Catfish

"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

"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

"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

"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

"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

"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

"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

"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

"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

"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

"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

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


-- Joshua Radin, "Brand New Day"


--


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


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


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


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


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


--


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


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


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


--


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


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


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


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


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


--


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


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


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


--


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


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


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


--


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


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


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

Perks

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

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

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

-- Stephen Chbosky, The Perks of Being a Wallflower


--

Sometimes, books smack you in the face.

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

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

It's shaming.

--

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

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

But. They. Never. Do.

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

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

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


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


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

--

"Hi, I'm Brook."

"Chris."

"Nice to meet you."

"You, too."

"What are you reading?"

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

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


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

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

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

"Where?"

"Forks, Washington."

"Really? What were you doing in Milwaukee?"

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

"Wow. You've been busy."

"Yup. Well, enjoy your book."

"You, too."

--

But instead, it was like this:

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

"Bless you," I say.

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

"Thank you," she says.

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

--

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

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


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

--

I should call a taxi.

--

Flight

“I’m gonna move

I’m gonna go

I’m gonna tell everyone I know

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

-- Paul McCartney, “Heart of the Country”

--

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

Why?

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

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

--

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

--

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

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

--

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

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

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

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

--

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

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

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

--

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

Emergence

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

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

-- Stephen Chbosky, The Perks of Being a Wallflower


--

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

"Why not?"

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

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

--

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

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

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

--

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

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

Isn't it romantic?

--

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

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

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

--

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

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

--

Everything is going to be okay.