered and demanded that the other person buy “the good gazpacho.” The other person apparently asked what gazpacho was and she huffed and explained. When she hung up she took out her Food & Wine magazine. She’s reading it now. She flips her pages as if she wants people to hear the progress she’s making.

From where I sit, with the obese hipster blond on my left and the snobby speckle-skinned blond on my right, I perceive them as two circles in a Venn diagram: what is different between these two? What is alike? I imagine they buy food in the same places—Whole Foods, the Findlay Farmer’s Market, organic and “green” restaurants that serve everything with feta and/or balsamic vinaigrette—and vote for the same politicians. But the snob does these things for the sake of snobbery, for the privilege of informing others what the difference is between good and bad gazpacho. This mindset has come to define her, and she never intended for that to happen, but well, here she is. Her devotion to obscure organic food, fine wines, and trendy outfits has become her job, a vocation she loathes but maintains for its benefits.

For the hipster blond, she is still redefining her mindset. She sees the poor argument for liberals across the aisle and thinks, “You’re no different from them anymore, you know.”

Most of the other passengers are opting for the upper deck, but I’m content to remain raised two feet on the bottom level. I ride upper deck if I’m a tourist, because that’s the best spot for photos. But on this trip, I’d like to sink, to stay in the womb, to sleep.

“I went lookin’ for my darling

I went lookin’ for a sign

And I found her in the morning

Somewhere in the back of my mind.”

- Belle & Sebastian, “Wrong Love”

9:40AM

A problem emerges with the whole typing-on-a-bus thing: the table wiggles and the laptop vibrates, turning the simple act of typing into a game of whack-a-mole. I keep hitting backspace. The screen fills with doubled words and I feel like I’m watching a Danny Boyle film.

I’ve ridden MegaBus before, for a one-day trip to Chicago when my sister finished Navy boot camp. My memory of that ride is cloudy because it began on a rainy day after a stressful week of touring and an especially stressful day wherein a co-worker was fired. I was the road manager of that tour, and as such I had known about the imminent termination for almost the entire week.

So when it finally happened, when the bosses showed up in the rain to help us load out and sequester the target and give him the news, when he added teardrops to raindrops and wordlessly grabbed his things from the van where the rest of us sat in silence and watched as he refused a ride home and marched, proud in his shame, towards the nearest bus stop…after all this transpired there was a tremendous release. The van was silent for a time. Another actor said to be honest with her: “Did y’all know this was gonna happen?”

“Yeah,” I said.

“Okay.”

They drove me to the mall and dropped me off. I waved and sat near an old couple and their red luggage. I sat for a long time, thinking about the firing. The bus came and I boarded without thinking about it. I watched trees and grass fields and creeks and dwelled on the firing, on the knowledge.

“Well I’ve been thinking about

And I’ve been breaking it down

Without an answer.”

- Monsters of Folk, “Dear God (Sincerely M. O. F.)

10:02AM

Right now, on the highway and looking out the window across the aisle, the ghost reflection of our side of the bus appears superimposed on the scenery. It makes me doubly aware of our velocity, our bullet trajectory westward, because the trees in the window and the trees in the glass blur past at different speeds. It is like being on a train.

The coffee has cooled in the cup, but its work is still good. The wi-fi cuts in and out, and right now it’s out. I had hoped to upload these entries to my travel blog, but I guess I’ll have to wait.

“Don’t tell the people that they gotta go.”

- Michael Franti & Spearhead, “Hey Now Now”

10:44AM

Stopped at a fueling station. I’d call it a gas station, except that it sounds more adventurous to say fueling station, and because it is more of a place for huge tankers to refuel than it is for small cars to fill a tank. A Risinger semi truck has pulled up beside the bus and Humpty-Dumpty climbed out of the cabin. The snobby blond has her bare feet up on the seats across from her.

She naps.

When we pulled up the driver announced the stop as “our lunch break,” telling us that if we wanted food, we should get it to go. “We aren’t stopping for a long time. Twenty minutes.”

Because I’m not a fan of peeing in moving vehicles, I’ve been holding it for a while. I joined the exodus for the promised land of the fueling station restroom. The urinal pad had 6/18 markered on it. I’m refraining from buying station food (McDonald’s and Subway are the only non-packaged options) because I’m really going to try to save money on this trip. So far today I’ve only bought bus fare and a small coffee. We only have another half hour or so until Indy, anyway.

My hunger can fester.

Once in Indy, I need to grab lunch and get on the airport shuttle, which hopefully isn’t any more than a few blocks from the drop-off. There are three hours between disembarking the bus and boarding the plane. If I read the Indy bus schedule correctly, I will have only about half an hour’s playtime in the city before I have to get onto another vehicle. For now, it’s nice to be still.

An old black woman came down from the upper deck and took a seat. “Excuse me,” said another elderly woman, “there were two young men sitting there before.”

“Anyone sitting there?” the old black lady asked.

“No.”

“I don’t care about them. They can find another seat.”

“Oh,” the other woman said, as if she’d just been flicked on the nose.

“They’re my grandkids,” the old black lady explained, and laughed.

The other woman went to the back door, where the two young men were about to board. “Sir,” she told them, “I tried to save your seat. But she—”

One of the young men looked into the bus. “That’s my Grandma,” he said. “It’s cool.”

Now the two elderly ladies are conversing—I’d say talking, but there’s a wonderful lyrical formality to the way old people speak, especially old women, that is more like an exchange of pleasantries and blithe information than trivial chitchat—about their respective trips. Both are staying on the bus until it reaches Chicago. The old black lady hasn’t said what she’ll do there, but the other woman will be staying in Chicago until July, when her sister will drive her out to Iowa for a few weeks. “I just turned 70 a week ago,” she says, “but I stopped working a long time before that.” She was a secretary and then a teacher. The old black lady still works in hospitals.

More of the older folks from the lower deck are returning. They make hooting sounds as they step inside, and I can hear them panting as they shuffle to their seats. One of the old ladies welcomes them—“You made it back!”—as if the trip from bus to bathroom to counter to bus again was an epic journey. I smell McDonald’s.

My focus drifts elsewhere. Humpty Dumpty has returned to his chariot. He has what looks like a Turkish bazaar tattooed on his left arm and what is definitely a naked mermaid on his right. Inside the shop, a mechanical female voice announces that the bus to Indianapolis and Chicago is leaving. The bus driver returns and announces, “Load it up!”

Just as I’m starting to wonder how many people get left behind at this stop each year, something in the bus whirs up like a quiet siren (the sound is not unlike the wwwwooooo of the Enterprise just before she warps), and we are back on the road.

Next stop: Indianapolis, Indiana.

Twit

2010-06-25T14:15:00.004-04:00

"my daughter is the best for this kind of thing. her name is T***** D****. she is 13 years old and she loves to sing and dance and act out her favorit sences from her favorit shows on disney channel. she dosent dare to mess up on anything. i jsut wanted to let you know tyhat im the best mom because i have the best teenager for this kind of thing thank you. if you want to call or text me my # is ***-****." [sic]

-- an actual email I received from a stage mother

--

"And don't, don't forget to write me
Don't forget your family."

-- The Seedy Seeds, "Dandelion," Count the Days

--

On my way to Chipotle for a lunch burrito, I found myself caught (once again) at the intersection of Madison and Ridge, which is choked by construction. It's been this way for weeks now. It turns five-minute drives into half-hour delays; that's a lot of wasted hours, folks.

And I guess I shouldn't mind, let alone complain (construction happens), except that it's so obviously a poor use of resources. Two patrol cars, manned by bored cops, flank a drying platform of newly poured cement, obliterating a the left-turn and center lanes. A neon green-vested man aims a powerful water hose at the pavement, cleaning out the grooves separating gutter from asphalt. He sprays and sprays, but the road is on a slope and he is spraying uphill, so any grime that muds and flows simply pools six feet away and eddies its way down again. It's almost existential, watching him do this while I'm waiting in inchworm traffic.

Guarding all of this stand maniacal hordes of orange cones and barrels, sentries under summer's sun.

--

As always before long trips, I'm racking up listening material. Here are my latest additions:

Spoken Word
- This American Life: Stories of Hope and Fear
- This American Life: Crimebusters + Crossed Wires
- The Hatchback of Notre Dame: More Car Talk Classics
- Holidays on Ice, by David Sedaris
- Stars: Fresh Air with Terry Gross
- Guy Noir: Radio Private Eye
- NPR Driveway Moments: All About Animals
(maybe this should have been called the NPR section)

Music
- Pink Martini, Splendor in the Grass
- Monsters of Folk, Monsters of Folk
- The Frames, Dance the Devil...
- Quincy Jones & Bill Cosby, The Original Jam Sessions 1969
- Fol Chen, Part I: John Shade, Your Fortune's Made
- Feist, Let It Die
- Loose Fur, Born Again in the USA
- Belle & Sebastian, The BBC Sessions
- Bjork, Volta

Soundtrack
- Where the Wild Things Are
- The Hunchback of Notre Dame
- There Will Be Blood
- Slumdog Millionaire
- The Incredibles
- Mark Twain
- Snakes on a Plane

--

Tomorrow begins the trip. I can't wait to see Seattle and the sisters.

The walk from my apartment to the Megabus pick-up point is 3 miles, now that the blue bridge is out of commission. I'm thinking about taking the Tank instead, just because I don't want to lug around heavy brief- and suitcases for an hour.

The bus frightens me, not gonna lie. One of the stops is right at my corner. Most mornings there are three or more folks squatting on the porch, eyes left, waiting. Most of my fear is unfounded, I'm sure, but you can't live in Cincinnati without hearing horror stories: random stabbings, casual theft, general odiousness. I'm a tiny guy with nerdy glasses and bags obviously packed for a vacation; but if little old women can clutch their bags and smile from the window seats, I guess I can give it a try.

--

I've only been on Twitter for three days, but already it's starting to make sense. Analyzing any internet networking site is like explaining a joke, so I won't analyze it. Still, before joining I always wondered what the appeal was--what made Twitter anything more than a page full of Facebook status updates?

I'm inclined to think of it as just a simplified Facebook, a place where users could share statuses without getting bogged down by profiles, apps, etc. All things considered, I use Facebook more and thus prefer it. But because my Twitter connections are more limited (without the sprawling friends list created by obligation and popular frenzy) I find myself restraining myself more and updating less. I get the impression that I have yet to "get" Twitter.

I don't think this restraint is universal--some Twitter friends update so often that it just calls attention to the ridiculousness of telling the internet what you're doing. And anyway, this has all been said before.

Just like pretty much everything else on Facebook or Twitter. Like a twit, I repeat what others have said and call it mine. Shoot, like an actor.

--

One day to go.

Vendors

2010-06-24T17:07:00.004-04:00

Strange French food

"Here in Cologne
I know I said it wrong."

-- Ben Folds, "Cologne," Way to Normal

--

For fingers on the pulse of Cincinnati, some interesting links:

http://www.urbancincy.com/2010/05/cincinnati-enquirer-abandoning-city-interests/
http://www.bizjournals.com/cincinnati/stories/2010/06/21/daily36.html

I guess what gets me about only okaying 20 mobile street vendors is that a lot of existing ones will obviously be out of work. This seems like a shifty ploy by the city to squeeze money out of people who are poor already, employed by literally the smallest of small businesses. The local NPR's report this morning hinted that the city would soon take control of the vendors entirely.

Also, it's an easy way to cut down the street vending industry, which arguably helps downtown restaurants. Then again, most of those restaurants aren't really competing with the vendors, who sell hot dogs and lemonade slushies and such. How is a diner selling coffee and eggs, or a Mediterranean bistro, or a sit-down chili joint, competing with the guy with the aluminum cart across the street?

Seems to me, the vendors handle the visitors, fans and families who just want to eat, who don't want to stop and eat. Restaurants get the locals, who are probably sickened by the idea of "street food" anyway.

Vendors have always had to fend for themselves.

Not that it affects me in any way, but I think it's a pointless decision. You want to control the real commerce on the streets, tackle the real problem? Go after the drug dealers, not the food vendors. Give the dealers 20 permits to use. Get your hands in something that matters.

Or, you know, don't. Just leave it alone.

--

Also: Salt of the Earth, an "upscale comfort food restaurant" near work, is really terrific. Co-workers have been prompting a visit for months. Just had their roast beef sandwich and blue cheese cole slaw. Delicious.

Oh, and I also had a scrumptious macaroon, the first of my life. Now I know why the Victorians wrote plays about macaroons.

--

As a college senior, once I realized I was going to have to cook for myself on a regular basis, I started doing so to practice. Sometimes I'd invite people over to up the ante. It was largely a performance--flirting with enticing recipes, really trying to impress. I'd spend a whole week thinking about what I'd make on Friday night.

That changed when I actually moved out on my own. Granted, a house with seven women isn't the greatest place to perform culinary experiments, but whenever the place was vacant and the kitchen was empty I tried my hand. Sometimes the results were good, and sometimes I just pretended they were. (One bizarre concoction combined Ramen soup, rice, peppers, garlic, chicken, beer, and honey. It tasted very, very weird.)

As my living situation improved, so did my cooking. While a sad budget makes for elemental meals, I'm still proud to make my own stuff. I went through a meatloaf phase, buying and baking a pound of ground beef per week. (This was back when I was trying not to eat carbs.) I went through a cabbage phase. I'm just now emerging from a cream of chicken phase.

Now that I'm trying to fast like an Orthodox, the restrictions are much more, well, restricting. No meat, fish, wine or animal products of any kind on Wednesdays and Fridays. And technically, since we're in the Apostle's Fast right now, devout Orthodox are fasting for the entire month.

I asked my priest about it a few weeks ago. "We are in the middle of a pretty strenuous fast," he said. He looked at me. "You...heh, you just do the Wednesdays and Fridays for now. Once you get that, you can do more."

Wednesdays and Fridays, that's all. It's been a challenge. The main results have been a) I go to Chipotle at least twice a week now, b) I try to eat fruit a lot more, and c) Thursday is my "oasis day," the day I can splurge and glut myself. It's the feast between fasts.

--

Two days until Indianapolis and Seattle. With vague plans in the works, including an excursion of sibling appeasement to wherever they filmed the Twilight movies, I'm starting to pack my bag and my carry-on. Megabussing to Indy, then flying to Seattle. Got a week in the Pacific Northwest before a leisurely road trip back to Omaha and my parent's 25th Anniversary, a renewing of the vows ceremony. Gotta get my new suit's pants hemmed at some point.

I will wake early on Saturday. I will drag my bags across the river to a downtown corner and wait. And if possible, I will buy something from a street vendor.

Pants

2010-06-23T14:07:00.007-04:00

"I placed a jar in Tennessee,

And round it was, upon a hill."

-- Wallace Stevens, "Anecdote of the Jar"

--

I left my pants in Maryland.

Highlights from the foray eastward included: a ragtag bunch of weighty street fighters practicing WWF moves on each other in the trees lining the National Mall, and the crowd's disgust at the sudden appearance of a large (and long) butt crack; an Australian lying in the grass to take a picture of a traveling stuffed wombat with the Capitol in the background; the never-ending and creepy FDR memorial (notice that this statue seems to force picture posers to stand between the president's legs); overhearing nonsense on the subway; being refused Athenian beer at a Greek diner because it was 1:30AM.

And yes, seeing Johnny, Ari, Zachary, Gabe, Caity, Tony and Chase.

The return trip included the impressive Appalachian vistas of West Virginia and regular Virginia, a banter-filled tour of the Blackfriars playhouse in Staunton (thanks to Chase for the connect), a long-awaited but worth-it lunch at a Mediterranean joint, and the gorgeous blond southern belle who waited on Zach and me at a Cracker Barrel.

--

Last week, on Nick T.'s advice, I checked out some albums by Gillian Welch, whose heartfelt Appalachian songs are really beautiful. Revival is my favorite of the ones I listened to.

Just picked up another, self-titled album called God Help the Girl. The CD has a list of tracks that fooled me as I read them--I thought they were liner notes or a short introductory poem:

Musician, Please Take Heed

Perfection as a Hipster

Come Monday Night

The Music Room Window

I Just Want Your Jeans

I'll Have to Dance with Cassie

A Down and Dusky Blonde

But it's not. It's just the last half of the track names.

Another album I've got playing in my car, All of a Sudden I Miss Everyone, by Explosions in the Sky. It's a rock symphony, entirely instrumental, very powerful.

--

Last week's CYPT Prep was a huge success. It was good to be lead instructor and coordinator on that one.

I wrote about them before, but it is worth revisiting just because it was the culmination of a yearlong process of trial and error.

The first group we had, in October 2009, numbered out at 25 kids. We went for originality and improvisation, trying to create a new show written by the kids. It was a near disaster: rambunctious kids weighed down discussions, lethargic kids simply sat out activities. The second time, in February 2010, we tried for an evening of scenes where each child worked on a scene and a monologue twice a week, for five weeks. There were so few kids that each one got plenty of attention, but overall the scope seemed curbed. Kids got bored.

But this time, we had 31 kids and 3 instructors who used plenty of material and resources. There was more to to work on (we added a whole dance class), and there were more places to go (we split them up into three groups by age and used various backstage areas as "classrooms"). By constantly changing locale and material, we kept ourselves in the driver's seat while at the same time keeping them interested.

We didn't get overwhelmed, and they didn't get bored, and nobody got disappointed. Like I said: success.

--

Came back to work yesterday and it was like the first day of school: busy, confusing, and awkward. I've since whittled down my Inbox from 70 emails to 35, though the 15 voice mails I transcribed from the machine are mostly still unanswered. Workshops all week, every morning a drain, every afternoon a toil.

The thing I most appreciated about working for the Covedale--if only for a week--was that they stood beside and behind me. A parent complained when I put some pressure on his daughter to memorize her lines and she in turn told her father she had been "kicked out of the program." My boss's response was, "Sir, that simply did not happen. I know Chris, and I know that's not what he said." Later, when the irate father called to note that "stories are changing at home," we all felt vindicated.

We laughed about it later, after the performance was over and the pizza was mostly devoured and the parents had taken all the children away.

Not to make too fine a point on it, but at my regular job I am regularly, almost routinely, overstepped and sold out by bosses. Parents complain and I am scapegoated. They go up the chain of command where they find sympathetic ears. It was nice to have a change of pace--again, if only for a week.

Tigers

2010-06-18T13:21:00.004-04:00

"Then imitate the action of the tiger."

-- Henry in King Henry V, by William Shakespeare

--

Zach just called. He's about ten minutes away.

My car's in the shop, getting its plugs replaced. A good mechanic is hard to find. The honest ones are sometimes hard to trust.

This time tomorrow we'll be somewhere else, somewhere between here and there. Washington, DC, folks. Been a few years since I've been there, and it'll only be a few hours till I'm there again. Seeing the Thurows, Caity W., and perhaps other folks. Spread the word. Reunion is imminent, and most welcome.

--

Tonight, the showcase for the Covedale Young People's Theatre Prep. Thirty-one kids, in only four days, memorized and perfected 5 Aesop's fables, a 10-minute play, 4 scenes from contemporary plays and musicals, 11 commercials, 12 standard monologues, 8 Shakespearean soliloquies, AND an entire dance number from Newsies.

I'd call this one a success.

--

The Shakespeare group, the eight oldest students, has been awesome. It's made the stressful and difficult job of "lead instructor" nothing short of theatrical bliss. One kid, Michael, really got into King Henry V, the "Once more unto the breach, dear friends" monologue. We went through it line by line. He asked about tone. We talked about tone. And poetic diction. Then I asked him, "Can you think of any situation where you've heard people talking like this?"

"Like a football coach?"

"Awesome, yes."

And from there, he has built. These are middle-school kids, folks. Michael is 12, I think, and he's performing Shakespeare--not just reciting words, but delivering them as lines. Anyone who tells you that middle-schoolers aren't intellectually ready to tackle Shakespeare really means to say that they aren't willing to take the time to teach it.

For Michael, it took four days. He and the others perform tonight at 6pm. Then, pizza party.

And then, DC.

Romans

2010-06-10T13:26:00.000-04:00

"Peter was a Judaizer."
"Not like the Far Right."
...
"What does Bishop Ware say? 'I have been saved, I'm being saved, and I hope I shall be shaved'--sorry, not shaved. Saved."

-- quips from last night's Bible study

--

Romans are everywhere.

My sisters have both become involved with Romans. My littlest one appears to be in a casual relationship with a guy named Roman. My middle one has just secured lodging with a group of Navy friends...one of whom is named Roman.

And last night, I attended the first summer Bible study at Christ the Savior-Holy Spirit, of St. Paul's Epistle to the Romans.

--

It's been awhile since I've sat with people to discuss a text. There have been the poetry nights, yes, those anthologies of discussion, and in the adaptation of plays you talk about diction and plot, but nothing like those memorable college classes where everyone sat--including the professor--together in a small space, some infinite depths of text to explore, a simultaneous learning.

We began last night, after Vespers.

There were a dozen, at first. More came after we had secured tables and chairs in the basement, and we unfolded more of both as needed. The plastic tables were embossed on the ends: LIFETIME. The partitions were movable, set on wheels, half tall as real walls, and we spread them as our study grew.

--

How much is there to say about the epistle? Plenty, but not here--the life of the church is in the reading and the discussion, and all that. Some tidbits, though:

1.) Paul never went to Rome. Except, that is, when he was arrested and beheaded there. The epistle is the only one he sent to a church he did neither founded nor visited.

2.) Romans is long. Like the Roman army, it is large and formidable. Those who know the text well speak familiarly of the climactic fall and rise of chapters 7 and 8. I'm sad to say I'm not well-versed enough to comment.

3.) Peter was not the first Pope. Not even the first bishop of Rome, and who it actually was even Roman Catholics will admit is still unknown. Interestingly, Paul never once mentions Peter in the entirety of the epistle.

4.) Peter pissed off Paul. At Antioch, Paul felt Peter had undermined and betrayed him. While they operated to accomplish the same things, they were radically different (and apparently they really were radicals) in their approaches. Peter was ultra-conservative; Paul was incredibly liberal. Paul's position probably has something to do with #5:

5.) Paul was, above all other apostles, incredibly passionate. In the words of Fr. Steven last night, Remember, Paul had constantly had to defend his apostleship. He wasn't one of the original Twelve, and his experience with Christ is an entirely firsthand account.

Other things can be said, too--I was interested that Martin Luther's "faith alone" concept is a blending of two separate verses. Paul quotes Habakkuk: "The just shall live by faith," to which Luther adds the word "alone." That phrase appears nowhere in the New Testament except in the book of James, who only used the phrase to say that "faith alone without works is dead."

Yowza. No wonder Martin Luther considered James heretical and wanted his book stricken from the Gospel.

--

My boss has taken her byline off the adaptation of Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, which ArtReach will tour next year. This means the play will be written by me, and me alone. My gratitude exceeds words--it will be my first solo project as a professional playwright.

And it's Huck Finn.

At the moment, I'm wrestling with it: How to approach the last 25 minutes of this play? There's a lot of blood and darkness in the story, and this adaptation has to be elementary school-friendly. We can deal with Tom getting shot in the leg, and maybe even Huck's famous "All right then, I'll go to hell." But the deaths?

Then there's the basic question of time. Forget content for a moment. To involve the Duke and the King, set up Jim's capture, bring in Tom Sawyer, play out the failed escape plan, and then to explain such a speedy and complicated resolution--it's gonna be tough.

I don't want to ravage the text. But I also don't want to bore the kids with a superficial rendering of what is truly an amazing, iconic story.

I guess this is what artists call "working."

Littluns

2010-06-08T12:19:00.001-04:00

"Amazing Grace," by Deborah Woodall

"The audience was stunned
It was appalling
But it's not appalling what they saw
I saw it in a movie once."

-- The Seedy Seeds, "The Push," Count the Days

--

Today, a 13-year-old sent me an email from her iPad. A mom informed me that she and her daughter will leave the country for two months on an extended vacation while the husband/father does business in exotic environs of the world. And my little sister didn't know what a "medley" was.

We're letting the next generation down, folks.

--

Today, I will do my favorite workshop, "Art Alive!" Seventeen kids at the Harrison Branch of the Cincinnati Public Library will learn about art. We will ask of a number of paintings the 5 W's, ending with "Why?" We will learn how to bring art to life by incarnating it. And the paintings shall become flesh.

"The Walk," by Marc Chagall

Workshops are very self-styled here. We have a basic format that all our teaching artists follow, but we adapt whenever possible. No two classes get the same exact session, because no two classes have the same exact kids. That sounds like lip service, but really, it's not. Workshops add variety to this job.

Most kids have never had to look at paintings this way, with a critical eye. When I tell them the title of this Chagall is "The Walk," I can see their minds chewing on the question begged: Why is it called that if the man is standing still and the woman is flying?

Why, indeed.

I love blowing their minds. For the What section, I show them three paintings in rapid succession: "It's Poppin' Baby, Can You Feel It?" by Marcus Glenn; "Three Women Playing Musical Instruments," by Anonymous; and Picasso's "Three Musicians." The subject in all three paintings is the same: each depicts a musical trio. But now we can discuss How these depictions were made, and Why the painters chose to use radically different styles to show the same What.

"It's Poppin' Baby, Can You Feel It?" by Marcus Glenn

"Three Women Playing Musical Instruments," by Anon.

"Three Musicians," by Pablo Picasso

At the end of the workshop, they split into groups and I pass out paintings they've never seen. They have to analyze a painting on their own, answering the 5 W's and preparing to act it out. It is theatrical education at its best:

Who are they? Characters.

What are they doing? Action.

When and where? Setting.

Why? Motivation, style.

--

Anyways, I'm off to said workshop, to help save a generation from technology, entitlement and ignorance. When I return, I'll have to draw a banana.

Poirot

2010-06-06T15:30:00.002-04:00

"If you had a tattoo that wouldn't matter

If you had a shaved head that would be cool

If you came from Spain or Japan or the back of a van...

I'd say now I'm getting somewhere,

I'm finally breaking through..."

-- Jason Robert Brown, "Shiksa Goddess," The Last Five Years

Had to work on a Sunday, and had to pee after work. Stopped on my way back from Sawyer Point at the library on Scott St., hoping to relieve myself in a place where you don't feel obligated to buy something just because you need to use the restroom. Maybe I would pay my fines, too--who knows?

The restroom has one stall and one urinal and both were occupied. I don't make it a point to be very observant in bathrooms, but I noticed the guy at the urinal was old, well-dressed, and (so it appeared, anyway) not peeing. He heard me enter and craned an ear in my direction, as if to say, "Hold on, I got this." I stood in the corner to wait it out. He bent his knees, wiggled his shoulders, took deep breaths. He sounded frustrated: the air came slowly in and was blown out so fast it whistled. He jounced his johnson.

I wanted to tell him that there really was no hurry, that I'd held it for two hours and could easily go a few more minutes. The back of his neck was red. He gave up and a hand searchingly came up to flush. It was automatic, but he fumbled with it anyway, until it started to go on its own and he stepped back. I kept looking at the floor and as the flushing water slowed to a trickle, I stepped up. I knew if I just went it would be like taunting him, the poor old guy, so I maintained until I heard the sound of damp paper towels hitting a trashbag and the creak of the bathroom door.

Tattooed a bunch of kids down at KidsFest today and puppeted a parrot named Poirot. I get my kicks whenever I can, especially at these free-for-all days: standing in a booth for hours, peddling theatre brochures and snagging parental interest by hooking the kids:

"Who wants a Children's Theatre tattoo? You, buddy? Can he have a tattoo, Mom?" (Mom nods.) "Great, have a seat. Let's see your arm. How old are you? Seven, huh, so are you going into second or third grade? Third! Wow! Have you ever been to The Children's Theatre? No? Well, here's a brochure..."

And so on.

The kicks I got were mainly through the parrot, which I picked because TCT is doing How I Became a Pirate in the fall. I pecked at heads, clamped the beak down on impertinent fingers, squawked at the insolent ones who just walked up and smacked the parrot upside the head. But this, too, became automatic, a senseless string of questions and comments, delivered of course in a glottal parrot voice:

"What's your name?" (Kid mumbles and you don't hear the name.) "That's a cool/pretty name. Would you like to pet my head?" (Kid pets head.) "That feels so nice. Would you like to scratch my chin?" (Kid refuses.) "Pretty please?" (Kid starts to cry; the charade is over. To mom:) "Oh, poor guy, I think the parrot scared him. Well, here's a brochure..."

And so on.

When we were taking our stuff down so the next booth occupiers could set up, a woman from our sponsoring organization approached me. We introduced ourselves. She said, "So what's next for you on this Sunday?"

I hadn't thought about it, so I said the most interesting thing I could think of. "Probably gonna read The Brothers Karamazov." After a beat, I added, "I'm very excited."

"Really?" she said, her sunglasses masking her. "That doesn't sound too exciting. It's so sunny."

I mumbled something about maybe doing that reading in a park, and she nodded and changed the subject.

Not to spite her, but I think I will go to a park with my book, actually. It beats all on days like today. With a quartet of busy weekends coming up (camping, DC, then two weeks in Nebraska) and then the mad rush of summer camp, shows and auditions extending into August, I figure I only have about three weekends to myself left here. Big move coming up; big river keeps on flowing. Gotta rest on your raft when you get the chance.

Narrative

2010-06-04T17:50:00.001-04:00

"It's all about the food with them."

-- Rick, the Kentucky barber who cut my hair this morning

--

Been staying late at work the last few weeks. Overtime hours, as of June 1, no longer count for anything here, but at the very least it's an opportunity to use the internet and--especially at 5pm on a Friday--to do so in peace. Right now, the only sounds are of puttering motors outside and the slosh of the break room dishwasher. I'm not even playing music. For now, silence is golden.

Got a haircut this morning at Rick's, my favorite place for that sort of thing. At Rick's, the only employee is Rick, and his hours--no joke--are:

Monday - Wednesday - Friday

9:30ish to 5:30ish

Rick just got back from a trip to Michigan, and we talked about it while he buzzed and clipped at what has been growing on my head since mid-March.

He asked what was going on later that day, and I told him I was teaching a workshop at Starfire again. I told him how I hadn't expected adults to be so childlike even if they had mental disabilities, and that I wanted to do something out of the ordinary with them today, something we didn't do the last time I went. He told me about his sister-in-law, who has Down's syndrome, who is one of those semi-mythic people who can tell you whether May 23, 1905 was a Thursday or a Friday (it was actually a Tuesday).

"She's amazing," he said. "And you know what the key is? Food. It's all about the food with them. My sister-in-law literally has a friend who she calls every night just to tell each other what they had for dinner. One says, 'Hi, I had spaghetti,' and the other says, 'Oh, I had pizza,' and they hang up. They just love talking about food."

"Why do you think that is?" I asked, keeping my head still.

"Something to look forward to."

--

Sometime when I was at Hillsdale, I must have been in line at the dining hall when I had a minor epiphany: a lot of foods, at least in America, are between yellow and brown/red on the color spectrum. This includes most soups and sauces, along with anything made from grain or flour. It even applies to most fruits. I don't know why it is, but you don't see many purples or blues. Greens, yes. But not many others deviate from the "warm colors," and in general we don't find black foods appetizing at all; black is the color of burnt or rotten.

Yellow seems to be the color of appetite, of carbs.

--

A few weeks ago, I had a Mark Twain workshop at the Cincinnati Art Museum. One of the activities was to have the kids create their own pseudonym--and that's all that was in the study guide notes. Very open-ended, and very uninteresting in itself. I stole a stack of yellow papers and two dozen markers from the copy room and brought them along. I had them share the markers. They were first to draw what they most liked to do, then brainstorm related words that could function as names on the same sheet of paper.

For example, one boy drew a baseball player and brainstormed words like "out," "play," "diamond," "home run," and "bat." His pseudonym? Homer Unn.

The papers and markers stayed in my backpack for a long time after, not because I was sentimental about it but just the opposite: I kept forgetting to return them to the copy room.

All that goes to say: I had a bunch of markers and yellow papers in my backpack after my haircut was done.

--

They sat in a wide circle. I had a volunteer pass out the papers and placed the markers on a table in the center of the room; they were allowed to take one marker at a time, returning it when they finished, and they should raise their hand if they wanted another piece of paper.

They were to use their imaginations to turn their pieces of paper into their favorite foods. I demonstrated first, coloring a sheet green and then folding/crumpling it into a rough broccoli shape. I wanted them to make their projects as three-dimensional as they could, which in my opinion is more creative than drawing a picture of the food. We would later play a sort of charades game, acting out the eating of the foods while everyone tried to guess what each was.

I wish I'd brought my camera. There were a lot of pizza slices (minimum folding and it stays two-dimensional); one old man grew frustrated but settled for creating a whole personal pizza, folding in the corners to suggest a circle. A lady showed us the layers of a cheeseburger before stacking it and taking a bite. She also tore short, thin strips into French fries. Two other women made ice-cream by wadding up the paper and using a bunch of markers for sprinkles and asking for more paper to make the toppings; one had a fudge brownie beneath it and the other nestled nicely into a waffle cone. A young man made a fish and pretended to eat it tail-first. Someone took their time forming some mac'n'cheese, and another dared to attempt spaghetti. One of the guys who chose pizza folded his slice lengthwise and informed us, "New York style," how he eats his pizza.

--

From a barbershop to a children's theatre to a center for mentally handicapped adults, this was a day when a lot of things came together: advice on the food approach, leftover items from the copy room, and a room of creative minds.

Makes me wonder a little about how we piece our lives together. We justify our past by seeking a narrative in it, something that says, See? You were always this kind of person, these are your tendencies, you are this kind of character. This is the method for job interviews (this is your experience, these are your goals) and relationships (these are your exes, notice their flaws and avoid them in the future), and I'm sure plenty of other categories. But isn't the idea of those categories also part of the puzzle? When I was at this bad point in my life, I worked at a job I didn't like and turned out to hate who I dated. The idea of a bad part of life, separate from a worse or better present, is also categorical. I used to be that way, now I am this way.

What I wonder now is how to turn categorizing into improvising. Quickly recognizing that small accidents can lead to small victories. What object left in the car is going to rescue me later? What will I find in my pockets tomorrow? What old acquaintance will hire me in a few months? Have I already seen the face of the woman I will marry?

And so on.

I know this whole line of thinking eventually leads to folly, but in moments of reflection (i.e., blog time) I think it's good to seek out our narratives. We can't read them objectively, we'll scan over key words and kick ourselves later, but it's good to see how the threads are lining up, to analyze the data, to search for our own coincidences. We can't always share them with each other--fewer things can be more boring than listening to or reading a person's idiosyncratic life story--but it is sometimes more revealing to share it with yourself anyway.

My dad once told me, "You aren't who you think you are, and you aren't who other people think you are. You are who you think other people think you are."

That just might be true. At the very least, looking for my narrative makes me believe I'm trying to see myself through eyes of the Other. And as with many things, within that Other, is Order.

Memorials

2010-06-03T12:53:00.003-04:00

"She got no dirty little fingers

Bloodshot eyes are gone

Tell me I'm wrong."

-- The Black Crowes, "Twice as Hard"

Looked up that song because it came on the radio when I was between the bank and work. Upon finishing a left turn, I heard the opening guitar, and after it played a few seconds I was about to switch to CD when the song proper began with a rift shift that sounded a lot like the sliding in Led Zeppelin's "In My Time of Dying." I like Zeppelin, and I like bands that sound like Zeppelin. I let it play. The lead singer even sounds like Robert Plant. I couldn't make out many lyrics but I told myself to remember the ones I could, so as to Google the song when I got to the office.

Later, at my desk, I promptly forgot those random lyrics when I saw the red light on my phone (could be one message, could be twenty, I still haven't checked), the inbox's fifty new emails with subject lines listed in boldface, the barrage of How was your vacation's and Glad to be back's.

All this goes to say, I'm grateful for 92.5 FM The Fox's website. Specifically, the "What Song Was That?" feature, which I guess isn't unique to this station but was anyway very useful this morning. I am now resolved to visit the library on my way home to look for the band's 1990 debut album. Thanks, 92.5 FM.

A check was waiting on my desk. My last reimbursement for gas (a teaching artist drives a lot). I separated what was perforated and flipped over the receipt slip, usually saved for no real reason, and made a to-do list. It's been awhile since I've been in my cube. I don't know what I have to do, but I know there's a lot of it.

We're replacing a study guide activity with a whole worksheet about bananas in an attempt to get a corporate sponsor--you guessed it, a produce company--to underwrite a show. Parents are emailing like nuts about the summer camp and auditions in August. I'm performing at KidsFest in three days and have no material chosen.

Someone made me a PBJ and I ate the quadrants while clicking through now-irrelevant emails.

On the drive to Pennsylvania, I saw an Ohio road sign heralding our approach to two towns. The sign read:

FLUSHING
BETHESDA

I think this would make a phenomenal punk band name.

My grandma is in better spirits than we were led to believe. She was not taciturn or snippy, did not make territorial comments about fruits in the fridge--in fact, on the bookend days of our visit, she poured me some of her 8th Continent, which was delicious and tasted like pudding. However, her health is just as bad, and maybe worse, than what we expected. Shortly after we got there, she went upstairs to get my dad's baby bracelet and returned five minutes later wheezing and leaning on everything.

A few months ago, she went into the doctor's office to ask about the strange lump on the left of her neck (not cancer, thank God), and in the ensuing checkups medics discovered a whole mess of problems that need solving.

The most formidable of which is that three of her heart valves have apparently stopped working. She needs surgery, and she needs to be able to go under during it. She's been passed from doctor to doctor and clinic to clinic all over east PA, being told over and over that her chances of surviving such a surgery are slim. A lifetime of smoking and never winning the lottery, the recent death of her husband, the ever-weakening determination not to become a burden...of course we would come and visit, do some landscaping and get her out of the house.

We took her to Grandpa's grave on Memorial Day, which was hot under a harsh sun. She laid a single pink rose on the stone.

She gave my little sister a brass otter figurine she had received from Grandpa years ago. She gave me his pristine collection of Churchill works, too: six beautiful red hardbacks that would make certain Hillsdalians salivate.

My aunt is officially a lesbian now, at least in my mental classification; I met her wife. They share my grandma's basement and have been waging a war with the back yard for a year now. With health issues ravaging the household, they were in no condition to landscape the patio or clear the shelter house. We took care of it, at least until Nature continues its work.

It rained only once and we napped in a stuffy spare room.

Conversations were telling. When my dad's family members saw me reading The Brothers Karamazov, they told me--with pride--that they had just bought the latest James Patterson novel. My aunt regaled me with stories that took place in every airport I could think of, chronicles of her exploits as a traveling salesperson. I was sure they were the sorts of people who would listen to NPR every day; they weren't. They have strong opinions about the oil spill and whether we should be in Iraq. My father, an Air Force veteran, nods and does his best to inform and opine without debating.

Both my dad's and mom's sides of the family are scattered worldwide. We have Filipino relatives in the native islands and Germany and Missouri. My dad's brothers and sisters mostly stayed in the northeast, but a few strayed into the South. We don't see extended family much. And while the dimensions of these relatives changes with each sparse visit, our knowledge of them and their lives shifting like globs in a lava lamp, the general impression remains of people who have been tested and brought down by life; who are resigned to getting by if and when they can; who pick their battles with wizened, tired ease; who find intense joy in laughter and storytelling. Most smoke and hate themselves for it, or else they drink. My grandfather died from alcoholic pneumonia--while laid up in a veteran's home he drank a beer that filled his lungs.

Without trying to sound self-righteous, I feel many times that some people would never take care of themselves unless others would first care for them. It's not a matter of initiation, imitation or incentive, but of self-worth, of believing in one's own potential as a person, of stepping back from the cliff of self-pity.

My family sits and listens and observes and cooks and cleans and judges. And we hate ourselves for judging, because what separates also relates.

Aside from all this, there were genuine moments of childhood-esque fun. Riding a mower. Building fires. Watching "River Monsters" on cable and shaking our heads at the size of river sharks. Drinking 8th Continent and loving it.

In the Orthodox tradition, there is the beautiful idea that when humans, almost entirely ignorant of God, learn more about Him, they love Him more. I think this can work or not-work depending on your point of view, the stuff you choose to read, etc. It seems to be true for people who are devoted to worldly aims: the botanist who becomes enamored of leaves, the linguist who learns his tenth language, the professor who has had tenure for so long he can't count the years.

Maybe this is true. The more you live, the more you learn; the more you learn, the more you love; and so, the more you live, the more you love. Or maybe it's a matter of can's: The more you can live, the more you can love.

I think it works or doesn't work with family, too. And even if it doesn't work, I don't regret this Memorial Day weekend at all.

Way

2010-05-24T12:04:00.000-04:00

"I'm asking everyone around me
How to live my life
I know the answers I keep hearing
But I listen close each time."

-- Rooney, "Help Me Find My Way," Calling the World

--

At the end of season three of The Wire, McNulty trades the detective life for the beat cop life. He talks with old ladies sitting on stoops and laughs at kids who live on the block. The smile on his face is so shocking, because it's the first time you see him happy. He's been good at his job, but he's hated it. It was almost simply matter of finding out where he wanted to be, not what case he was working or how.

Earlier in the series, a woman at a community meeting says she misses knowing who the cops were, and having them know who she was. McNulty, it seems to me, makes amends.

I watched the end of this episode on Friday morning. Driving to work, the wheels started turning in my head. Am I where I want to be?

The answer is no. So then, where do I want to be? That is the question. The answer is, I'm moving back to Nebraska in September. I will be there for a time. For how long, and while doing what--this is on my mind now.

Maybe I'll start the Children's Theatre of Omaha someday.

--

After lunch, I am meeting with an Orthodox priest. I scheduled this meeting for one o'clock so I could miss the Monday staff meeting. His name is Fr. Steven. I don't know what I want to ask him, but I do know I want to get to know him. Or I want him to know who I am.

It's a bit like buying a car. I don't need him to tell me that I need a car, or that one car in particular is the car for me. I think I already know what I want; I just need to know how to get it.

What I think I already know is: I want to become Orthodox.

--

Talked with my dad last night. My Grandma's not doing well in Pennsylvania, and she will have to go into surgery soon. My family is planning to drive to see her, and I'm planning to come along. The only question is, when.

Whens abound. Friends want to meet on weekends this summer. The possibility of a camping trip in Kentucky. Going to visit Johnny and Ari in DC before they leave the country in July.

Schedules from all sources, GoogleMapped itineraries, money for gas. And it's because where you want to be is around friends and family. Location, location, location.

--

This post kinda sucks. I've been blogging less often. I might be out of practice.

--

Went to a tea party on Saturday to read a book and teach British tea manners to twenty eight-year-old girls in frills and white gloves. They betrayed their age despite the finery with chocolate smeared on cheeks. I had our costume designer make me an ascot for the occasion. As an actor instructing girls on how to float their hands and converse like dainty Englishwomen, I probably came across as a very gay man.

This is a very singular time in my life, in a very pluralistic kind of way.

Starfire

2010-05-20T12:00:00.001-04:00

"Mistakes on the part of nature
The living proof of what they're calling love
On certain sideway streets
Where things that don't match meet."

-- The New Pornographers, "Sweet Talk, Sweet Talk"

--

I want to get this down while it's fresh:

Next door to this building is a center for those with disabilities. They call themselves Starfire. Their parking lot is separated from ours by a healthy thick hedge, so that generally we forget who our neighbors are. Occasionally we'll see teachers and volunteers leading small groups on outings (little more than slow processions up and down the street--and I mean slow in terms of speed: they are so fascinated by the flowering of grass or the color of the sky they forget to keep up with the group), but that's about it. Our spheres of influence don't really mix: us with the talented kids, them with the mentally-challenged adults.

In terms of visual surroundings, the eye is much more quickly taken in by the attractive dance studio across from us, or the unsightly autism center on the other side. Our building itself is rather drab at the moment, mostly obscured from the road by trees and lacking a sign announcing our presence. Behind us, there is an annex to the parking lot with a storage shed, and beside that, an open field of tall grass which was partially converted into a fenced-in playground.

Relatively speaking, it's an isolated location. We like it that way, to be honest; a certain comfort comes with anonymity, a sort of assurance that keeping your head low is evidence of good judgment and humility. Other arts organizations find themselves on busy streets with lots of foot traffic, and there they thrive. We thrive in near obscurity.

All this goes to say: Before today, I had never been next door.

--

The workshop is "Self-Esteem through Self-Expression," and I've done it dozens of times. It's our most popular one; it's always a hit. It's basic: we use five tools of an actor--voice, body, imagination, focus, and cooperation--to boost self-esteem through fun, interactive games. I have another SESE workshop this evening, actually, with a local Girl Scout troupe.

I've never done it with mentally-challenged adults. I leave our building and walk across our parking lot, past the hedge, and am surprised to find an impressive little building next door. I do not know why exactly I'm surprised. I walk in the front door and step into a wide-open reception area, where I meet two teachers and one of the students (do I call them students, patients, or just "them"?) who enthusiastically greets me with a handshake. They lead me down the hallway to another wide-open area, this one populated by stuffed chairs on wheels and movable plastic tables scattered into faintly discernible sections. I realize this is the miscellaneous room, the space for activities and group meetings. Or visitors. Surrounding this space are conference rooms of various sizes, some in use and some empty and dark. There is some kind of seminar going on in the largest one.

We move the chairs into a rough circle. We get started. I am immediately struck by lack of conformity in this group of ten, aged 30-50: some slouch, staring at the ground; some sit on the edge of their chair, hands folded, smiling expectantly; still others study my person, every expression and gesture noted with almost dreadful attention.

We do a voice warm-up, sirens, and while everyone stands, not everyone participates. We do a physical warm-up, crazy 8's, and not everyone keeps up. We sit down and I take out a brown square piece of fabric. This is for the imagination game, which is much like charades. We will pass this sheet around and transform it into different things, and the others must guess what we have made. I begin by swaddling the cloth into a baby shape, swinging it gently in my arms.

"Baby!" they cry, delighted. I pass it off to a wide-eyed older woman who seems to smile eternally. She folds and unfolds it a few times before inspiration strikes--she folds three sides inwards to make a door shape with the edges. She holds it up proudly. A teacher guesses that it is the building we are in. The woman squeals and giggles: "Yes!" And we pass it on. And on, and on.

This game never fails. No matter what the group, I find that everyone is easily captivated by every fold, every crease, every rotation of the sheet. As an observer I am always fascinated by not only what they create but how they go about it. What strikes me most today during this game is the care with which they handle the fabric. Such deliberate folds, conscientious matching of corner to corner, constant thinking and rethinking. Children fold quickly and callously, depending more on giving hints to the group through physical action than by sculpting the fabric. Not so today. They take two to three minutes each just to create their object.

A man in an Elmo T-shirt takes his turn. He folds diagonally twice and lays it on the floor. We stare and ponder. "It is home plate?" I offer. He says no and chuckles. A teacher asks if it is a slice of pizza. No. The other teacher asks if it is an ice-cream cone.

"No," he says. "It's a triangle." He chuckles, relishing his joke.

One man surprises me most. He is the first to leave his chair and step into the center of the circle. He lays the fabric down like a picnic blanket, spreading hands across the surface to smooth out ripples. Once it is flawless, he folds two sides towards each other, halving the diameter. It is a rectangle. He takes one of the short sides and folds it in a few inches, giving the impression of a pillow on a bed. Then he holds up his hands ("Don't guess yet, watch this"). He kneels beside the sheet. He crosses himself three times and folds his hands to pray.

"Bed!" But he shakes his head. He repeats his motions, crossing himself and praying. "Praying by your bed." He shakes his head. He repeats his actions a third time.

We're all at a loss. "Coffin," he says.

--

After we finish, I am led back to the office by one of the teachers and one of the participants, who reintroduces himself as Steve.

Steve is the one who made a sheet into a coffin. He shakes my hand.

I am sure I will not forget his name.

Struck

2010-05-11T13:17:00.000-04:00

"Nearly everyone struggles with the mania for a time; the wise conquer it, the foolish make up the comic opera choruses, the unimportant road companies, and the stage-door-keeper's list of 'extra ladies and gentlemen.' From every class and walk of life, from every town and city troop the victims, abandoning their vocations and their homes, as though they had heard the witching notes of a siren song. They come with high hopes and bright dreams...they besiege the agencies, and the managers, and the teachers of acting until their dreams fade, or their money runs out, or they are smitten with realization."

-- Channing Pollock, in his essay "Stage Struck," originally published in The Footlights Fore and Aft

--

Friends in and of the theatre, I have just read a depressing article about people who perform. Granted, the essay comes to us from 1911, and its main target is the advent of crappy vaudeville, but consider the following and see if you are as struck as I was by sad truth:

In nine cases out of ten the mania to go on the stage is prompted by pure desire for glorification. Love of excitement, the fallacious notion that the profession is one of comparative ease and luxury, may be alloying factors, but the essence of the virus is vanity.

In the course of time [the mediocre actor] even begins to arrogate to himself the heroic virtues of the characters he impersonates. It is sweet to see one's name on the cover of a novel, sweet to scrawl one's autograph in the lower left-hand corner of a painting, but O, how doubly and trebly sweet to meet one's own image lithographed under a laudatory line and posted between advertisements of the newest breakfast food and the latest five cent cigar!

Of dramatic schools the number is legion, but only those conducted by dishonest adventurers promise employment to the enrolled student.

This system [in which actors are selected by agency managers] is undeniably hard, and perhaps unjust to the beginner, but...the investor in drama has the fullest right to minimize his risk.

[The theatrical profession] is the one vocation in which the worker must begin again every year.... Unless he has made a prodigious hit--and prodigious hits are very rare--he finds himself no farther advanced next June than he was last September.

Lost to his best friends and companions, travelling at all hours of the day and night, grateful for board and lodging that would not be tolerated by a domestic servant, the player with a small road company has ample reason to repent his choice of career.

No person can possibly succeed on the dramatic stage without the foundation of genuine talent and a superstructure of culture and education.

--

Regardless of what Pollock wrote 99 years ago, I'm back at work, trying to finish the script for the Mark Twain show which I will perform tomorrow morning. I will drive almost three hours, almost straight east, and almost clearly understanding what it is I will say and do in front of "~400ish" students.

After carpooling to Hillsdale, we spent more than a weekend there. Despite a predictable keynote speech, commencement was a solid ceremony, running under three hours this year thanks to the quick name readings from Dr. Moreno. That morning at the Palace, we constructed a sort of commencement bingo sheet; while we heard no slighting of China, we observed everything else on the list. The college President is delightfully predictable in his consistency, especially as pertains to remarks about female students getting married to slovenly male students, throwing out non sequitur statements (this year's: "I just tried snuff for the first time this week") and interjecting Hillsdalian beatitudes that are too simple to be disputed ("You also believe in beauty").

The real joy was found, as always, in company. Saw Reist and grabbed lunch with Jackson. Listened to Evan playing keyboard while Seth demanded, repeatedly, "Play 'Trolley.' " Smoked--a lot. Stole beers at Econ's place. Arrived on Friday night to a party where everyone seemed to A) have a bottle of liquor and B) be thrusting said bottle at you. Grabbed coffee at the Coffee Cup, Palace, and the newly reformed Broad Street Market. Walked most everywhere. Ran almost all the way to Baw Beese on Saturday. Enjoyed everything.

Joke of the weekend, I think, goes to Zach, who informed us that militant abolitionist John Brown was a chronic masturbator.

"He calls it 'bleedin' Kansas.' "

We must have laughed for ten minutes.

It was a lot for three days and nights. But good, good, good.

--

Attended Orthodox Liturgy at Holy Ascension in Albion. It's the definition of beauty, its congregation the epitome of charity. Seeing professors and students and other folks worshiping together before a white iconostasis in a room with only a few pews in the back--feeling so implicit in worship and organic within form--it was too memorable an experience to cheapen here, but I will say this: If I had attended while I was at Hillsdale, I would have become Orthodox by now.

Quiet

2010-05-06T11:40:00.005-04:00

"It occurred to me around dusk
after I had lit three candles
and was pouring myself a glass of wine
that I had not uttered a word to a soul all day."

-- Billy Collins, "Quiet" in Ballistics: Poems

--

Read the full poem here. Preview the book here:

The whole book is great--each poem, too. For what it's worth, my favorites are "August in Paris," "Brightly Colored Boats Upturned on the Banks of the Charles," "The Four-Moon Planet," "The Poems of Others," "Quiet," "Tension," "(detail)," "Baby Listening," and "The Great American Poem."

--

Just as I was starting an episode of The Wire, my phone buzzed in my pocket. I pushed Pause and then Talk. "I've just had a really crummy day," said a friend, who then asked if we could meet somewhere, a coffee shop, maybe. "Absolutely," I said, and suggested the café on the second floor of a Barnes & Noble nearby. We met and read--aloud in the bookstore café--a Dryden poem, "Religio Laici," while close by a group of middle-aged students recited Italian around a book-covered table and laughed at mispronunciations.

She picked the poem because of the day she'd had: the rigors of graduate school are getting to her. We read it taking turns, stopping arbitrarily after stanzas and spinning the old blue hardcover book around. I'm not usually one to read Dryden (or any Reformation poets) aloud, preferring the Elizabethans or modern Americans with that wonderful emphasis on how this stuff sounds, but this one surprised me. I found myself muttering, "Mm," after certain phrases, marveling at those intellectual rhymes.

Also talked about Orthodoxy (of course), and Thornton Wilder and the final scene from Our Town. (See? Bookstore conversations are never a bad decision.) During our talking I asked how old she was.

"Twenty-four," she said, and then I said,

"Huh, I'll be twenty-four this Mother's Day."

"Enjoy it," she said. "It's a good age. It's the last year that you're officially 'in your early twenties.'"

Which, naturally, gave me some pause.

She's a grad student; I'm a working, acting stiff. It's strange to feel so removed from school after only two years. Last night I realized that I could have easily been the one calling a friend in the evening after a crummy day of grad school.

--

Before all that, I read aloud the entirety of Billy Collins' book. Not a huge achievement--only 110 pages with plenty of white space--but it was still good to do. I can't remember the last book I finished in a single sitting. Let alone, out loud.

--

Still working on the Mark Twain show. The rub is that entertaining 400 kids for 45 minutes while reading 150-year-old stories seems so daunting. I scoured the bookshelf at work (mostly anthologies of plays and non-pertinent books about how to act) for inspiration and came upon a sort of textbook called Storyteller, by Ramon Royal Ross, which I had picked up for 25 cents--or less--at a recent library book sale. I scanned the contents and flipped to the last chapter, entitled "Ten. Reading Aloud."

Ross writes:

The oral interpreter has three duties. The first is to the author; and the duty here is to do more than simply read the words without mumbling... The second duty is to the audience, and for them the reader provides not only entertainment but also understanding and excitement--a sense of the meaning of the selection in their lives. Finally, the reader must be faithful to himself. He must choose literature that has relevance to his own experience... He creates, in his reading, a bond between himself, the audience, and the author.

With its lively adventures and youthful narrator, Treasure Island, like Mark Twain's Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, has found its primary audience among children...

And if you are a teacher... I remember, as a boy, coming in from lunch recess at Springdale School and listening to my teacher read to us from Mark Twain's Adventures of Tom Sawyer. Under the spell of those words, stained plaster walls and a blackened wooden floor changed and grew into a deep forest, with the broad Mississippi flowing by...

There's no question that books, carefully chosen, shared throughout the years, create worlds in the classroom that would otherwise be impossible to reach... So, read aloud. Read to your children for a half-hour each day. Read only the finest, for you send a signal with what you read. Read poems. Read long, difficult books--books they'd not read themselves. Read portions of books--"book bait"--to hook potential readers. And after you've finished reading, leave the book in the classroom where it can be read again. And again.

I don't know whether to feel more inspired or intimidated--though the best intimidations always inspire us. This Mark Twain show is going to be comprised of "book bait" (what a wonderful phrase), and so the challenge turns from deciding the format of the show to picking worthy excerpts.

What, then, from Tom Sawyer? The first chapter is dynamic but only involves three characters seriously; the fence-painting scene is popular; the pirate section ought to get a few laughs. Doing the graveyard scene would probably get me into trouble.

But if I was worried about trouble, wouldn't I steer clear of Huckleberry altogether? I've already decided to replace all N-words with "slave," because for the most part it gets the point across without risking offense. Twain would roll his eyes or punch me in the face for this, but you have to pick your battles.

--

Orthodox pray frequently for a "peaceful, quiet, sinless Christian ending to this life," but from what I've seen this is generally how they would like to live, too: in serenity, quietude. It's a very different view--one concerned with privacy and humility--from the evangelical pomp I grew up in.

How many times was I told to "take it to the streets," "shout it from the rooftops," or "praise him with your lungs or the rocks will cry out"? This, of course, translates to a number of things which have become stereotypes of young American Christians: in-your-face, on-the-street evangelism; tracts left on public toilets; asking strangers the infamous questions, "Would you like to be born again?" and, "Have you asked Jesus into your heart?" and, "Are you going to hell?"; altar calls with syrupy keyboard underscoring; electric guitars and full drum sets during praise-and-worship (at one church I remember the praise leader switching guitars and taking solos during a single song); and a kind of motivational-speaker approach to church sermons (wireless ear microphones, stylish but conservative attire, canned gestures) that I can't let myself abide any more. I'm not judging it; the proper attitude would be to say, simply, that God is surely at work there, too; but it's not for me. I doubt it ever was.

Give me, instead, a peaceful, quiet, sinless Christian life. Or, at least, as close to it as is possible in a world of war, chaos, and guilt. Let me light a candle, kneel in the corner, and pray.

That being said, telling stories aloud is something I love to do--on a stage, in a bar, at a coffee shop. The quiet of life contrasts with the loudness of fake-life. The arts of language and theatre have always been fused, for what is a silent language but bird tracks on a page, and what is a wordless theatre but an incomplete spectacle?

I will not say the silence exists for the noise; I think it's the other way around. We please the ears to make the silence deafen. We play at life to make reality better, and we pray aloud for the quiet life.

--

And now, back to Twain.

Toads

2010-05-05T15:41:00.000-04:00

"Dmitri says of you--Ivan is a tomb! I say of you, Ivan is a riddle. You are a riddle to me even now. But I understand something in you, and I did not understand it till this morning."

"What's that?" laughed Ivan.

"You won't be angry?" Alyosha laughed too.

"Well?"

"That you are just as young as other men of three and twenty, that you are just a young and fresh and nice boy, green in fact! Now, have I insulted you dreadfully?"

"On the contrary, I am struck by a coincidence," cried Ivan.

-- Dostoevsky, in The Brothers Karamazov, Trans. Constance Garnett

--

Saw five old friends in four days and then slept for twelve straight hours. Ate crepes with the ones who came to Cincy, and ate at the Bonefish Grill for the first time with those who came to Dayton. Watched two movies I've seen before. Drove several hundred miles around southern Ohio, chaperoning or meeting up.

Saw a bad production of The Baker's Wife and a good production of The History of Invulnerability, which Philip Seymour Hoffman also attended that very day. (So we are told: we didn't see him in the house, so perhaps he watched in the shadowy stage manager's box, but purportedly he was wearing an orange hat. This story comes so close to being worthwhile.)

Sometimes, it's hard to find "things to do" in your own city when friends come to visit. But with some friends, you don't have to do anything; it's just enough to breathe the same air. That's what happened this weekend.

--

Reading and running effectively stopped, though. In a few hours between visits, I went to a friend's house near the University for a night of poetry readings. Small group, a very nuanced and quiet gathering. We sat on couches and brought-in chairs and commiserated and performed. We had coffee and special applesauce and many poems that ranged from the theological to the whimsical to the deathly. A stack of anthologies became a spread after a few readings--poetry geeks flipping pages hoping a touchstone verse will catch their eye--stacks becoming unstacked, books left open on the floor, some people reciting from memory, others not trusting themselves to be the sole producer of weighty words.

I got to read "The Bells," by Poe, aloud. Something I must have been subconsciously waiting for years to do, and it was a true rush. That last thirty lines or so is thrilling to speak, and as it was near the end of an evening, it was the thing to do.

I'm already putting together a playlist, as it were, for the next poetry night. Many selections are from Reist's classes, but I'd like to think it's because of the poems, not the professor. These are, as Moore would say, "imaginary gardens with real toads in them."

Last poetry night's playlist:
- "Departmental," by Robert Frost
- "The Revenant," by Billy Collins
- "Anecdote of the Jar," by Wallace Stevens
- "To a Mouse," by Robert Burns (performed in Scottish dialect)

Next poetry night's playlist (suggestions welcome):
- "Poetry," by Marianne Moore
- "Lucinda Matlock," by Edgar Lee Masters
- "Mr. Flood's Party," by Edwin Arlington Robinson
- "Theme for English B," by Langston Hughes
- "Over 2,000 Illustrations and a Complete Concordance," by Elizabeth Bishop
- "The Unknown Citizen," by W. H. Auden
- "Musee des Beaux Arts," by W. H. Auden

(among others)

I like poems that are not just good on paper, but ones that need to be read aloud. Poe's "Bells" is a perfect example--on the page, the eye wants to skip over the repeated words, but aloud, you realize the text gets frantic and horrifying because of the repetition. There's a kind of movement you can't really get on a page.

--

Also: Read this.

--

Poetry has jolted me back into literary mode. Friends have brought me back to life (or something like that).

My future is the imaginary garden right now, and my friends are real within it. (I will not call my friends "toads.") Will I seek other gardens? That's the traveler's dilemma--the people, or the path. Granted, there are people along every path, and every path leads to many people, and not everyone cares about being on your path necessarily...too abstract, sorry...but still.

Still.

It's poetry for life's sake that poets have in mind. It's one thing to read, another to speak, and another thing entirely to enact, to incarnate, what you read and speak. Lucinda would have a thing or two to say right now, and so, I imagine, would the Unknown Citizen.

However, it is Eben Flood, drinking on a hill outside of town in the middle of the night and imagining his friends to be with him, whom I fear.

Expansion

2010-04-26T16:24:00.002-04:00

"Homer told us certain truths about the Trojan wars and what they did to individual human beings; Homer Bigart of the New York Herald Tribune and the New York Times told us similar truths about wars in our own times. The two Homers, thousands of years apart, were doing the same work. They were adding to our knowledge and understanding. In the end, newspapers must provide both. We are part of the knowledge industry. We can't be a mere diversion from the realities of the world; we must help people to understand that world. Few of us are presumptuous enough to believe that we are offering the readers the gift of wisdom. But without knowledge, wisdom is impossible.

...Every true journalist is trying to add to our knowledge. That is often at the heart of the conflict with the businessmen who had arrived late to the world of newspapers. The expansion of knowledge and the expansion of profits can be compatible; too often they are not."

-- Pete Hamill, News is a Verb: Journalism at the End of the Twentieth Century

--

That essay, incidentally, makes for some awesome reading. The guy is so passionate about newspapers and journalism in general. He offers a unique perspective on how the media handled the Clinton scandal and how the then-new Internet was corroding the tradition of reporting.

What Hamill says about newspapers, to some extent, can be said of theatres. The arts of reporting facts and acting out lies seem to be such polar opposites, but they are not. They involve the same purposes, storytelling being the most obvious, and "the expansion of knowledge" and wisdom perhaps less obvious. Common to both businesses, too, is the inherent obstacle--I will not say it's a flaw--of being a business. You gotta sell papers, and you gotta sell ads, and you gotta sell tickets. (I was told once during a callback that I could sell my own shit in a bag, and now whenever a director says to "sell it," that's what I think about: bullshit.)

At least in my experience, the topics discussed in theatre company meetings are not artistic but financial. A room full of artists vaguely trying to make the bottom line bigger. Numbers outnumber words. No one mentions company-wide devotion to the arts, and instead figureheads push employees to make donations to the arts (the incentive for this is not to help other arts organizations, but to increase one's tax credit).

As a professor recently told me over lunch (after I told him I didn't like how acting had become "just a job" so quickly): "Whatever job you hold will at some point become just a job."

--

So much for jobs, though:

With the hope of finding a small gig to keep me busy over the summer (and yes, to earn some more money), I'm auditioning tomorrow night. There are not many opportunities to act in this area if you're non-Equity and still want to be paid. You have to take these things as they come.

When people are in a show because it's a hobby, those who regard it as a job quickly feel aggravated to be in the same production. That is true of any profession.

--

Been watching a lot of the HBO series The Wire. In fact, I spent almost all of this last weekend watching seasons one and two. Great show. It's rare that economics factor so strongly in any TV show, let alone a crime drama series, but when it does, you know you've got a winner.

Reading, too. Finished a short novel called Isn't It Romantic? By way of Jack H., I came upon this solid Nebraskan writer, Ron Hansen, who sets a lot of stories in a much-too forgotten state. Most novels, poems, movies and plays set in the Heartland tend (for whatever reason) to take place in Iowa. Maybe I'm playing my home state as a victim falsely, but I think I'm more than "just biased": justly biased.

(Or something like that.)

--

And how's about a name drop, while I'm at it. The artistic director just dropped by to flaunt an old Cincinnati Opera program which proves, for I had doubted, that he worked with Placido Domingo back in 1967, when the tenor was still just an unknown singer from Spain. Sure enough, there's ol' PD, and then down the page, listed as Choreographer, is ol' Jack Louiso.

"And look at this," says Jack, pointing to another page, "there's his picture. That's what he looked like when no one knew what he looked like."

--

After Liturgy yesterday, I was invited by a fellow inquirer to come to some reader's theatre gatherings that take place near the UC campus. Apparently, students have formed a group whose joining interest is a love of the oral storytelling tradition. It's voluntary, but for those who show up, reading a part is compulsory. It's not the sort of thing that you can just sit and listen to; everyone reads.

It's just the sort of thing I want to do right now: to read, vocalize, perform--for its own sake. Not for the rent's sake, or to cover utilities. For itself. Unto itself. By itself.

--

A few nights ago, some Tom cast members and I went to see our friend in a community theatre production of Godspell. It was enjoyable. Aside from Leslie (who played Jesus--and very well, by the way) there was one actor who seemed especially energetic, very fun to watch. I mentioned him later and was told he is an Equity actor who did this show for fun. Made sense...at least, it made sense that his performance was so good. What didn't make sense was, Why did he do it?

But I think I understand. For a similar reason, I came close to doing a community theatre Our Town a few months ago. You want to keep doing what you do even when your job doesn't require you to do it. It's a different kind of expansion, one that widens your experience and perhaps shrinks your expectations--and, if possible, helps you to forget them.

Awareness

2010-04-22T15:42:00.006-04:00

"But me, I'd rather plant a tree
That grows up tall for all to see,
Until I need a pencil,
Then I'll chop it to the ground.
At night falling down,
Will it make a sound?
Should I even wonder what it'd say?"

-- The Ditty Bops, "Walk or Ride"

--

It's Earth Day, according to many Facebook friends' statuses, and I can honestly say I've seen nothing else out of the ordinary today. Except for a woman in a green shirt planting flowers outside my work window.

I saw a sign above a stretch of Kentucky highway that proclaimed this week (April 19-23) "National Work Zone Awareness Week." I'd like to say that as a result I am more aware of the road work going on around my community, but I'd also like to believe I'm generally well aware of it, especially when it diverts my routes to work, the nearest bank, Kroger, etc. Most recently, they've closed the blue suspension bridge for repainting, which adds an average fifteen minutes to my morning drive. I'm well aware of the gas bill.

When I'm told about all these Awareness weeks, days and months, I wonder if this is all because of the college Greek system. Think about it. The lobbyists who get these Awareness periods onto the calendars went to college, and (based on stereotypes of lobbyists and fraternity/sorority members) they go about it in the same way the Alpha Beta Gamma (?) chapter historian might go about "raising awareness" of any number of topics. Obesity, conservationism, whatever.

Not sure where the idea came from that picking an arbitrary period of time and christening it for National Awareness would actually do much good. I guess it's just a symbol, but of what? Did Work Zone Awareness beat out other awareness groups in some kind of bizarre lobbyist competition where the winner got award money and the week of their choice?

Awareness of the elephant doesn't get it out of the room.

--

We have visitors this week. The Cincinnati Opera is using our space to rehearse La Bohème, which we have figured out will be entirely sung in English. Apparently, this new production was a huge hit in London last year.

I'm not too familiar with all the music, shame on me. Some co-workers, however, are swooning in their cubicles as the beefy baritone declaims his jealousy; and just a few hours ago the artistic director informed us, while a formidable soprano rattled the downstairs windows, that this was his favorite aria. When asked which aria that was, he replied with a smug grin, "Doesn't matter, as long as it's in Bohème."

And just a few minutes ago, one of the male singers was in the bathroom, and we heard him singing his strain. "Are they rehearsing in the bathroom now?" a co-worker asked the room.

"No, I think he's just taking a really amazing poo," I said.

--

With only three more shows of Tom Sawyer before my acting career at TCT comes to a close, I've been thinking a lot about whether to audition for summer gigs. Because I'm teaching during the day all summer, they have to be nightly local groups, which limits my options substantially. They also gotta pay.

New gig or no, it doesn't change my timeline. I'll be in Cincinnati until the end of August, at which point I hope to have my furniture sold and my possessions crammed into my Neon. Assuming I'll join the Navy this fall, this could be my last self-planned trip for a while, and I plan to take my time, maybe only driving a few hours per day and making a week of it, crashing at campgrounds or friends' houses at night, visiting wineries and Midwestern oddities by day. I always feel bad on hurried road trips for not stopping to investigate weird places. If anyone knows of anything particularly worthy of a detour on the potential route (see below), please let me know.

View Larger Map

--

Tonight I am going to see Nativity Players' production of Godspell, to see my good friend Leslie play Jesus Christ. Yes, Leslie is a woman, and yes, this is a community theatre, so yes, the small group of us who are paying $10 a seat have already decided to enjoy ourselves.

Last night, some of us went to the Party in the Park, which is sort of an excuse for people in this area to try to get drunk on Wednesday nights. It was fun, though. Flyers appeared in our hands early on, flyers advertising a new kind of "awareness" program. I actually never found out what the group is really about, but they had a photo booth that was mostly unused. We used it five times, for a total of twenty awkward pictures.

--

In Tempest-Tost, a show we did in college, there's a child who brews her own cider (or wine or beer or something). She says you have to wait for "the psychological moment" to open the bottles, and it's one of those strange lines that has stuck with me ever since. Over time, the phrase "the psychological moment" has meant to me many things and the same thing, an expression of something really undefinable.

In lieu of a true definition: It's the instant when you suddenly know, or you smell or see or sense, that the ripening is over; picking is inevitable, the harvest has come; change is upon you. When it's time to hit the ol' dusty trail, to close up shop, to let the paint dry overnight.

The awareness is growing within me of a great psychological moment forming. I now claim the next four months and ten days for my personal awareness of...whatever.

My time in Cincinnati is drawing near its psychological moment.

Tattooed

2010-04-21T16:22:00.000-04:00

"All of them were conscious of their limitations; they knew that they never once had turned out an absolutely perfect newspaper, because the newspaper was put out by human beings. But in their separate ways, they tried very hard never to write anything that would bring the newspaper shame. They would be appalled at the slovenly way the word 'tabloid' is now used. They didn't pay whores for stories. They didn't sniff around the private lives of politicians like agents from the vice squad. Even in large groups, on major stories, the photographers didn't behave like a writing, snarling, mindless centipede, all legs and Leicas, falling upon some poor witness like an instrument of punishment. Somehow, they found ways to get the story without behaving like thugs or louts."

-- Pete Hamill, News is a Verb

--

Interesting time at the movies:

Caught The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo last night at the Esquire. Very good thriller from Sweden, a sort of modern film noir that makes good use of hacking and databases without forsaking good old window-breaking and archives. A disgraced journalist hired to solve a forgotten murder on a private island, an abused (psychopathic?) young woman who gets obsessed also, and so on.

After the climax and about 20 minutes from the end, during the most revealing and emotional part of the film, there was a loud popping sound and then silence. "...and the sound goes out?" asked an exasperated old man in front. "Need some sound," a woman behind me said. "Seriously?" came another voice. Someone chuckled.

A few minutes passed, and it became clear that the cinema staff could not fix the problem, so we resolved ourselves to watch the rest of the movie anyway. Luckily, we had the subtitles to guide us, and before we knew it, we were back in the movie, as engrossed as those early movie audiences must have been in the era of silent films. We laughed at ironic dialog as we read it. And the visual story was well told, too. In a way, the silence had greater impact on us than anything else--people stopped chomping popcorn and sipping the last of their sodas, couples stopped muttering to each other, everyone sat perfectly still so as not to creak a seat.

At some point, the speakers sounded again, but the music was all wrong. It was the pre-feature soundtrack, the joyful elevator music that played under realty ads and pictures of people eating popcorn. Everyone groaned and laughed, and when it went silent again, we sighed with relief.

--

Before the movie started, I had a low, measly feeling that I only get in movie theaters--it's a sense that I really don't want to see any movie with these people. I overhear stupid conversations and roll my eyes, judging the people around me. I prepare myself: These people are going to laugh at every corny joke, those folks will not eat their food quietly, and that guy with the hearing aid is going to keep asking his wife what was just said.

But when the sound went out, so did that attitude. The lack of sound was now an obstacle, and--I'm trying to say this without sounding corny--we sort of pulled together to make it through the rest of the film. Everyone shut up. We were in this. It was on.

I think it's a testament to the movie, which admittedly is not the best movie ever made. But it's good--fresh and strong, something that could withstand a silent goodbye and still leave an impact. For fans of foreign thrillers, see it if you can.

I'm also interested in reading the book, too.

--

Attended my first baby shower party today: a co-worker had her birthday and we had ourselves an outdoor picnic and baby shower. We were told to wear pink.

Two lunch potlucks in two days straight. Spring is here.

And Party in the Park starts tonight. Maybe I'll see a real girl with a dragon tattoo there.

Walks

2010-04-20T17:20:00.001-04:00

"On no account," cried Lise. "On no account now. Speak through the door. How have you come to be an angel? That's the only thing I want to know."

"For an awful piece of stupidity..."

-- Lise and Alyosha in The Brothers Karamazov, by Fyodor Dostoevsky, trans. Constance Garnett

--

Between the two morning shows for schools, the adults in Tom Sawyer sneaked across the street to the Proctor & Gamble park, where we had a potluck. Chicken and potato and spaghetti salads, chips and dips and chicken strips, and I added some break-and-bake cookies. With the sun and grass and tulips in bloom, people took "senior picture" photos of each other. A mother with three kids ate lunch nearby and shot us a dirty look when someone suggested that everyone make a "poop face."

Children's theatre people are, first and foremost, theatre people.

--

Got my tax refund back from the State of Kentucky. I got $62.

The next day, got a notice from the State of Kentucky about auto registration renewal. It will cost $63.

--

Been walking as much as possible from my apartment to the Taft. It's a nice walk, and I like thinking that for the two weeks a show runs downtown, I can act like the other conscientious twentysomethings who migrate across the Ohio every morning. Sometimes, I dress more executively to blend in.

I see women who look no older than me, wearing sheik pantsuits and talking on cell phones, and at once I feel so poor, so out of the loop. What do they do for a living? I used to feel the same way in Hillsdale, when the Kappas (mostly they were Kappas) walked past. What do their parents do for a living?

I tell myself that they're actually in their late twenties, or maybe even into their thirties, and that they look so young because the meaninglessness and tedium of their jobs force them to regain their lost sense of youth through exterior means. But that can't be true, not universally. There's gotta be an 18-year-old genius among them somewhere.

--

Last night, one of our fellow actors was jumped and mugged. He was on a nighttime walk in a bad part of town, making a phone call. He is white; his assailants were black. They came from behind, hit the back of his head, and then kicked him while he was down. He immediately gave up to them the things they took: phone, keys, backpack. (Strangely, they didn't take his wallet.)

The victim is a friend, and he was in high spirits despite the wounds on his face. He joked that they were going to open his backpack only to find two books and a pair of dance shoes. He said when one of the muggers said to take his flip-flops, he pleaded from the sidewalk: "Oh, come on, man, don't take my flip-flops."

They didn't take his flip-flops.

Not sure if this detail is entirely relevant or not, but he is also the only Quaker I know. In fact, he might be the only Quaker I've ever known. He told us he actually went to seminary for a few years before he realized he was spending all his spare time not in the church but in rehearsals at the local community theatre.

Because they took the backpack with the dance shoes, he had nothing to wear on his feet during the show any more. Late last night, I got a text from the stage manager asking if I had any size 9-10 dress shoes for him; I did. This morning, he walked in my shoes.

This is perhaps too ironic, but in the show he plays Doc Robinson, who gets himself stabbed by "River" Joe (can't call him Injun Joe) in the graveyard. He stumbles with his hands clutching his belly and falls onto a tombstone-covered wagon. Upstage and behind some trees, Tom and Huck watch it happen.

We talked about this today. "What I don't get is why Tom and Huck get a big gospel funeral, and everyone just forgets about Doc Robinson, who was murdered a few hours before they disappeared," he said.

I think it's a valid point.

--

In the last chapter I read from The Brothers Karamazov, Alyosha is walking to someone's house when he encounters a group of schoolchildren who are standing in a ditch by the side of the road. They all carry stones and are throwing them at one boy, who stands alone. When Alyosha intercedes, he is shocked to find himself pelted with stones--thrown by the boy, not the group. He asks repeatedly what he has done to the boy, who responds by biting Alyosha's finger to the bone. The group disperses, laughing at the Good Samaritan. Alyosha asks one last time what he did to harm the boy, and the boy cries and runs away.

What strikes me about this scene is that Dostoevsky mentions several times that the boy not only has stones in his hand, but that his coat pockets are full and weighed down with rocks, too. The image is one of a victim's hostility: throw rocks at me and I'll save them, carry them with me forever just to throw them back.

The Quaker, mugged in darkness but joking in light; the victim of stoning gathering stones. There are always two ways of reacting to life.

Puppers

2010-04-17T20:53:00.000-04:00

“Meet me down by the river

Down by the river where the water flows.”

-- Tom Sawyer: A River Adventure, by Kelly G. and David Kisor

A river scene:

After shows, I never want to do much of anything. I usually watch TV in my apartment or read or eat before slipping gracelessly into sleep. But after this evening’s show, as I walked across the river to where my car was parked, I decided to switch things up. On this lovely Saturday—breeze, sun, blue sky—I would find a bench on the Kentucky side of the river, put on some sunglasses, and read from the Sedaris book until sundown.

(I’m almost finished with it. The final story is also the longest, a day-by-day account of what appears to be his “How I quit smoking” testimony. As someone who bummed a few in college and believed my smoking habit was just “going to be part of my life” until constantly being around impressionable children prompted me to quit, I feel like I can relate to some of what he says. I started this section this morning, when I stopped in at the Pepper Pod, a greasy-spoon diner in Newport where I had corned-beef hash and eggs for the first time (good choice). Reading about a smoking habit while sitting amongst the tired Saturday-morning crowd (roughly half of whom had a burning cig to go with their eggs and coffee), I thought to myself, This is how one ought to read about someone trying to quit smoking.)

Anyways: So I’m down by the river, high up on the bank, reading on a bench, and suddenly I hear this noise, a jingle not unlike a cell-phone tone or a ragtime ice-cream truck recording. I looked in its direction and saw only what looked like a bright collection of trash down at the bottom of the concrete steps leading to the stony riverfront itself. I eliminated the idea of an ice-cream truck, because it would have to have been in the water, so I assumed the bright garbage on the steps was actually someone’s belongings, maybe a family’s, and that there was a cell phone ringing down there. No one was around though, and I considered going down to answer it. No, I thought, that’s what the people in movies do right before they get involved with the mob. Or psychopaths. Or both.

And then this dog came up to me. A beagle. An energetic beagle, white with brown spots. I put away my book and extended a hand. The dog sniffed it, lifted his leg, and marked my bench as his. “Thank you,” I said, and the dog ran away.

Not two minutes later, the owners of the bright garbage returned: a mom and her three kids, two daughters and a son. I gave them a brief glance and went back to my book, reading about Sedaris trying to learn Japanese.

I was interrupted again by an old man’s voice. I didn’t even know what he said, but he was talking to the mom from the top of the steps.

She answered, “Yeah, we love it down here. We come here all the time,” in a thick Kentucky accent. The old man hollered something back, and I tried to ignore their conversation.

Then her son, a pudgy kid maybe ten years old in a gray shirt and shades, tapped my shoulder. I had no idea where this child had come from, so I was a little startled. “Sorry, sir,” he said, in his own version of his mother’s drawl. “Can you help me get my dog? He ran ’crost the street, and I cain’t catch him. He’s too fast.”

Though I generally keep to myself, whenever these sorts of things happen I try never to say no, especially to a kid. Saying yes is really saying, “Yes, I’ll join your quest.” It’s saying that you could use an adventure.

“Sure,” I said, dog-earing my page and tucking the book into my armpit. “Let’s get him.”

Across the street that runs by the river in Covington there is a small park filled with gallant statues of local heroes I’ve never heard of. I sometimes marvel that Kentuckians identify more strongly with their history than do Ohioans. Maybe that’s inaccurate if you consider different cities around the states, but at least around here, I think it’s true. Case in point, this morning in the diner, I observed a black busboy, maybe fifty years old, with his sleeves rolled up to mid-bicep, hat cocked like they wore them in 1950s war movies. He topped off my coffee a few times, every time calling me “young suh,” addressing the old smarmy waitresses as “ma’am” and “Miss Shirley ma’am.” I got the feeling, looking around at hammy-armed men in suspenders and flannel and webbed baseball caps, that this was basically how the diner crowd must have looked all those decades ago when it first opened. I don’t know how long the park by the river has been there, but I get the sense that locals know the stories of those statues. At the base of one of the bronze figures, there was the beagle, marking it as his own.

“Puppers!” squealed the boy in excitement. His sister had joined him; their mom was nowhere in sight. “He’s peeing.”

We jogged across the street and Puppers saw us. It sent him into a tizzy, and he started doing that sideways shuffle that dogs do when they are too excited to do anything else. This particular park is raised from the sidewalk level and surrounded by a three-foot stone wall with small stairways in each side. I knew a beagle this size would never chance jumping down a wall but wouldn’t think twice about traipsing down some steps, so I told the kids, “You take that staircase, I’ll take this one.” And we split up.

Catching Puppers took a while. He kept shuffling and turning suddenly. Halfway through, the dog realized I was a stranger, and interpreted all of my movements as acts of aggression towards his little masters. He began barking, and this in turn started the kids barking:

“Puppers! No! Puppers! No!”

“He thinks I’m trying to hurt you,” I called to them.

“No,” said the boy, who had stuffed his shades in his pocket. “He doesn’t like sunglasses.”

“Oh,” I said, as if this was the most natural thing in the world, as if the dog was autistic and had an irrational fear of anything with its eyes covered, “that makes sense.” I took them off and put them in my pocket as well. I wondered if the boy had been wearing his shades when Puppers took off in the first place.

Finally, the boy’s sister tackled the beagle and got two fingers around the collar. “YES!” the boy screamed, and they began half-dragging, half-carrying the dog back to the riverfront. I started to follow, but Puppers started barking, so the boy told me to stop following them. In that moment, I wondered whether the mother would be upset that her kids had approached a total stranger—someone sitting on a bench wearing sunglasses—without her approval. I wondered whether I looked like a sicko in my gray jacket and old white khakis. Sickos are supposed to look old, right?

I got back to my bench just as the mom was gathering her brood, Puppers et al., and leading them to the car. I waved, trying to look unassuming and friendly—just a good-natured young adult who had helped get her dog back. Instead of returning the wave, she hissed at her kids, “Why’d you chase him? He would’ve come right bayuck.”

I hadn’t resumed reading for more than a minute when another voice interrupted me. “Didja see thayut feeyish?”

I looked down at the river (What now?) and saw a middle-aged man waving his arms and pointing. Around his feet darted Puppers. (The father?) “What?” I shouted back. The wind was stronger now, the late-day wind that comes from nowhere. You could actually see not just the waves in the river, but the gusts of wind creating the waves.

“Thayut FEEyish,” he repeated. “Theyur. It’s a cayutfish.”

“No,” I said.

So he took a plastic bag from his pocket (Who carries plastic bags in their pocket? Well, I guess for the dog…) and, using it as a glove, bent down and picked up what looked like a white piece of driftwood. But when it was lifted up it bent in that lazy, serpentine look of a dead fish. “This thing weighs thirty payounds!”

“Wow!” I said. The thing was huge and sickly, a four-foot gym sock with gills. Joking, I shouted, “You gonna take that home?” The man looked like just the sort of person who might.

“You kiddin me? I wouldn’t take any feeyish that come from this river. I just hope Cosmo doesn’t see it.” And he pointed to Puppers, who was fixed on what was in his owner-man’s hand.

Around this time, Puppers marked my bench again. I looked at the dog near my leg, then at the one staring at the dead fish, and realized they were two different dogs. Cosmo, who turned out to be a smaller version of Puppers, belonged to the man holding the catfish at arm’s length.

Eventually, Cosmo and Puppers discovered each other, as did their families. I remarked a few times how closely they resembled each other, both white with brown spots, and the mother and the catfish guy just nodded in the same way you’d nod if someone told you tires are made of rubber: patronizingly acknowledging a factual statement from a stupid person. Cosmo’s owner-man had scrambled up the bank (ignoring the concrete steps) to chase after his dog, and Puppers’ family congregated on the bench beside mine. Out of nowhere, a photographer-lady appeared among us and said to her companion, “What do you think is making that light on the water?”

She meant a large reflection spot, halfway between us and Cincinnati, that looked about the size of a Winnebago. She snapped pictures of the spot and didn’t bother taking any pictures of the two dogs sniffing each other’s penises ten feet from her. She and her partner, who may also have been a photographer, moved on. Do photographers have apprentices?

Meanwhile, everyone was getting to know each other, including the dogs. Both were males, so they wasted no time figuring out which was the Akela wolf, the alpha dog.

When my sisters and I were kids, my parents decided we were mature enough to handle a dog in the house. Impulsively, they ended up buying two: a pair of yellow lab-spitz-chow mutts who were just so darned cute as they slipped and skidded around the tile floor of the pet store. We went from “being ready to get a dog” to “being owners of two brother dogs” in less than three hours. We named them Lucky and Prince, and, with little practical knowledge of how to raise puppies, we started doing just that.

Long story short, we botched the job. Badly. We delayed neutering them, not wanting to pay for such a expensive and sad procedure, so when they hit adolescence they tore into the furniture—and each other. Bloody snouts were common, and soon so were bloody eyes and gums and paws. I remember a few nights when we all became so terrified of our pets that we chained them up in the backyard to stakes set at opposite corners. When they got strong enough to pull out their own stakes, and when the alpha-dog contest had reached an almost deadly climax, and when the task of separating the brothers became as intense as trying to end a gang feud, my parents decided we should give them to a shelter. The one condition was that they be given to separate owners. The day we left them in a white room filled with cages is one I will never forget.

The owners of Cosmo and Puppers, I’m sad to say, also know very little about dogs. At one point, Puppers’ owner-lady said she learned from some Animal Planet show that “the magic word for dogs is ‘At.’ You just say that, and it clicks for them.” Then, trying to show the magic word’s effectiveness, she tried to stop the alpha-dog contest by chanting “At! At! At!”

Puppers, the bigger of the two by far, responded by slamming Cosmo’s head into the cobblestone sidewalk.

“Aw, lettum go,” said Cosmo’s owner-man, lighting a cigarette and reclining on the bank.

“They’re havin fun.”

“They’re figuring out who’s the dominant male,” I offered. I was ignored.

“I named Cosmo Cosmo because he came from a farm, and now he leeyuves in the city,” said the owner-man. “Short fer Cosmopolitan.”

“We named Puppers Puppers because it’s so close to puppy.”

“I sometimes call Cosmo ‘Ugly Belly,’ because—see?” He grabbed the puppy and held him aloft like Simba, so we could see the speckled belly above the speckled pecker. “He used to be called ‘Chubby’ before that.”

“Chubby?” the boy asked.

“That’s right. I got him from a farm where he was the fattest one of about fifty.” Thinking that Cosmo didn’t look fat at all, and that this guy looked like he had also originated on a farm overrun with dogs, I laughed.

The owner-man and the owner-woman looked at me suspiciously. The boy busied himself by throwing dead leaves into the air, and one of them flew right into my mouth. I coughed.

Finally, the owner-man resumed, “What’s his bloodline?” They talked about bloodlines and pedigrees, sounding a lot like dog show hosts, then suddenly the man asked, “How much you pay for him?”

“A few hundred. You?”

“Twelve-fifty.”

“Wow,” she said. “That’s a lot of money for a beagle.” She started to ask how old Cosmo was, but the man stopped her.

“No,” he said. “Twelve dollars, fifty cents.”

A teenage couple walking by the river had come upon the catfish. The girl, in one of those rebellious purple shirts and a female emo haircut, picked up a stick and started poking it. The stomach opened and we heard them both say, “Ew!”

“Didja see that feeyush?” Cosmo’s owner-man ran back down the bank, grabbed the same plastic bag, and lifted the dead catfish again. Gray stuff plopped out of its belly. “It’s thirty payounds!” This scandalized the emo couple, who wrapped their arms around each other and walked away.

“He’s a drunk,” said the mother, shaking her head. It took me a moment to figure out she was talking to me.

“Really?” I said, watching the man wiggle the catfish.

“He comes down here all the time, yeah. He’s definitely had a few.” As I contemplated why the town drunk would want to get a dog, even a twelve-fifty dog, the mother stood. “Kids, come on. We gotta go home.”

“It was nice meeting you all,” I said. “And Puppers.”

“Mm-hm,” she said, and they went across the street.

I didn’t finish the book; still haven’t. Maybe I’ll do that later. Only fifty pages to go.

No matter how good writers get, people will always be more interesting than books. It’s strikes me now that I spend so much time reading in places where you’re most likely to meet the most fascinating, weird, fun people: coffee shops, diners, libraries, parks, riversides. I think I know why I do it, though.

I think it might be the same reason the town drunk got himself a dog.

Leo

2010-04-14T12:32:00.000-04:00

"The same gentleness can be seen in the story of [Prince Vladimir's] two sons, Boris and Gleb. On Vladimir's death in 1015, their elder brother Svyatopolk attempted to seize their principalities. Taking literally the commands of the Gospel, they offered no resistance, although they could easily have done so; and each in turn was murdered by Svyatopolk's emissaries. If any blood were to be shed, Boris and Gleb preferred that it should be their own. Although they were not martyrs for the faith, but victims in a political quarrel, they were both canonized, being given the special title of 'Passion Bearers': it was felt that by their innocent and voluntary suffering they had shared in the Passion of Christ. Russians have always laid great emphasis on the place of suffering in the Christian life...

"Boris and Gleb followed Christ in his sacrificial death; Theodosius followed Christ in his life of poverty and voluntary 'self-emptying' (kenosis)....The same ideal of kenotic humility is seen in others, for example, Bishop Luke of Vladimir (died 1185) who, in the words of the Vladimir Chronicle, 'bore upon himself the humiliation of Christ, not having a city here but seeking a future one.' It is an ideal found often in Russian folklore, and in writers such as Tolstoy and Dostoyevsky."

-- Timothy Ware, The Orthodox Church

--

That's where my bookmark sits today.

I like the idea of kenosis, the emptying of self. I picture a barrel of pitch turned sideways, the black gunk gushing out, disappearing before it touches the ground. It is righted and in flows the purest water, washing away the remaining pitch and filling the barrel to brimming.

Also, apropos to the last post: reading The Orthodox Church and Brothers K just synced up.

--

A few years ago on my birthday, I remember my friend Zach gave me a collection of Tolstoy's short stories. I started reading some of them that night but gave up within a few days. I felt like I didn't "get" Tolstoy the same way I felt I "got" Dostoyevsky.

(As an aside, I never know how to spell Fyodor's surname--Y's and I's seem interchangeable.)

In another collection of short stories, there's a Tolstoy three-page yarn about a monk standing on the deck of a ship. He has a vision of an angel (or maybe it's the Virgin) floating across the sea towards him, and then the story--abruptly, I thought at the time--ends. What? That's it? Something must be going on; Leo wouldn't write a story for no reason, right? I reread the story, scouring it for hints, and concluded that either the translator missed the point or Tolstoy was just too obtuse for me.

Whereas with Dostoyevsky, I feel like we're in on the same joke, and maybe I've heard the joke before and this is just the Russian version. Like the author notices the same stuff I would notice in those situations.

But after reading a little more about Orthodoxy--and specifically, about Russian Orthodoxy--my mind keeps turning to Tolstoy. I really should give it another shot.

--

As another aside, anyone interested at all in writing, Russia or love should see The Last Station. You just should.

Also: Kerry Condon is hot.

--

It's funny. In the week after I attended Pascha services, I felt disappointed in the Orthodox Church, like it had let me down. I had expected too much of this ancient church, a human and earthly institution. Being from an evangelical and pentecostal background, I was fascinated by the beauty but didn't feel what I had hoped to feel. My hairs didn't tingle for three hours straight; I yawned when the person beside me yawned; no divine light shattered the roof.

But you keep going, don't you, when something that interests you disappoints you. So I've been downloading podcasts, continuing my reading, and just yesterday, I cracked open The Orthodox Study Bible, whose appendix essays alone have been worth $20. Once again, my desire to learn is renewed. I'm ready to go to Liturgy again.

This helped a lot, too. Anyone who is interested in Orthodoxy, Dr. Jackson (Hillsdale), or a brilliant rereading of Adam and Eve, should listen to this. It's Jackson's analysis of the true meaning of the Genesis 1-3, referred to me by Nick T.

--

Probably by accident, and perhaps significantly so, the bookmark I've been using for The Orthodox Church is the retail tag from a pair of pants I recently bought at Wal-Mart. The brand? Faded Glory.

And in The Brothers Karamazov, the bookmark is a ticket stub from a play I saw two months ago, called The Fall from Heaven.

Signs and wonders.

Engulfed

2010-04-12T10:51:00.003-04:00

"Me too," her husband said. "It's cold as shit in here."

Shit is the tofu of cursing and can be molded to whichever condition the speaker desires. Hot as shit. Windy as shit. I myself was confounded as shit...

-- David Sedaris, in "Town and Country," When You Are Engulfed in Flames

Flames will be my first Sedaris book. It's the light to balance out the heavy (see "Currently Reading" list on right). I suppose when you're reading Dostoevski and theology, it's okay to dip into lighter material for a weekend. Which is exactly what I did: After two days of reading Flames, I'm almost finished. Usually it takes me almost a month to read a 300+ page book, but generally the material is denser, more "literary" than a collection of personal essays about middle life.

It maybe takes me so long to read books because I plow through several at once. This keeps me from getting bored with just one, and thus decreases the probability that I will decide it's not worth finishing right now, which is what I've done several times with Brothers K. It's not that I decide the book isn't worth reading, just that it's not a good fit for my life right now. I'm too busy. I'm too young.

I admire people who can focus on a single book at a time. For the weeks they are making it through a tome, your mental image of them always has them holding, carrying, or reading that book. You begin to associate that person with that particular book. When you start reading it yourself, you occasionally wonder if you're seeing the same things the other person saw, if later you can talk with them about that moment in chapter five or the description in chapter nine.

And while I admire them, I wonder too: Are they reading one book at a time because that's all they can handle, or by choice?

And the question flips on itself: If I spent all my reading time on one book at a time, could I get more out of each?

Maybe.

I remember moments in college when I would hear the same things in disparate courses (say, English and political economy). It made me wonder if the professors sat in the faculty lounge, sipping tea, discussing what topics they would all try to cover that day.

"I move we mention Virgil's description of the sacking of Troy."

"Seconded."

"Yes, but what specifically?"

"How about we mention the image of a man carrying his father on his back and being led by his son? That it was a metaphor for the nature of history itself?"

"Splendid!"

"All in favor--?"

"Aye!"

Or something like that. I only bring it up because a similar thing happens when you read more than one book at a time. Just recently, reading Mere Christianity and The Orthodox Church simultaneously made for many sync-ups.

It's not quite like seeing two sides of the same coin. It's more like reaching into two pants pockets and finding two-dollar bills in each.

Multi-reading (a cheap combo of multi-tasking and reading) also allows me to link moods or events in my life with a number of books. After church on a beautiful afternoon like yesterday's, I'm more likely to walk to the river and read something theological and transporting--The Orthodox Church. While watching the Cardinals lose to the Brewers, I might spend commercials breezing through Flames. And when it's time for bed, I'll pretentiously grab a candle and read Brothers Karamazov by flame light.

Another thought occurs to me: this is how I read in college. Different chunks from different works, at random times throughout a day, every day. This is how I trained my mind to read.

To an extent, I think it's how I write, too. (At least, how I write in a blog.) Random clippings, strewn about without much editing or post-thought. Generally, I'll have an idea before I start typing, but from there, it sort of meanders. Even when I try to keep it focused on a single topic, relatively meaningless details from life creep in, assuming deeper meaning when there's not much there, like kids stealing focus on stage. It's the damming of the stream of consciousness, creating a reservoir of silly, small memories.

Once, in a summer stock vocal rehearsal, the music director's brother (our lead in the show) said he could turn any ordinary object into a voice lesson. Someone took out a plastic spoon and handed it to him. He studied the spoon for no more than a second, then held it out at arm's length, the concave facing away. "Aim your voice like it's a taught fishing line," he said. "Try to hook it onto the edge of the spoon, and with your hand pull your voice from your body. Imagine the line getting tenser and tenser as breath leaves your lungs. This is the proper way to sing."

We clapped and he shrugged. "Anything can be turned into a lesson."

I'm paraphrasing, obviously, but that idea has stuck with me. You can turn anything into a metaphor just by thinking about it as one. As one beloved professor pointed out often, you can verb anything in English--even the noun "verb."

I'm showing my apartment today. Some guys from next door are thinking about shifting everything over thirty feet. I think they also live on the third floor of their building.

So yesterday was not a day of rest. Lots of cleaning, folding of laundry, discovery of junk mail. Threw away a dead potted plant that was a gift from the last show (I'm bad with plants). Scrubbed the stove top. I'm going back soon to vacuum, sweep, dust, and make that crowded closet resemble "presentable."

Also: Visiting my sisters in Seattle. Just bought the ticket a few days ago.

And: Kix doesn't taste the way it used to. When you snack on them and they drop, they roll like crazy.

Bigness

2010-04-08T14:03:00.007-04:00

"In the last resort, what we want to know is not, what would this man or that man, or this or that Church, have of us, but what Jesus Christ himself wants of us.... We have a strange feeling that if Jesus himself--Jesus alone with his Word--could come into our midst at sermon time, we should find quite a different set of men hearing the Word, and quite a different set rejecting it."

-- Dietrich Bonhoeffer, in his Introduction to The Cost of Discipleship

--

Today's a big day.

Just before I leave the office, I will lay envelopes on the desks of the Executive Producer and the Artistic Director. In these envelopes will be two letters, neatly folded and cleanly written, which announce my intent to leave my job in a few months.

They wanted to know several months in advance, so I'm letting them know now. Most organizations would only want two weeks to four. This one needs over four months.

It's all for the best. Deadlines force decisions; and decisions, decisiveness. Without such an ultimatum, I may well have shied away from making my plans until well into the summer, when it would have been too late--or too painful--to make such an announcement.

At least, that's what I'm telling myself.

And today comes after a great high: escorting my co-worker Jen S. to home plate in the Great American Ballpark, where she sang the National Anthem for the Cincinnati Reds' Opening Night game. (St. Louis won 6-3 and I was very happy.)

We got Reds-themed "fleecies" (they are legally not allowed to call them "Snuggies") for being among the first 21,000 fans to show up. I found I felt more comfortable walking around in it if I wore it backwards, with the opening in front. It felt more like a cloak, less like a curtain.

So the week has been a big one, too: Parade, board lunch w/ staff, Reds Opening Night, and today, Letter Day.

Growing up, I heard church folk talk a lot about "red-letter days." The idea was to live daily according to the words of Christ, which of course are widely printed in red. As a friend from high school recently pointed out, much of what Christ said (specifically in Matthew 18) is tough biscuits.

In accounting, to be "in the red" means to be in debt. I think that's a good way to think about it, too.

Until the end of August, I'll still have this desk and the retro file trays and the guitar propped against the painting (neither of which are mine) and the cubicle and the blank Rolodex and workshops and classes and students and experiences and people to call and emails to read and things to do and money to save. I'll still have a car and a car payment. I'll still have a love for theatre, too.

When I leave, I'll go to Nebraska. A handful of old friends will hear that I became one of those Heartland kids who went away to college, went away to act, and then retreated to the plains. They won't hear that the battle was only within. They'll never know that the retreat was only a regrouping.

I'm fine with that. What I will not do is become one of those Heartland kids who becomes a Heartland adult who becomes a Heartland heehaw before 30. I am 23. I have a degree. I will not work part-time just to get by, puddle-hopping from job to job, and I certainly won't let my spirits die in a slow burn. I am not moving back to Nebraska; I am moving away from Cincinnati.

So...where will I be by, say, October?

Maybe military, perhaps back in school. Definitely in a different venue. The thing is not just to leave but to leave with grace, with dignity. Fortitude, too. Because "Fate doesn't hang on a wrong or right choice / Fortune depends on the tone of your voice."

In other words: Not the words, but the ink. Not the ink, but the page. Not the page, but the book. Not books but libraries, not libraries but knowledge. And all that.

Because this change, however big, is small. Hardly worth reading about, or writing about.

Vonnegut was right: We know too little to think our lives are such big deals.

So was Auden.

I knew it was gonna be a big year, though.

Parades

2010-04-05T13:58:00.000-04:00

"Ah, brother, but a Balaam's ass like that thinks and thinks, and the devil knows where he gets to."

"He's storing up ideas," said Ivan, smiling.

"You see, I know he can't bear me, nor any one else, even you, though you fancy that he has a high opinion of you...But he doesn't steal, that's one thing, and he's not a gossip, he holds his tongue, and doesn't wash our dirty linen in public. He makes capital fish pasties too. But, damn him, is he worth talking about so much?"

"Of course he isn't."

"And as for the ideas he may be hatching, the Russian peasant, generally speaking, needs thrashing. That I've always maintained. Our peasants are swindlers, and don't deserve to be pitied, and it's a good thing they're flogged sometimes."

-- Dostoevski, in The Brothers Karamazov

--

This morning, I was on a float.

It was in the Opening Day Parade for the Cincinnati Reds, at slot #30. Last year, we got in at #130, so to move forward in the lineup a hundred spaces is something to celebrate in itself. When we finished our run, there was still a long line of decorated vehicles brimming with impatient people; they had yet to enter the parade proper. Must've sucked.

We rode back to the parade's source in the float, towed behind a truck, and enjoyed flying through downtown in the sunlight and the breeze. Floating on a float. All that was missing was a root beer float.

The thought occurred to me, as I stood watching crowds and trucks and signs in the parking lot that had been set aside as a staging area, that parades are very, very weird. In some ways, it's just a flea market on floats. (Or a flea circus on wheels.)

--

Waving one's arms for an hour will do several things. First, you realize how monotonous waving is. You try to wave in different ways--floating your hand, stretching your arms way above your head and flicking your wrist, fast waves to excite children, fist-pumps that burst into jazz hands, pointing at random strangers--to break the monotony and to give your muscles something else to do. Next, you start to think about working your triceps a little more; they seem a little flabby. You try to tense up those muscles, which turns the gesture of waving into an almost robotic movement, and your expression changes from one of joy (How sweet it is being on a float!) to one of concentration (Perhaps that guy just wet his pants). A third result is you start imitating unique waves returned to you from the crowd. A fourth is making eye contact in an effort to get more people to wave back. The game changes from physical challenge to emotional. You start feeling awkward or even offended when people sitting in their patriotic lawn chairs don't wave back.

The trick: Wave at the kids who are sitting on the sidewalk's edge. They're there to wave.

--

Was a part of a different kind of parade--in fact, a procession--at the Pascha service on Holy Saturday night. The procession occurred about two-thirds of the way through the four-hour ritual: we all had lit candles; the night was about as still and amazing as you could hope; we chanted the ancient melody--"Christ has risen from the dead, trampling down death by death / And upon those in the tombs bestowing life"--as the priest banged on the church's front doors, symbolizing the group of women who went to Christ's tomb to anoint his body, only to find He had risen; children held their candles closely and parents held them loosely and the elderly held them tenderly; I met a man named Nolan who gave me an idea of what to expect later in the night; grateful for the opportunity to celebrate Easter in a ritualized, mystical way, I found myself lost and lost myself in the finding (if that makes any sense). It was beautiful.

I also found myself manipulating the melted candle wax: a condition related to pyromania, I think.

After, I kissed the cross and the priest and received the blessed red egg. The feast proceeded; their fast had ended. At 4:00 in the morning, I finally went home, exhausted.

--

Could've done without the rest of today. Back at the office, I found out I had missed a workshop at a museum on Saturday, around the time I was prepping myself for an eastern overnight worship fest. I hate missing workshops, and part of the reason I hate it is that I accidentally do it so often. I think it's common to hate those sins and personal failings that are more frequent. If we weren't plagued, we wouldn't hate the plague.

My deadline approaches. I have to figure out my summer plans (parents renewing their vows, siblings meeting up in Seattle, me teaching at two summer camps for two theatres) as well as my future with this company, and I have to get it all down on paper by Thursday.

I wish life had a pause button. Maybe the closest you can get is to write it down, relive it for some moments, make sense of it if you can, and click on "Publish Post." Not necessarily in that order.

Pascha

2010-04-03T11:53:00.002-04:00

"--which there was no need to have told you, by the way. And I fancy that in telling you about my inner conflict I have laid it on rather thick to glorify myself."

-- Mitya, in Fyodor Dostoevski's The Brothers Karamazov

--

Heels up, flung headlong. Attempting a contemplative weekend instead of an active one, I've attended (so far) two Pascha services at Christ the Savior - Holy Spirit Orthodox Church. It has been, to say the very least, interesting and informative. You can learn a lot about any religion just by attending a service, and as several sources have told me, that's the only real way to become acquainted with Christian Orthodoxy.

I've been learning about Orthodoxy for years. Now, I'm trying to learn it, itself.

--

I told my mom as much. "Make sure," she told me over the phone, "that you're not doing this for your friends. Make sure you're doing it because you really feel it's the right thing for you."

That made me think. Sure, some friends of mine recently decided to join the Orthodox Church. Sure, one of my closest professors is Orthodox. But am I?

The word "Orthodox," of course, means "right worship" or "right belief." Aside from implications that this is the right way for a Christian to worship and believe, I still have to ask whether it's "right for me." Or maybe not right--but suitable? ideal? comfortable?

That's what worries me, that confusion of "feeling something is right" and merely "feeling comfortable."

And couldn't one argue that it has nothing to do with something being "right for you" or "right for me," anyway? That it ought to be something "right for God"?

--

Really, it's too early to tell, anyway. Two services on the most holy weekend in the year are not going to give me a very representative view. Still, now is better than later; as this time of year is cumulative for Orthodox, one could argue that this is the best time of year to observe their services--in the same way that many Protestants are on their best behavior at Christmas.

--

As a personal act of faith, and with vague intentions of "preparing" myself for an Eastern Easter, I fasted for all of Good Friday (or "Holy and Great Friday," as Orthodox call it) from use of all unnecessary electricity, all food and all drink besides water. It was hard.

My rationale was partially based on Orthodox practice--I read somewhere that there is a "strict fast" to mourn the physical death of Christ the Man--and something I heard on the radio about the Jewish Sabbath. A woman on the radio spoke about "trying not to have any affect on the world" for at least one day of the week. That's where the electricity thing came in. Keeping my phone off for 24 hours was a lot harder than I like to admit.

The eighteenth hour (6pm) of my fast was the most difficult. After I had seen the daylong fast through, I carbed up on two dinner rolls and some hummus. Too tired (a combo of actual crashing and a false sense of exhaustion) to do anything else, I slept for ten solid hours after.

--

For those interested in reading about Orthodox services, check out some books and these sites:

http://www.orthodoxinfo.com/
http://www.frederica.com/12-things/
http://www.christthesavioroca.org/about_orthodoxy.html

For those interested in Orthodoxy itself--if you're wondering, "Could I eventually become Orthodox?"--don't waste too much time reading about it. That was my mistake, admittedly. I read a lot about the beauty of the liturgy songs and the meditative experience and ancient theology, that got so caught up in "clouds" and anything earthly, anything less than a veritable cloud, seemed, well, lower than what it ought to be. Reading about it idealized the Church in my mind, and I found myself a tad disappointed (rather than fascinated) to see ordinary folks standing around me.

--

It wasn't until after Matins last night, after I'd made a quick run to the grocery store and read a bit from The Brothers K, that I realized what had happened in those services. As much as I was just trying to observe what was going on--when people crossed themselves, which icons were venerated and when, etc.--I had also stood and spent long hours in strict contemplation. After a few moments of self-consciousness, all consciousness of myself--my life's petty worries, my desires, my needs--disappeared.

As my professor put it, "The West says, 'Don't just stand there; do something.' The East says, 'Don't just do something; stand there.'"

I can't wait to see if it happens again tonight.

Keyed

2010-03-30T12:22:00.001-04:00

"I'd stop this world
If I could find the key."

-- Steven Curtis Chapman, "The King of the Jungle"

--

Yesterday, a series of situations that brought about a Situation--not an Emergency. A parable (maybe), but too long of a story to relate here. I'll summarize the intro and only tell the best part:

It was a stressful morning, so I decided to go for a run in the afternoon. I lost my apartment keys, which I always keep in a pocket, somewhere along the route, and after retracing all my steps (walking about four miles), I found no key. I was locked out of my apartment, where I had left my car keys, cell phone, and wallet.

The first step was to call someone who could get me in touch with my landlord, who could get me in touch with the property manager, who lives next door. Because I looked ridiculous in my green Okoboji hoodie, Under Armour bottoms, and shorts, I decided to try for a phone at the local library, where everyone looks ridiculous. It's almost always filled with homeless folks and bizarre Kentuckians.

The reference librarian was skeptical but let me make a few calls, and once I'd gotten the numbers I needed and arranged for a co-worker to pick me up, I dicked around the library, read the first chapter of a random book, and then went to wait outside.

I realized once I was outside again that I hadn't stretched after my long run and longer walk, so among the thugs and bums that hang out by the door, I started stretching. It was awkward, and I felt stupid. At one point, two black kids on scooters came up to me and tried to read my hoodie.

"Ok-a-bah-jee?"

"It's Okoboji," I said, sighing. "It's a lake in Iowa."

--

I sat on the concrete steps and waited for my ride. And here might be the best part of the story:

I hadn't been sitting for more than a minute when I felt something hit the side of my head. I recoiled just in time to see a cigarette butt flying away from my face. Then I heard a woman's voice say, "Oh, honey, I'm sorry!" It was some fat white woman who had finished her smoke and flicked it away, seeing in the corner of her eye that it had hit someone. "It's okay," I said, and started laughing.

I had been hit in the head by a flying cigarette butt.

This story ends happily, with me getting a ride to my apartment, getting in touch with my landlady and property manager, getting spare keys (which I will get copied later today), and getting on with life.

And at 4:00pm, I finally had breakfast.

--

And now, the things I learned.

1.) From now on, whenever I run, I'm leaving my keys in my mailbox, under a mat, on the tire of my car, wherever. I'm never bringing my keys with me again.

2.) You don't realize how much trash there is on the sidewalk until you are looking for something on it. A lot of the trash is small, about the size and shape of a key. It's very hard to find something small like that when there's so much trash around. There's also a lot more trash as you get closer to the river, where the richer people live; not sure why that is, and maybe it has more to do with the number of people who walk through that part of town than with the amount of money people make there. But it's interesting.

3.) You also don't realize how easy it might be to break into your apartment until you are considering doing it yourself. Climbing an iron gate isn't that difficult, and scaling a fire-escape is conspicuous but doable. If raccoons can do it, chances are humans can, too.

4.) You're never in control of life. You only think you are, and you gather possessions and luxuries that give you a false sense of security. It's only when you're separated from things like keys, phones and money that you realize just how fine the line is between daily routine and a day of chaos and worry.

5.) Not freaking out in tough situations is underrated.

6.) No matter how badly your day has gone, just wait.

--

I thought a lot about those keys yesterday, and I can't resist thinking about them today. Where are they? Someone's lawn, waiting to be picked up by a toddler, waiting to be discovered by a lawnmower and mangled? A sewer, anonymous among decayed leaves? Wedged neatly in the crack of the sidewalk, unseen for years and years until the concrete buckles under a repairman's jackhammer?

And then I remember that it doesn't matter. Doesn't matter one bit.

Christian

2010-03-23T14:26:00.004-04:00

"As we say, 'I never expected to be a saint, I only wanted to be a decent ordinary chap.' And we imagine when we say this that we are being humble.

But this is the fatal mistake. Of course we never wanted, and never asked, to be made into the sort of creatures He is going to make us into. But the question is not what we intended ourselves to be, but what He intended us to be when He made us."

-- C. S. Lewis, Mere Christianity

From Friday to Sunday, I was in Hillsdale.

Lots of talks about movies, literature, and memories. All of it worth more than the sum of its parts, truly, and I have to say I had a blast reconnecting with friends. Also spent plenty of time with former professors, some of them buying me food and some of them giving me mead (more on that later). Got to see The Rev. Dr. John Seth Reist, Jr., give his first service at the Presbyterian Church in Jonesville, MI, and I also had dinner with him (the night quickly regressed into a string of offensive jokes).

Something happens, to some extent, to everyone who visits their alma mater: You begin to suspect that you will not be making such visits for much longer. You are wearing out your welcome and the number of friends you have there is dwindling. You are not able to "keep up" with the college students any more, either in the number of drinks you consume or the hours you stay up. You realize that the thing you talk and joke about is the one most important thing that you have failed so far to look straight in the face: You are no longer in college.

The process is faster or slower for different people. For me, it took almost two years. I'm glad to have reached this point. In one sense, it places a hedge around my college years, sets them aside as something that is fun to remember but which I do not need to spend a lot of time and effort to reclaim. I can never go back, and at the same time, I can go back as often as I like. It restricts me from pretending I'm eighteen again, but it liberates me to act like I'm twenty-three. It forces me to stop trying to be "an old boy" and to be a young man. It is very easy to be inclined towards the former, and very difficult to attempt the latter.

All told, it was a good trip. Got to see the Tower Dancers Concert, all three performances, as well as a friend's senior art show. Both the concert and the art show were beautiful and impressive. I get the sense my former dance instructor, Corrine I., has grown as a choreographer because she is now working with students who have grown as dancers. She trusts them in a way she never could have trusted the group when I was there, probably because amateurs like me hindered her vision. The student-choreographed pieces, too, showed more confidence and clarity than I think were possible two years ago. Sometimes coy and feminine, sometimes sharp and reflective, all the dances radiated the goodness and happiness and energy that attracted me to the group when I was a student.

While in college, I experienced all the normal things people experience in college, and in that sense those four years were not unusual at all. But in terms of Who I was and What I did, I realize they were in fact very strange. Before Hillsdale, I was not the sort of person who would indulge in all appetites, or help a friend to be unfaithful to their fiancée, or think of going to church as if it were voluntary slavery,--all the while imagining that I was doing pretty well. But that's precisely the Who and What of college for me.

Removed from it now by two years of work, I see that I rejected Christianity. Even while I quoted C. S. Lewis in my freshman papers, argued theology with friends during lunch, and kept "Christian" as my Religious Views on Facebook, I was becoming a cold, proud, gluttonous wretch.

Dr. Jackson, who insists I call him by his first name from now on, suggested at lunch on Friday that perhaps one reason I fell away from my Christian upbringing is, Hillsdale Christianity isn't Christianity. It's apologetics. It's only an academic question to be debated by people who know a lot about the Bible but little about Christ, and to participate in that is to argue and do nothing more. What you'll find here is pious, self-absorbed intellectualism, not a daily dying to self.

Whether that's the truth of it or not, I'm not the one to say. But it does make some sense. Regardless, I feel I am returning to the self I was before the necessary (and admittedly pleasurable, exciting and educational) experience of college. Even as a kid I never had much regard for testimonies or "born-again" stories, so I won't create another martyr-ish example of self-righteousness here talking in unimportant specifics about my return to Christ. But I will say this:

It's not easy.

I mentioned a few weeks ago that a friend, Nick T., spent some time with me on his way back from a trip. He's being chrismated into the Orthodox Church in a few weeks with his little sister Erin, who was one of the dancers in the Concert and who, especially after this weekend, has become a close friend of mine.

In the basement of the music building, while our friends jammed in a practice room, four of us sat in the hallway, talking (like ya do) about life. The question of Erin's Orthodox conversion--and I'm not sure "conversion" is the right word, but it'll have to do--came up, and she spoke for a few solid minutes about faith, the "historical church," and her love for liturgy.

Someone speaking so frankly about their faith is something I haven't heard in a while, not even during the occasional--and dodgy--chat about religion with co-workers. And it's made me reconsider my own faith, which cannot be a bad thing. I get the feeling that reconsideration of my faith, the realignment of my trajectory towards Christ, needs to become a daily practice.

Incidentally, Erin also lent me her copy of The Orthodox Church, by Timothy Ware, which I will get started on today. I finished Mere Christianity this morning.