Hross

"...Ransom discovered how to deal with these sudden losses of confidence. They arose when the rationality of the hross tempted you to think of it as a man. Then it became abominable--a man seven feet high, with a snaky body, covered, face and all, with thick black animal hair, and whiskered like a cat. But starting from the other end you had an animal with everything an animal ought to have--glossy coat, liquid eye, sweet breath and whitest teeth--and added to all these, as though Paradise had never been lost and earliest dreams were true, the charm of speech and reason. Nothing could be more disgusting than the one impression; nothing more delightful than the other. It all depended on the point of view."

-- C. S. Lewis, Out of the Silent Planet

--

So the hross is basically a limber seal with the mind of primordial man. The main character, a philologist, takes interest in the creature when he deciphers its vocalizations as a rough kind of language. They introduce themselves as hross and man (which the hross pronounces like "hman") in a standoff at a river. Then they get into a boat.

The linguistics in this book have already clenched me. As Ransom and the hross converse, the human learns about the structure of the vocab--masculine and feminine nouns, prefixes, suffixes, compound words, and plural forms--and brings to mind the stories of Lewis and Clark in the West, self-translating, self-defining as they explore.

--

But this business about the hross, it has me thinking about perspective, how a thing changes without changing. I think about a puppet whose face never changes structurally--I mean, everything stays fixed, the eyes and nose and stuff never moves. The mouth hinges and the hand inside the head can twist and bob to suggest different emotions, but the thing itself doesn't really change its shape, nor do its features change their spatial relationships. Yet when we watch a puppet in action, we imagine that all these things do change, that they change constantly, because we see the fixed features from different perspectives. Our brain translates these movements as, The puppet smiled, or, The puppet is making a shy face.

The same thing happens with masks. And lots of other things as well.

Like a city.

--

I have to drive fifteen minutes west to get to my second job, teaching an after-school acting class for youngish kids. Enjoyable drive--with its hills and dips, it feels like a roller coaster. The reason for the elevation dance is the road snakes over, through and under Cincinnati's viaduct, which is almost a century old. Recently there's been talk of transforming part of the viaduct into a monorail or subway system. The city sure could use one, a public transit system that can't get stuck in rush-hour traffic (i.e., buses). Locals tell me these plans may be scrapped in favor of a trolley system (a la San Francisco).

There's evidence that plans have begun only to be abandoned: cavish openings that mark the ends of tunnels dug out of the city's massive hills; rusted rails on rusted pillars; old graffiti embracing or denouncing the subway. Every once in a while, there's a local news bit about the possibility, but even the reporters seem skeptical that anything will actually happen.

--

When the idea was first pitched, people said it was going to top New York and Chicago. Innovation. Ingenuity. Other words, tossed around by architects and urban planners. But a decade has passed (maybe more--no one seems to know the idea's actual origins, as if some sage or prophet started the rumor and then skipped town) and still, no passenger trains shuttling people to and from work.

The closest thing to it is the empty squeal/screech you hear in the west side of town, usually at night. It's a wrenching sound, like metal being torn and pressed against metal. An empty noise, like a machine calling for help. When you ask what that sound was, people shrug and say, vaguely, "It's the trains."

They mean the trains carrying freight and such through the Ohio River Valley. Still, it might be more precise to say, "It's the ghost of the subway trains."

--

And so now there's the question of perspective.

When I think about this city as "where I've lived for a year and a half," I consider issues like the abandoned subway--or sanitation, homelessness, economic disparity along racial lines--to be examples of how pathetic the place is. I think, See, this is a city that doesn't know what to do with itself. It only knows what to say.

But when I'm driving back from Price Hill, approaching the skyline from the west, I realize that I won't be here much longer. I start thinking about my future destinations and it casts a sort of past-shadow on the present...if that makes sense.

And I see those holes in the hills and think, These are holes I should remember.

So when people ask me later, "What was Cincinnati like," I'll have something to say that isn't vague and travel-bookish and pretentious. I'll tell them about the holes in the hills and the squeals of ghost trains. Barges in the river, pushing along silently like they're trying not to be seen. Masses of yuppies trudging across the bridges on foot in the early mornings and late afternoons because they live on the south bank but work on the north.

--

"Nothing could be more disgusting than the one impression; nothing more delightful than the other."

Curveball

"Fate doesn't hang on a wrong or right choice;

Fortune depends on the tone of your voice."

-- Ben Folds, "Songs of Love"

--

Gotta give credit where credit's due. Curveball, which can be found on AddictingGames.com, got me through my first semester of college, and right now, it's getting me through some long and boring days at work.

My boss has seen fit, in anticipation of structural reorganization of the staff, to require everyone to create, update and submit hourly diaries. In true Office Space form, we now have to account for all the hours we are at work, to prove that we are earning our salaries.

--

I spent the greater part of today writing a rejection letter to the children who auditioned for our summer program but didn't get in. I guess it's more accurate to say I spent a half-hour writing it, and the greater part of today getting it copy-edited.

It's the kind of letter that has to be broadly specific, so that each reader feels as if he/she received personal criticism, even though you just change the name at the top and print dozens of them off.

They're signed, sealed, and as soon as they're delivered, they're theirs.

--

An oddity of this place (one among many) is that we are paid on the first of the month instead of every two weeks, and this paycheck is given in advance of the month; in other words, we get paid for February on February 1st. The result of this cumbersome (IMO) practice is the rhetoric we endure as employees--namely, that we are indebted to our employer for so many hours' worth of work. We have been paid, say, for 160 hours of work in a month, and we must spend the next four weeks filling our quotas. Now, the numbers are basically the same as in systems where people are paid after the work they do, but the language of obligation is very different.

And now that we have to account for all our work time (filling out the spreadsheet entitled "Hourly Diary" takes about fifteen minutes, and yes, we are required to note that time as well), we all feel very, very watched.

--

Was part of a photo shoot with the Enquirer. The subject of the shoot was the director of Jack & the Beanstalk, and we needed two people to stand in the cow costume while the photographer clicked away. (There's a tap-dancing cow in the show.)

Guess who was the cow butt?

--

It's beyond the accounting of hours. My boss is now searching through our server files to make sure we are updating the diaries throughout the day--"If you don't record what you did as soon as it's done," she says, "then it becomes fantasy."

Needless to say, my Curveball breaks will not be on this week's hourly diary.

Momentous

"Been in town, my baby

We just got to rock on

Yeah, darling, we just got to go home

I don't want no tutti-frutti, no lollipop,

Come on baby, just rock, rock, rock."

-- Led Zeppelin, "Boogie with Stu," Physical Graffiti

--

Paige, my baby sister, came to visit me from Wednesday to yesterday. In total, the princess spent five days in the Queen City.

Highlights:

- Ice-skating in Fountain Square

- First hockey game (viewed in the flesh, that is): Cyclones v. Chiefs

- The drive to and from Dayton, OH, to see a mediocre production of Urinetown

- Letting her drive to Wendy's

- Running to the river

- It's Just Crepes

--

On the Sad Bear Blog, Tony G. posted about what he calls "moments of clarity," those "ah-ha" moments. He was inspired by something he read to post some seemingly obvious things that became apparent to him only recently; in turn, inspired by his entry, here are some of mine:

- There never was a Pope who married a bear. (As I told Zach H., who created this hilarious rumor, I've been spreading that whopper and needlessly pissing off Catholics for years.)

- Manicurists get paid basically to do the same thing I do to my own nails; the only difference is that when I do it, it's a bad habit, and when they do it to others, it's a job.

- There are different blades used in different Olympic events like skiing, ice-skating and sledding, depending on the hazards of the event (check out the array of blades that aired on the "Today" show this morning--the $20G luge blade is especially cool).

--

Another thing, not-so-obvious, and this must be shown as it's told:

When my sister came to visit, it broke my routine in many good ways. I was propelled out of my work and apartment because I was now a host, an older brother who wanted to experience all these things with his younger sister. We did all sorts of things, almost just for the sake of doing them.

The things that I wanted to be most meaningful turned tortuous and sour, but the things I thought would be superficial and glossed-over turned out to be the most fun. And that was because my sister was there, and I was more focused on her than I was on the thing.

For instance: We went to a play (a very serious, artistic play) on Friday night, and I was excited because this was the first "real" play my sister had ever seen. But at intermission, when I asked her what she thought about the production, all she did was smile and say, "I'm sorry, I don't get it." And all my explaining turned into jargon the instant I spoke the words. My attempts to make this event momentous pushed her away and made it awkward, forced.

Two days later, we took an hour-long road trip to see another play. I promised her that if at intermission she didn't "get it," we'd go ahead and leave. On the drive, I gave her control of the music and we had a blast, singing along to songs we both knew. I wasn't trying to introduce her to anything, and there was no pressure, and we ended up enjoying the play, even if it was a textbook example of what we would've labeled "deadly theatre" in college.

That night, I took her to Dave & Buster's for some Valentine's Day arcadia. D&B's doesn't take reservations, so we stood there in the lobby for a half hour before Paige looked at me and said she'd rather just hang out at the apartment the night before her flight to Nebraska. So we left. The very thing I thought would be the climactic funfest of her trip was the last thing she wanted to do. We went back and watched the Olympics until she fell asleep.

--

So what's the moral? I don't know.

Maybe: Do what your guests want to do?

Or: You can never plan fun?

Or: Not everyone likes the things you like, stupid.

--

We were harried and hurried at the airport. There were delays because of snow, but they bumped her flight earlier again without telling us. So at first we could not check her in, and then we could, and then there was the gate rush, and suddenly, two pictures later, she was at security, and I had to stay back.

It had been so good to have someone with whom to share life. And life itself had changed for five days. I'd been propelled out of my apartment and out of myself. I missed her already.

This is gonna sound really stupid, but I felt like I'd been saved from myself. You can only watch so many movies and clean the kitchen so many times before you're bored again.

So she went through security and I watched from fifty yards away as she put up her luggage, took off her shoes, gave me a wave and was down the escalator. The rows and columns of blue TV screens told me she was boarding. We kept texting while the plane waited to taxi. I walked back to my car, where only twenty minutes before we'd been scrambling with her suitcase and avoiding slushy muddy puddles.

I got into the driver's seat and, before I knew what was happening, I began to sob. I don't mean "weep," and I don't mean "a tear came to my eye." I mean I was dry-heaving tears, vocalizing sadness, groping for a reason. I only had a vague notion as to why I was crying, and I couldn't stop. It lasted for thirty minutes and it lasted for three. It was the first time I've had an exhilarating cry, almost like a second wind, like each tear only primes the pump for the next one. It was wonderfully cathartic.

This is gonna sound even stupider, but I felt refreshed afterwards.

--

Then I got a text from my mom. "So how does it feel to be a parent for 4 days?"

Momentous, Mom.

--

So now it's back to work.

I delayed it for as long as possible, going in after I'd eaten lunch. (There are perks to working part-time.) The city is so full of snow that it's impossible to get any real running/walking done, so my exercise routine is suspended until shovels hit sidewalks. But I'm in the mood for having a routine scrapped and replaced for a time, so it's all good.

No, really. It's all good.

Boots

"Question 16. Is attendance at a place of worship or membership with a Christian community necessary to a Christian way of life?

Lewis: That's a question which I cannot answer. My own experience is that when I first became a Christian, about fourteen years ago, I thought that I could do it on my own, by retiring to my rooms and reading theology, and I wouldn't go to the churches and Gospel Halls; and then later I found that it was the only way of flying your flag; and, of course, I found that this meant being a target. It is extraordinary how inconvenient to your family it becomes for you to get up early to go to Church. It doesn't matter so much if you get up early for anything else, but if you get up early to go to Church it's very selfish of you and you upset the house.... I disliked very much their hymns, which I considered to be fifth-rate poems set to sixth-rate music. But as I went on I saw the great merit of it. I came up against different people of quite different outlooks and different education, and then gradually my conceit just began peeling off. I realized that the hymns (which were just sixth-rate music) were, nevertheless, being sung with devotion and benefit by an old saint in elastic-side boots in the opposite pew, and then you realize that you aren't fit to clean those boots. It gets you out of your solitary conceit. It is not for me to lay down laws, as I am only a layman, and I don't know much.

Question 17. If it is true that one has only to want God enough in order to find Him, how can I make myself want Him enough to enable myself to find Him?

Lewis: If you don't want God, why are you so anxious to want to find Him? I think that in reality the want is a real one, and I should say that this person has in fact found God, although it may not be fully recognized yet. We are not always aware of things at the time they happen. At any rate, what is more important is that God has found this person, and that is the main thing.

-- from "Answers to Questions on Christianity," God in the Dock: Essays on Theology and Ethics, by C. S. Lewis, ed. by Walter Hooper

--

Yes, I'm reading C. S. Lewis again.

I went to a college where it seemed everyone read Lewis--and not only read him, but read him too much. I'll be the first to say that you should never read one author at the exclusion of others, especially if the topic is intellectual and so is the author, but when I read Lewis, I don't know, I feel as if there is little need to read anyone else. I find myself wanting to read too much of him. Even people who disagree with him, like the people who disagree with Orwell, have to admit their awe at the writing. The sheer majesty of it. The language is so crisp, so clear, and the writer is so unashamed of his beliefs. It's the ultimate marriage of what one means to say and what one actually says, when things come out so simply and strongly. I just love it.

That's the main reason there are four Lewis books on the desk beside my computer. Libraries; gotta love 'em.

--

I've found myself stuck in a cycle of self-righteousness lately, though. Especially on this blog. If I've offended anyone with callous words, I'm sorry. I'll try not to do it again.

I've resumed going to church, and I think that makes me a saint. I'm running three times a week, and I think that makes me healthy. I'm considering a major career change, and I think that makes me too good for the job I have.

All those things I think are simply not true. I'm not involved in the church yet, I simply attend on Sundays; I still have a spare tire wrapped around my midsection that won't go away no matter how many sit-ups and miles I achieve; I still struggle at work.

(The latest work-related debacle has been sending these notification letters to kids who have made it into our summer musical-theatre program. In Friday's snowstorm prelude, I took all 90 envelopes in a large paper shopping bag to the drop box a few blocks from my apartment. I grabbed them in bricks of letters and slid them into the slot. Halfway through, I realized that some of the envelopes didn't have the "non-profit organization postage PAID" stamp in the corner. In other words, The Children's Theatre is gonna get a lot of red-stamped envelopes on Monday or Tuesday. It's not a huge deal, it just delays the process a few days, but it's still such a simple task and my absentmindedness struck again.)

I don't think those things consciously. They're unconscious, subconscious, whatever. It's an attitude I've had for a long time, that the thing that I'm doing must be the correct thing to do, otherwise I wouldn't be doing it. That's a poor way to think. I'm trying to turn from that, too.

--

"...and then you realize you aren't fit to clean those boots."

--

That being said...

A dream is coming true in this show I'm in. My number, a rewritten version of "Rufus Rastus Johnson Brown," includes a dance break during which I can impersonate a performing hero of mine, Charlie Chaplin. The whole thing is under a minute, but hey--with the mustache, cane and waddle, I couldn't be happier.

That is something I can say about theatre, even as I consider--mind you, consider--giving it up. There are moments when I feel I am the happiest person in the world. Those moments are not to be forgotten, whichever way my life goes.

It's just that I've heard so many professional actors say something along the lines of, "If you can do anything else and love it, do that thing instead." Many of my friends have tried to do something else and found that they hated it.

I see that, I hear about it, I read about it. I acknowledge it.

But there are different strokes for everyone, you know? And a stroke (I'm thinking of boats and oars here) is a short, repetitive thing, and if you keep stroking (again, I'm thinking of boats and oars) the same way, you'll end up going in circles. Going in circles makes a person dizzy, and when a person is dizzy, he/she falls down. And even if the person doesn't fall down, they're not really going anywhere...just circles...in the middle of a lake or something...

(Is the metaphor mixed enough now? Jeez. I'm nowhere near Lewis when it comes to saying things directly.)

Okay. Here it is. I just want to see if there's something else I could do in this world and love it. It's a risk I'm finally willing to take.

--

So. What does any of this have to do with Lewis? (Aside from his language prowess and my linguistic powerlessness.)

Everyone knows that Lewis was an atheist who set out to pick Christianity apart intellectually, who in the process of investigating it with a cold eye discovered its warmth, and who converted and became one of the greatest Western apologetic writers ever. Fine. Go, Lewis.

What I guess this means in terms of my life is that people change all the time. Myself included. Lewis was in his thirties when he adopted a whole new religion. It took him for an amazing journey. Fortunately for us, he took pictures and wrote postcards. I've got four of them right here.

I'm in my twenties. My early twenties, at that. The Flaming Lips have a song in which they ask, "If it's not now then tell me when would be the time that you would stand up and be a man?" Now. In this moment. Always and always, now.

I've got a friend who has a wife and kids. He says he contemplated this very life change, but it was impossible because, well, he's a husband and father. He tells me that I'm young, I'm single, and why not try something else? It really affects no one's life but mine. He says now's the time.

Another friend is unmarried like me, struggling to find his way. He tells me that I'm young, I'm single, and why not really give myself to theatre? Move to a bigger city with a serious theatre crowd (no offense, Cincinnati). Restart the acting career. Hit the auditions. Really go for it. He says now's the time.

So I guess that means now's the time.

--

Gotta look ahead. Make things happen. What those things are, God only knows.

I think Lewis would tell me to get back in touch with the Source before picking a tributary. (Another metaphor...sigh.)

Ultimately, here's the bacon. I don't want to be like Prufrock:

And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!	75
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep … tired … or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?	80
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head [grown slightly bald] brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,	85
And in short, I was afraid.

--

Oh, and the Super Bowl's today. Go Colts!

Paperback

"I'm a-tell you baby,

We gonna move away from town...

I'm a-buy myself a Frigidaire

When I move, yeah, out on the outskirts of town.

That's why I don't want nobody--

Hoo, baby!--always hangin' around..."

-- Big Bill Broonzy, "I'm Gonna Move to the Outskirts of Town"

--

Driving north from my apartment, passed a U-Haul truck on my right. Back was open, inside were large picture frames and bed frames, lots of furniture piled and stacked like files in a cabinet, all crammed in there, immovable. There was space between where the furniture pile ended and the truck ended, and in that three feet or so was a rocking chair, and in that rocking chair--ancient, graying brown wood, straw webbing for the back--sat a girl of about twelve, wearing overalls and Skechers whose toes tapped the floor of the truck and pushed with metronomic regularity so that the girl in the rocking chair, well, rocked, but with too much weight forward (and too little total) to get that satisfying depth of rocking that old women with weak backs seem to enjoy on autumn afternoons. She looked like a much younger, backwards-turned version of Granny from "The Beverly Hillbillies." The girl read a paperback in her lap while a young boy--I assumed it was her brother--aimed the spine of a large dark-colored book (Bible? dictionary? Stephen King's The Stand?) as if it were a machine gun. She ignored him.

And this I saw in a flash as I passed, and I was driving to work.

--

My little sister visits in nine days. Gotta clean the carpet, scrub the sinks, wipe down shower and toilet, wash the extra bedsheets, fluff the extra pillows, and--latest addition to the list of preparations--buy some ground beef and Hamburger Helper (no stroganoff or lasagna, please). I'm terribly excited for her visit (he said, sounding accidentally like the heroine of an Austen novel).

--

To have found a church (maybe) and a volunteering outlet (definitely) and to start walking and running in the mornings...it's all stuff I feel like I should have done a long time ago, and it feels so completely good to be doing those things again. But it's not the doing so much as the change I feel as a result. Simple energies. Little moments.

With the early morning activity, I now have more time in the day. More productive time. Been reading a lot more (almost 100 pages, just today) for leisure, and feeling the benefits. With a full day of things done, the evenings are reserved for films. Films for leisure.

And things are just looking up in general. That's all, I guess. (Or something like that.)

Readiness

"Are you waiting for lightning,

A sign that it's time for a change?"

-- Steven Curtis Chapman, "Waiting for Lightning"

--

Some quick words before rehearsal:

Been trying to exercise daily. Like my pregnant co-worker, it's not yet showing, but I am feeling more energized on a regular basis, even though I wake up two hours earlier and do a lot more.

As a guideline, I'm following the Navy's physical regimen for candidates for the Officer Training Command. This means for my age group, I would be expected to do (each in two minutes) 71 push-ups and 87 curl-ups, and to run 1.5 miles in 10 min., 30 sec. The push-ups are going fine, and the curl-ups would be easier without this persistent gut (had it since high school), but it's the running that has been a killer. I ran around the block three times yesterday morning, and by the end my throat was so dry and my passages so full of mucus that I had to stop; all this, by the way, after having run .9 miles in 12 minutes.

Gotta do better. Been stretching before and after everything (no sense getting shin-splints in the dead of winter) and just the flexibility is reassuring. I keep remembering my junior year of college, when I was in the best shape I've ever been in, and that wonderful, exhilarating 10-minute chunk between four hours of modern dance and three hours of rehearsal. I felt like I was moving from hard labor to soft, and I want that feeling when I get ready to go to work in the morning: Great workout. Now what?

--

Got a new iPod. It's been a godsend during this whole process. So, oddly enough, has cabbage.

--

My sister is flying out here to visit me! She's leaving Omaha to spend her winter break with me in Cincy. I'm seriously excited, looking up all sorts of activities (Ballet? Theatre? Hockey?) we can do together in this city. Not only am I finding things to introduce her to, I'm also discovering more about the place where I live. If you want to learn about your environment, pretend you're about to teach someone else about it.

--

Rehearsal's approaching. Gotta learn these lines of narration. "And so Jack went back up the beanstalk..."

And so Chris goes back to work.

Okay

"No, no, no--we are Christians!"

-- a father, trying to schedule an audition for his daughter with The Children's Theatre

--

I'll try to reproduce this amazing conversation that I just had at work. The following takes place after I've been talking to a man, C., for about ten minutes about scheduling his daughter, M., for an audition this Saturday.

Note: I don't intend for this conversation to appear racist. However, I simply have to tell you that C. has a very thick accent and has trouble understanding English over the phone. Personally, I think the humor comes not from the ethnicity of the person on the other end, but because that person has clearly no idea what he is getting his daughter into.

--

Me: Sorry it took me so long to get back to you.

C: It's okay. So what does my daughter have to do for the audition?

Me: Well, there are a number of things. First, she has to perform a monologue.

C: A monologue?

Me: Yes.

C: Okay.

Me: This has to be less than two minutes long. Under two minutes.

C: Okay. Under two minutes?

Me: Yes.

C: Okay.

Me: She also has to prepare a song.

C: She sing?

Me: Yes, she's going to sing at the audition.

C: (worried) Oh...how long?

Me: About a minute.

C: Ten minutes?!

Me: No, sorry. One minute. About one minute long.

C: Okay.

Me: She needs to bring sheet music.

C: Sorry? What kind of music?

Me: The sheet music.

C: What kind of music?

Me: It's the paper that the music is written on.

C: Oh...okay.

Me: There will be an accompanist in the room with her. He will play her song while she sings.

C: Who?

Me: A piano player. That's why she needs to have the sheet music.

C: Oh...okay.

Me: He'll play the music while she sings.

C: Why does he do that?

Me: Uh...

C: She can't just sing?

Me: No, sorry, we don't allow acapella singing at auditions.

C: Who singing?

Me: She has to sing with the music.

C: Oh...okay.

Me: Okay. She may also have to dance a little bit.

C: Dance? Okay.

Me: Yes. Has she taken dance?

C: Oh...no.

Me: That's okay.

C: What has to be in the song?

Me: The song she sings?

C: Yes.

Me: She can sing about whatever she wants. Some kids come in and sing a Broadway song, and some kids come in and sing "Happy Birthday."

C: "Happy Birthday"?

Me: Yes. It's a big range.

C: What else?

Me: She also needs to have a headshot and resume.

C: Resume? What needs to be in the resume?

Me: We need contact information.

C: Okay.

Me: We also need her physical description. Eye color, hair color, height, weight, that sort of thing.

C: Okay.

Me: We also need to know what experience she has. If she's taken any classes in acting or singing, or done any performances.

C: Oh. She doesn't do that.

Me: Oh, that's okay. Has she ever done a play at school, or--

C: I will put her on the phone, okay? You tell her what she has to do at the audition, okay?

Me: O...kay.

C: (to his daughter) Here! Come here! You talk on the phone to this man.

Daughter: Hello?

Me: Hi, my name is Chris Stewart. I'm calling from The Children's Theatre. Your dad and I just scheduled an audition for you this Saturday.

D: Okay.

Me: He wanted me to tell you what you had to do in the audition.

D: Okay.

Me: First, you have to perform a monologue, and that has to be less than two minutes long.

D: (silence)

Me: So, under two minutes.

D: I don't get it.

Me: What don't you get?

D: What's a monologue?

Me: Oh, sorry. It's any time one person is talking on stage. So they could be talking to themselves, or telling a story...

D: Can it be two people?

Me: Well, that's when there's two or more people talking. A monologue means only one person is talking.

D: So...just tell a story?

Me: Well, as long as it's already written down. Like in a book, or a play. You could probably even pick a poem if it tells some kind of story. There's a lot of them on the internet, too.

D: Okay.

Me: Okay. The next thing is a song.

D: I have to sing?

Me: Yes. And you'll have to bring sheet music.

D: What music? Can I sing with a CD?

Me: No, you have to bring sheet music for our accompanist.

D: What?

Me: Our piano player. If you go into a music store and ask for the piano sheet music for your song, they should be able to help you.

D: Can it be for guitar?
Me: Maybe sometimes. But if you can find the piano music, that's best. Because our accompanist will be playing a piano.

D: Okay.

Me: And I told your dad about the headshot and resume, so that should be fine. Oh, have you ever done any dance?

D: Kinda.

Me: Okay. Well, we may ask to see some dance ability when you audition.

D: Okay.

Me: Think you can do all that for us?

D: Maybe.

Me: Okay...uh, do you know all the things you need to do?

D: Yeah.

Me: You remember everything?

D: No.

Me: Did you take notes?

D: No.

Me: You didn't? Did you write any of this down?

D: Na-ah.

Me: Oh. Okay.

D: I be fine.

Me: I'm sure you will. Well, I told your dad all of this, too. So you should be okay.

D: Okay.

Me: See you--

C: Hello?

Me: Hello, sir?

C: Okay. You told her everything she needs to know, right?

Me: I think so.

C: Okay. Where is your building?

Me: (I give him directions)

C: Okay. Is it a big building?

Me: It's...uh...medium.

C: Okay. Is it on the top floor?

Me: No, the auditions will be on the main floor. You'll probably see a lot of people around that door.

C: Yes, yes. What is it like?

Me: What does it look like?

C: Yes.

Me: It's gray. It has a tree out front. We have a signpost but there's no sign on it yet. We just moved.

C: Oh--you're not in the same building?

Me: Not the same as before.

C: This address is not the right one?

Me: No, that's the right one.

C: It isn't?

Me: (I give him directions again)

C: Okay. Good. What play will she be in?

Me: This is for our summer program.

C: When?

Me: This summer. July.

C: Oh...okay.

Me: Is that okay?

C: Yes. Okay.

Me: Okay. Well, we'll see you Saturday.

C: This Saturday, yes.

Me: Okay, then--

C: Can my son come too?

Me: You want your son to audition, too?

C: Maybe. What time?

Me: Well, it'll be a different time than your daughter's. Hers was the only slot open.

C: When can he come?

Me: How about in the afternoon.

C: Oh...okay.

Me: Okay, I have times available--

C: No. He won't like it.

Me: Oh. Okay.

C: She knows what she has to do?

Me: Yes. But I don't think she wrote it down.

C: No, she wrote nothing down.

Me: Right. Okay. Well, as long as you know what she has to do, we should be good.

C: I know?

Me: I hope so.

C: Okay.

Me: Okay.

C: Okay. Goodbye.

Me: Bye.

Visit

"Some veggies went to sea, sea, sea

To see what they could see, see, see..."

-- VeggieTales

--

Because I work part-time, and because I've logged so many overtime hours in the last two weeks, and because the finances of this place are such that overtime hours are de facto converted into extra vacation time--mandatory vacation time, even--I will be taking a few days off to make a leisurely, unconstrained-by-time visit to Hillsdale to see the Tower Dancers Concert.

I'll make a four-day weekend out of a three-day weekend.

--

Part of the reason for making the trip is to reconnect with the few college friends of mine still working on degrees there. Another is to see the Concert. But I think my biggest reason for heading back this time is to meet up with my mentoring professors, to grab meals with them, to discuss what's going on in their lives, and to ask for advice on what's going on in mine.

Italian

"If you gots the poison,

I got the remedy."

-- Jason Mraz, "The Remedy"

--

It's five o'clock on a Friday in January, I'm sitting at my desk, and I'm half-tipsy on Mission Street India Pale Ales, a sixer of which was the gift from my boss to me to celebrate our co-direction of the Black History Month show, Harriet Tubman, which had its dress rehearsal earlier today.

It's also been two weeks since my last post. Sorry about that. I've been busy.

A quick rundown:

For the first week back from the holiday break, I was doing my best to direct (notice I don't say "directing") a touring show. This meant stopping at a Pilot station halfway from Nebraska to here so I could get started on blocking, and it also meant a number of very late nights pondering entrances stage-right and exits stage-left. It also meant feeling like a fool during choreography rehearsals when the barrels were empty and the trickle ran dry, my creative juices verily sapped by hasty, wasty hours of making things up as I went along. But my boss intervened and the show was saved from mediocrity--or worse, unmitigated children's theatre failure--as she tweaked and fixed and cut and flipped entire scenes while I sat nearby, taking mental notes of all the faulty direction I had given in the preceding week. It was thrilling and humbling to watch as my boss, a woman with years of directing experience, isolated problems and pinpointed solutions with the ease of a master carpenter working a piece of wood.

All this, mind you, while I met with Navy recruiters and researched educational options in my spare time.

Remember: 2010 is going to be a big year for this squirrelly little Asian guy. The trick now is to make it big in a worthwhile way, and to refuse to be ashamed.

--

Started going to church again. It's the way I was raised and I like the person I am when I go to church and feel myself humbled before the Creator; it's as simple as that. Haven't found a "church home," as it's called in the Assemblies of God churches I knew growing up, but it's normal to bounce around a bit before settling into one's new religious digs.

The AoG service I attended (in Alexandria, KY) was disappointing and discouraging. The preacher--a tall, black-clad man with a microphone turned up way too high--snapped his fingers at the congregation twice during his sermon, saying, "Hey! Listen up! Listen to me!" He had all of the pomp and circumstance one expects from a sixth-grader leading Sunday school for the first time, and the me-me-me attitude of a third-world warlord. I will not return to that church.

This coming Sunday's destination: the AoG church in Montgomery, OH, about ten minutes from where I work.

--

Broke up with my girlfriend of 14 months, too. Had to be done.

--

One night about a week ago, I found myself convinced that I was going to enlist in the Navy and become a CTI, the military equivalent of a linguist. The prospect of learning another language on the government's dollar so inspired me that I rushed to the library and checked out a 6-CD multimedia series called "Teach Yourself Italian." In one hour, while watching a football game, I learned the numbers and days of the week. It was exhilarating! I marched around my small apartment, holding a glass of white wine with one hand, gesticulating like a Corleone with the other, practically shouting the words, "Cero, uno, due, tre..."

--

I haven't decided what I'm going to do to change my life. But I have decided that a change has to be made, and that's half the battle, I think.

Encouragement from family and skepticism from friends aside, I do know this: No one will make me the person I want to be, except for myself. Losing weight and getting into shape are not mere tricks of diet and exercise--they are rather the natural results of mentality. It's not as simple as the faith teachers say--"Think you will lose weight, and you will!"--but it is as simple as saying, I know what it takes to lose weight and get into shape; therefore, I will do those things that help me achieve those goals.

Further: I will do those things that make me the person I wish to be. I will act upon my beliefs, and I will refuse to prostitute myself to anyone, for any reason. I will retain my dignity along with my self-respect, and will strive to turn that respect outwards to my fellows and to my environment. I will live according to my ideas of virtue instead of another's idea of value.

--

Is it that simple? What will my friends think? Will I let people down if I turn from my talent towards a career with stability, higher income and the prospect of a good family future?

Along those lines, I want to say this. I feel as if some friends--not all, not many--are living vicariously through my success (if that's what you want to call it--I call it half-luck, half-settling) and will feel discouraged themselves if I stop doing what I set out two years ago to do. What I say to them is this: I'm simply trying to live my life. What I do defines not who I am. It doesn't define whether we'll be able to hang out and have a beer the next time I'm in town. But it does help to define whether I can finance my future children's education, what kind of car I'll drive in five years, and whether I'll be content or discontent with my choices down the line.

Food for thought: I'm growing tired of not having anything to show for my efforts. Today's events are indicative of old habits and life trends: For almost two years now, I've been working too long and too hard at a single project, seeing it to completion, and drinking away the reward.

No more. Something's gotta give. Something's gotta give back.

--

Like Jimmy Stewart in the holiday classic, "I've said too much." It's a half-hour later than when I started, and I've said many things I've wanted to say for days.

There's a certain nobility in taking a risk and branching out. There's a definite solace in starting over. And there's a lot of stuff you have to think about before you do any of those things. What I can promise is that I'll think it all over--a lot--before I make any real decision. I owe it to myself at this point to send out beacons and gather information; that's all I'm doing.

Pennies

"And now I'm caught in the air

It's a good life."

-- Mae, "Ready and Waiting to Fall"

Well, it's a new year.

Got the feeling, for the first time, that this year is going to be really good, special. Got a lot of changes to make, as always, and some of them are bigger than any I've ever made. That should be a frightening feeling, but instead, I feel startlingly okay.

I feel I am shedding the chip on my shoulder.

--

Parents bought a new car yesterday. Helped some poor car salesman get one sell closer to quota, I guess. It's a nice car, longer than it looks, gray outside and inside, with small behind-the-seat pockets and a concave backseat, the kind that curls your back in that firm, insistent new-car way.

We rode it to Rick's Cafe for the last meal of the year; I had the shrimp and scallops but I should have had the sirloin. Prior to the countdown, we Wii'd until 11pm, switched to old episodes of "The Beverly Hillbillies," then scanned basic cable channels for the straightforward ball-dropping ceremony. So many kissing folks after.

We toasted the future with sparkling white grape juice--this, instead of champagne. Ate green grapes, symbols of fertility and affluence. Had coins in all our pockets, promises of more to come. Returned to Wii-ing until the troops grew weary, then hit the hay.

--

Growing up, whenever we moved into a new house (and we did that a lot), my mom would take a handful of coins from the jar and walk around to each windowsill, placing a coin in each corner. I don't know if this was supposed to ward off evil spirits or financial ruin, or to invite money, or perhaps it was a sowing gesture, a planting of currency.

My mom has a lot of those superstitions. Drop a fork, a woman will visit; a knife, a man; a spoon, a child. An itchy left hand means you will receive money (left is passive), and your right means you will pay soon.

But the ones that for whatever reason make sense to me are the coin superstitions. I read somewhere that picking up pennies only brings good luck if they are heads-up, and only if you find them randomly. If you get change, any coin minted in your birth year is good luck.

--

A word about pennies: I'm not a fan. They get stuck under car mats and beneath furniture, and they fuse to carpets with gunky laziness. They are lost and discovered with little consequence, these browning copper circles. Many are mostly zinc: poser pennies. They are obsolete. Especially if they stop making them soon. 2010 will be a year in which less pennies are made. 2011 will be the last in which they are made.

But a word for pennies, too: The idea of them is beautiful, those small, forgotten bits of worth. Alone, they disappear, falling from meaning into corrosive mediocrity. In pairs, they seem fortuitous, and in large quantities they become priceless--at some magical point the setting aside of pennies turns from a habitual gesture of frugality to a conscious act of collection, of prizing, of seeing the potential of the mass, of giving to the penny more than it deserves. A penny saved, and all that; and what they won't tell you is that a penny is what you make it worth.

Years are pennies. So's this one. I want to make it worthy.