Wilderness

"Be still!"

-- Max in Maurice Sendak's Where the Wild Things Are

--

And there, in that simple two-word command, Max gives some great advice to wild thing and gentle reader alike. Be still. Calm yourself. Take note. Take breaths. Give yourself a moment and reflect.

Or, as Dr. Jackson summed up Eastern Christianity's devotion to meditation: Don't just do something; stand there.

Okay.

--

So I was standing there, in a multi-purpose room with gray carpet, in front of a semi-circle of about thirty sixth-graders. They held in their laps 4x5 index cards upon which, I saw, were scribbled their questions for me. I introduced myself as someone from The Children's Theatre, an actor and a workshop teacher.

They had seen Beauty and the Beast, Jr., on Tuesday of last week, the morning performance when the Beast double had been clocked in the head by a flat set piece descending from above. (The actor was dazed but okay.) Originally, the class' teacher had arranged for Jen S., my co-worker and the actress who played Belle, to come and teach this post-show workshop--more of a Q&A, really--but Jen had come down with a bad cold and so I was asked to do it. I had agreed instantly, not knowing exactly what it was I was supposed to do.

As it turned out, no one knew. These show-themed workshops are new to TCTC, the result of a recent push to boost our repertoire of theatre-based classes. Deondra, another arts integration specialist at TCTC, told me that while he believed these workshops to be a good idea, he had not yet done one himself, and he is our main workshopper: over half of his worktime hours are spent on the road and in classrooms.

So: Here I was, doing a Beauty and the Beast workshop for the first time--both for me, and for this company.

I began with calling for volunteers and having each student wear a costume piece from various characters in the show. The girl wearing the Cogsworth headpiece had trouble hearing, and so I got to talk about that. And in a group of thirty sixth-graders, only one of them was a boy; in a classic moment of typecasting, he had to put on Gaston's boots as well as his muscle suit, which made the poor kid look like a hunter drowning in a big, beige marshmallow. The brown leather boots came halfway up his thighs and made him walk like the Tin Man.

After about ten minutes of this, a true hands-on icebreaker, I sat down and opened it up for questions. That filled the rest of the hour: telling backstage anecdotes, explaining technical positions, revealing acting tips, expounding upon the majesty of live theatre. And those kids just ate it up, smiling with big eyes at every joke, nodding at every truism, giggling at all my quirks and quips.

It was the best workshop ever. For the better part of an hour, I basically rattled on about myself to a captive, star-struck audience.

--

The evening before, I killed a rabbit with a prop pitchfork.

Jen (who played Belle) and I were sent out to the parking lot to investigate an odd sighting: our boss, who had just left for home, reported seeing a bunny that "looked like it was hurt" that was "out in front of someone's car." Our boss asked us to put a box over it, as it looked like it would rain any time soon.

We found the rabbit sitting upright, staring at us, not at all the wounded bunny we had heard about. The only curious thing about the rabbit was that it didn't start and bolt away from us as we got closer and closer to it. Finally, Jen stepped within two feet of the animal and it panicked, flopped on its side, and began convulsing in running-like motions. We realized with fascination and horror that both its front legs were broken.

Inside, I updated by Facebook status (how shallow I can be sometimes) while Jen called Animal Control (or whatever the agency is called). They said a van was on its way, and so I went home to rest and eat before returning in two hours for rehearsal.

When I came back, I checked to see if it was still there, and it wasn't. So I thought the van must have come and picked the rabbit up. But then, there it was, still sprawled awkwardly on its side, about ten feet from where I had seen it last. In two hours of cold, drizzling rain, the rabbit had dragged itself ten feet before stopping where it now lied, panting, waiting to die.

After some minutes of deliberation, I decided to do what had to be done. The animal control van was clearly not coming. I asked the stage manager if there was a shovel anywhere that I could use, and the closest object we found was a prop pitchfork used in the mob scene in Beauty and the Beast (oh, if only those sixth-graders could have seen me now). Pitchfork in hand, I exited The Children's Theatre building as a line of minivans arrived in the parking lot to drop off their kids for rehearsal. I realized there was no way I could bludgeon a small, immobile, woodland animal to death with half a dozen families watching. So I walked around as if I was looking for something, pretending with all my might that I didn't have a menacing piece of farm equipment in my hands. One car waited for several minutes, and I wondered why in the world they weren't leaving, before suddenly it dawned on me: What parent in their right mind would leave their child at a place where a disturbed young man was walking around the parking lot with a pitchfork? I waved and smiled, and the parent cautiously drove away. The entire world disappeared, and now it was just me and the bunny.

I can't say it was easy. I can't say it was the right thing to do. I can't even say that it was clean and humane, or that I felt anything but dirty afterwards. What I can say is this: it was harder than I thought it would be, psychologically and physically, and I don't think I ever want to have to do it again.

As I picked the mud and fur off the pitchfork prongs (no, I didn't stab it, the fur just came off very easily), cleaning the tips with sanitizer from the storage room, some kids who were in the show came up to me, wanting to know what in the world I was doing. "Rehearsal's starting," I told them, "they're waiting specifically for you. You should go."

Only the last part of that was true.

--

Here's the irony of the whole thing, and maybe, lurking in there somewere, the moral. Literally as I walked away from the dumpster at the far end of the parking lot, trying to push the image of that damp, limp, broken bunny out of my mind, trying to think instead about the holiday show we were about to rehearse, the Animal Control van arrived. I realize only now that most of our conversation was asking each other questions.

The driver rolled down the window.

"Hi," I said, casually leaning against the pitchfork. "Are you here about the rabbit?"

"Yeah," he said, checking his clipboard. "Where is it?"

I pointed at the dumpster. "Just took care of it."

"Oh," he said, wincing sadly. "Did it die?"

"Well, it's dead now."

"I see. I'm sorry. I got stuck in traffic."

"I understand. No problem," I said, blinking in the rain. "What were you going to do?"

The driver looked at the pitchfork. "Both its back legs were broken?"

"Front legs. Would you have been able to save it?" I asked, dreading a "yes."

"Nah," he said, looking toward the dumpster. "I came out here to put it down."

"Gotcha." What a relief. Maybe he was just saying that, but I would have wanted him to lie to me anyway if the opposite were true, if there was bunny leg-repairing equipment in the back of his van. The difference between me and him, among other distinctions, is that he does this sort of thing for a living, his service consists of the removal of diseased or deceased creatures from public places, and he is paid sometimes to end animal lives; while I, on the other hand, am an actor who the next morning was supposed to talk to children about the joys of singing, dancing, and acting, who has never gone hunting, and who only twice has contributed roadkill to the sides of roads. Neither of us really operates in the sphere of "real life" as most people understand it, but only he regularly encounters real death, palpable and bizarre and haunting death.

"Sorry you had to do that. No one likes to do that."

"No problem," I said. "Sorry you had to drive all the way up here."

"Just part of the job," he said, and he rolled up the window and drove away.

Hamlet

"Ten thousand dancing girls kicking cans across the sky
No reason why
Why ask to pay yourself for the call of the wild?
You found this child
Now raise him."

-- "These Are the Fables," by The New Pornographers

--

Some Thoughts About the Staging of Hamlet:

(A play I would love to act in and perhaps, some day, direct)

A friend from an acting summer job some years ago was tagged in a Facebook album entitled, simply, “Hamlet.” The production appears legitimate--that is, professional--because the production value is high. Crisp costumes. Thought-provoking stage pictures. Bold lighting, very bold. And, though what is captured by a camera by no means bears exact resemblance to the actual happening on stage, clear acting. Clicking through the photos, I can usually tell what part of the play we’re in; for some photos, I can guess at the specific line.

So, props to the photographer. The photos make me want to see the show, which is exactly what production shots should do.

--

There's a specific photo that received no caption and as of yet no comment, probably because the captured image speaks for itself. The scene is obvious: Claudius, shaken from the play-within-the-play, is attempting to pray. Hamlet comes upon him and draws his sword, only to put it back up again. After Hamlet leaves for his mother's room, Claudius reveals that he is unable to pray earnestly.

Wonderful scene, right? It's fraught with tension, as critics like to say, and Hamlet's decision not to kill Claudius is a perfect example of dramatic irony. Tension and irony: two fantastic ingredients in any play.

But it's a puzzling scene, too, if you think about the play as a revenge tragedy (and nothing else). Until this point, there is no hard evidence that Claudius killed Hamlet's father, and so we can question Hamlet's motives until we hear Claudius incriminate himself. And at this point, Hamlet becomes more than a mere avenger. He assumes the role of judge, jury, executioner, and God. He will not just kill his uncle; he will damn him, as well.

No doubt, many college freshmen have written English essays on that very topic. The reason I mention it here is that the photos of that scene showed it to me in a way that I'd never encountered before.

The stage is dark. Claudius, praying, kneels at center stage. Behind him, we see a creepy, creeping Hamlet through a translucent veil that drops from above. Hamlet holds his blade in both hands, contemplating, but the gesture is one of offering rather than homicide. The veil is lit with golden light, so that it seems as if Hamlet has dropped here from heaven. That's the first picture.

Here's the second: Hamlet has gone, and Claudius is now behind the veil, still praying, looking upward. The lighting--the golden light that speaks of salvation, the divine right of kings, the very eye of God--has not changed. That impossible-to-stage idea of Hamlet's inclination to evil and Claudius' to goodness appears in two dynamic, beautiful stage pictures.

--

So, props to the director and lighting designer, too.

Now, why not just post the pictures and spare the two thousand words? Copyright. That lusty, lusty wench.

Another--perhaps the most obvious--indication that this production was totally legit. Wish I was in New England to see it.

Lilies

"The arts is a life of faith. It's pure faith. People preach about faith...who have no idea what faith is. But artists know. Artists are the lilies of the field that Jesus talked about in the Sermon on the Mount: Consider the lilies. Don't worry about what you're going to eat, or what you're going to wear. Consider the lilies. They toil not, and they spin not, and yet I say unto you that Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these.

The life of the artist is pure, pure faith."

-- Garrison Keillor, in a podcast of "The News from Lake Wobegon," Sept. 19, 2009

Cuff

"Every morning when the day begins,
I make up my mind but change it back again.
I'm a shifter of the shape I'm in.
Who did you think I was?"

-- John Mayer, "Who Did You Think I Was"

--

Before I go on, I have to say this: I don't listen to John Mayer. Personally, I'm not a fan of his solo stuff, so many oversimplification songs, prosaically produced. But the second section of the first disk of his live album, Where the Light Is, is fantastic. The John Mayer Trio (with Peter Palladino and Steve Jordan) lays down eight solid blues tracks, including the drippy-wonderful-slow "Out of My Mind," my favorite.

--

Been a while since I posted here, so a quick recap of the last week and a half (or so):

Hillsdale Homecoming. Came, saw, drove back through the night. Came back for a theatre alum party at George's house, after seeing Our Town performed by the Tower Players under James' direction. Wonderful show, one of the best I've ever seen at Hillsdale. And with so many mini-reunions at the after-party, it was worth the trip up. The trip down, however, was brutal. I started back at 3:15am because I had to be back for a rehearsal at 10. The first hour was fine, but in the second I felt myself drifting. With the help of an energy shot and the immediacy of an imminent sunrise, I made it back in time to get an hour-long nap before a six-hour rehearsal. Then I slept--no kidding--for sixteen hours.

Beauty and the Beast, Jr. We moved into the Taft Theatre in downtown Cincinnati and got our first look at a gorgeous and immense set. After a speedy two-day tech process, we hit the stage in front of an audience on our Friday opening. The show has only gotten better in the ensuing five performances, and today is a day off. We have morning shows all this week for school audiences and then two final public shows on Saturday.

After-school drama program. Because tech rehearsal overlapped with teaching time, I had to miss Wednesday's class, which had to be led by my assistant. We are in the play writing process, and today we must get final plot points nailed down: Why does the magic amulet destroy the Witch? Why do the cheerleader friends join the search for the kidnapped high-schooler? What exactly did you all mean when you said you wanted "spirit people" in the haunted house?

--

Been sick for about a week now. Laid up three days of last week, didn't go to work, but still went to rehearsals and performances. Never underestimate the power of rest and Vitamin C, or an actor's contract.

During that time, I had the chance to watch a bunch of movies, including Synecdoche, New York; The Queen; and The Wrestler. Enjoyed them all--though the first one is not the best choice if you're sick. It'll make you want to overdose on sleeping pills because of the depravity and absurdity of life.

--

Off the cuff, driving back from a show last night, I came up with an aphorism. A quick Google search assures me that no one else has published it online, so for the moment at least, I'll claim it as an original:

God gave you two eyes so you could see everything in perspective.

-- me

Trying

"Are these stories any good? I hope so...

I loved writing these, I know that. And I hope you like reading them, I know that, too. I hope they take you away. And as long as I remember how to do it, I'll keep at it.

And now, let me get out of your way. But before I go, I want to thank you for coming. Would I still do what I do if you didn't? Yes, indeed I would. Because it makes me happy when the words fall together and the picture comes and the make-believe people do things that delight me. But it's better with you, Constant Reader.

Always better with you."

-- from Stephen King's Introduction to Just After Sunset, his latest collection of short stories

--

I bought the book this morning, a rare purchase of reading material from a Wal-Mart. I needed something to pass the time while my car was getting its oil changed and its tires rotated.

Say what you will about Stephen King. He's one of my favorite living writers, precisely for passages like the one above. From a purely literary perspective, he's no match to McCarthy or Roth, but whatever respect I lose for him when his pop-horror duds hit the market (come on, no one read Cell, probably because of the cover illustration), I more than make up for with admiration when I read his addresses to Constant Readers.

And especially with a dynamite book like On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft, you gotta respect the guy's passion for what he does. Pretension and bestsellers aside, at least he's a pop writer who's trying.

--

Today, at a Wendy's, I waited to order. A group of teenagers in front of me kept changing their long order, so I had lots of time to get bored and do some good ol' fashioned (slightly creepy, definitely geeky) people-watching.

And listening. Behind me, an old woman and her brother (father? son? husband?) stood side by side, dressed in almost identical torn jeans and checkered shirts. It was raining heavily outside, still is, and these folks looked like they had walked through the thickest of the shit: drenched, their long gray hairs tawnied and twisted down their cheeks and across their foreheads. They had a conversation about books:

Man: "Went to the library again."
Woman: "Why?"
"Got books. What else?"
"Didn't you already?"
"Yep. Had about ten out. Now I have ten, plus some."
"Pay those fines?"
"What fines?"
"Got a notice at the house."
"Damn. How much?"
"I didn't look."
"Damn."
"What books?"
"That I got? A few I've wanted to read for a while. One of them's in Russian. Can't read it."
"Why'd you get a book you can't read?"
"It's fun."
"But you can't read it."
"Yeah, but I look at the pages and I try to read it."
"Whatever. Waste your time..."
"I imagine I know what's going on. I look for names."
"How do you know what's a name and what's just words in Russian?"
"That's what makes it fun. Trying."
"Are all of the books you got in Russian?"
"No."
"Do you actually read the ones in English?"
"Sometimes."
"Idiot."
"Hey, at least I read."
"I read."
"No you don't."

And then it was my turn to order.

Owning

"Some, out of pride, try to hide their feelings, but their clumsy assumption of bravado does not deceive their companions. Everybody knows what the matter is and keeps his thoughts to himself, out of humanity."

--Dostoevsky, in The House of the Dead

--

Driving home in the rain tonight, I came around a bend on the highway heading south. It's the last gradual curve before the insanity of downtown. Ahead, a semi merged into the rightmost lane and reflected the red and blue flashes of a cop car hidden around beneath an overpass. The red and blue melded into a sort of hot purple, a magenta, on the side of the semi's load, and I saw it through the streaks of a drizzle-dappled windshield. It wasn't anything amazing, but it was a little psychedelic.

After successive nights of unsuccessful sleep, I'm on NyQuil for the first time in years. I've been horizontal now for thirty minutes and I'm starting to feel the undertow.

--

Bad days can have good endings, and vice-versa, or there are confusing days when the good and bad alternate. The sun shines on your labor; the rain falls on your rest.

We emptied the trailer in the parking lot and it began to rain after an hour of lifting. It continued throughout the day. Unexpected camaraderie with the jaded movers was a boost, though. Something about a man grinning maniacally as he straps a pile of boxes to his back and runs down a rainy asphalt slope makes you wonder why you bothered with college.

My colleague wants to shift job responsibilities so that it lessens my paperwork load and increases the time I spend teaching workshops. I'm okay with it. I just hope this doesn't render my office time pointless...there's something for making yourself useful, of course, and because most of our costumes are still in storage, naturally I see myself unpacking for hours on end in the near future.

--

The after-school drama program at the theatre across town started yesterday afternoon. It went well--a total of seventeen kids attended, and this is the group for the next nine classes and, of course, the final show. By the end of class, we had a better idea of how to run the rest of this month's sessions.

My assistant, Allison, had them play a game in which they tell a story one person at a time, one sentence at a time. Although every story ended with the world ending and all the characters dying--clearly we need to devote some time to plot structure and creativity--the stories they came up with had a surprising amount of depth in them. I'd like to use that impulse, harness it, so that the script we use for the final show can be derived from these classroom exercises. My hope is that once they realize they have to play the characters that die sudden and un-fulfilling deaths, they will curb the killing instinct...if that makes sense.

In other words, I want to do as little writing as possible. I'd rather record what they come up with in an improv game.

--

There are plenty of ways to approach the making of theatre. At The Children's Theatre, the mainstage rehearsal process is very choreography-based, understandable since the co-directors both come from dance backgrounds. So the characters come from movement, the personalities from blocking, and all creativity in a role--the true creation of your own part--takes place within very rigid confines. And that's not necessarily a bad thing (co-workers commonly say that we don't reinvent the wheel when we do shows for kids), but it is definitely one way of doing theatre.

This other program, the after-school program, gives me an opportunity to make theatre happen in a different way. For me, it's more fun. I want to let the performers really play, to take hold of the story and tell it the way they want to and not the way I want them to--or worse, the way I would tell it. They can build it as they find it most interesting to build it, and in the end, it will have made sense to them.

Sometimes, the hardest part about learning choreography is figuring out where you stand (or sit, or lean, or hop) in the big picture, the staged image. When you come up with it yourself, it's much more involving, at least in my opinion.

We'll see. Tomorrow we'll have the second class, introduce some rules, and let them play, for goodness' sake. Ultimately, the more fun they have, the more they'll learn.

Right?

Retellings

"Ever just the same,
ever a surprise,
ever as before,
ever just as sure..."

-- "Beauty and the Beast," from the Disney movie/musical

--

Been watching the four-episode BBC series ShakespeaRe-Told. Four plays (Much Ado About Nothing, Macbeth, A Midsummer Night's Dream, and The Taming of the Shrew) were assigned to different writers, who then updated the settings, but kept true to the story, plot, and even the names of the characters. They adhered to the nuances, as well; for instance, in the Much Ado retelling, the characters are all part of a major British news network, constantly reminded that their social blunders are all painfully (and hilariously) public. Other aspects are genius little tidbits...text messages and photocopied pictures replace the usual conventions of hand-delivered letters and other evidences of love.

Macbeth takes place in an upscale restaurant kitchen in Scotland--in the tradition of Scotland, PA, to be sure--where the restaurateur (Duncan) receives all of the public acclaim while the "real" artists (Joe Macbeth is the head chef) get no mention. When Joe's wife, the head hostess, realizes that her husband will inherit the restaurant in the event of Duncan's untimely death, she seizes the opportunity and urges him to murder the owner.

I learned something new about Macbeth from this adaptation: in a simple way, it's the story of a man who thinks he can run a kingdom but who, in fact, is a soldier at heart--a follower, not a leader. James McAvoy plays Joe, the master head-chef who can't run the kitchen and restaurant all at once. The pressure of being the face of the business is what drives him mad...along with the guilt of killing his boss, of course.

All this goes to say, I found them fascinating and would recommend them to any Shakespeare fans who have been disappointed with other (more popular?) modern renditions of the plays. I just wish they had done more than four.

--

The writing of Jack and the Beanstalk continues. Lately, the issue has been tweaking the roles for the actors in the cast, and since some of the roles are still in dispute, it's even more complicated.

It was one thing when we found out a local celebrity had backed out of playing the Giant, and it was another thing when the name of Jack's cow kept changing. But those alterations were relatively quick and easy. Now that the differences between actors is coming into the mix, we find ourselves debating who should play the characters, rather than what the characters do next and why. We just have to remember that a sucky story (or a story suckily told) will offend audiences more than any ill-cast actor doing their best in a role.

You know, suspension of disbelief...and all that. There's a reason Aristotle placed his "elements of drama" in a certain order. Plot and theme trump character, any day, any play.

--

No rehearsal tonight--the last time I get that singular luxury until the penultimate week of October. (We always have Fridays and Sundays off, barring the actual weeks of production.) Then it's the hectic rearranging of schedules, quick meals, even quicker naps, backstage photos of people hugging people, clearing the wings, costume changes, light changes, scene changes, make-up touch-ups, first entrances, final bows, and so on, until the last set piece lands in the truck, the last door is locked, the last ticket is tallied, the last drinks are taken, and then...a new show, and an evening full of firsts.

It's the same story. Shows follow patterns, just as actors follow blocking.

But there's always a through-line, isn't there? All roads bend toward one. And that's the real pattern, the overarching story, a monument of moments. The retelling goes on.

(Or something like that.)

Sunshine

"You try to reach the sun, you're laughed at
It doesn't mean that we can't try
Waking up to a brand new day
The sun is shining the rain has gone away
Waking up to a brand new day
The night is gone and the sun's come out today
I can see the sun, I can see the moon, I can see the stars and sun."

-- The Sunshine Fix, "Everything is Waking"

--

It's fall and it feels like it.

The storm lasted a week and a half and the worst of it was last night. A series of shattering thunder hits popped open the window above my head when I slept. It's a flat--wide and long, sort of oblong--window, held shut by a simple catch, and in front of it is a small ledge where I keep my baseball glove. When the window popped open (it swings up on top hinges, like a flap) it knocked the glove, wrapped around an old, worn ball to keep the fingers' shape, off the ledge and onto my pillow, and I flinched out of sleep. It was like machinery outside, fearsome, powerful, storm machinery. I looked out the window and felt the pressure, cold humidity blowing into my room, saw the tree outside, and thought it had lost an entire branch. It turns out only the leaves had disappeared, and as my eyes adjusted I could see the black fingers of the tree grabbing at air. I shut the window and went back to sleep. I didn't discover that my baseball glove had fallen until the next day.

The day after a storm, I always have to check the floor under the passenger seat of my car. Water comes in from somewhere and in the worst cases forms a substantial puddle. I have to use my towels to soak it up, just to get the standing water out of there, but the moisture remains in the carpet. It smells for a week and I have to drive with the windows open and run the foot heater and sometimes at night the water evaporates and fogs up my windows.

But today, there was no puddle. The day is awash with the strongest, purest blue and green, usually the one on top of the other. That photo above, the view from the office I share, hardly does it justice, but you get the idea.

--

I'm two weeks ahead of work. Well, I was two weeks ahead about three days ago...making me only about a week and a half ahead of work. It's still good.

My after-school classes at the Covedale begin in exactly one week. We had hoped for upwards of twenty kids, but we only have about a dozen, last I heard. That may be best: smaller groups mean more progress, generally, more individualized attention and more chances to take part. My biggest question at this point is, What kind of show do we plan for?

It's not that I haven't planned already. I have created three calendars to choose from, three ways to steer the class: towards an improv show, towards an evening of scenes, towards a performance of an edited version of an existing (royalty-free) script. It's really a matter of seeing what talent already naturally exists in each child and finding the best avenue for its training and expression. Do we have singers? dancers? actors? acrobats? puppeteers?

Once I know, I can work on a script...or work on finding one...or several... In preparation, I've cleaned out the local library's supply of free plays for children, trying to figure out what works and what doesn't.

--

And did I mention I get paid on Thursday? For both part-time work at TCTC and for acting in Beauty and the Beast (essentially doubling my income, at least for a month)? Yeah.

I can't wait to have money again.

Official

The brand-spanking new and official blog for The Children's Theatre of Cincinnati just went up, with yours truly as the chief blogger...which is a made-up position...

http://thechildrenstheatre.blogspot.com/

That's all.

Distractions

"Live on the second floor now
They're trying to bust the door down
Soon I'll have a new address
So much for liberation
They'll have a celebration...
And as the clouds begin to rumble
So the juggler makes his fumble
And the sun upon my high wall is getting less."

-- Supertramp, "Just Another Nervous Wreck"

--

The unmistakable sounds of electric power drivers whizzing, spinning screws into drywall and wood, and halting with clatter from the torque, the squeak of the metal as it spirals into the tight grain of pine, the pock of wooden blocks on a concrete floor, the scratch of aluminum ladders dragged across a room, the murmur of men downstairs, hammers keeping time and losing it and regaining rhythm,--all of it makes the walls quiver, the floor tremble, the ceiling tiles shift; and my binder slides from its perch atop a printer, my stapler inches towards my laptop, and the pens and highlighters leaning in the cup rearrange themselves.

It's very distracting, and a little stressful.

With the new ArtReach tour starting tomorrow (they have an overnight after their last dress rehearsal), I feel anxious already. Is the van ready to go? Can we get the oil changed today? Got the tank filled this morning, but the actors need petty cash on the road; can we get that check? Call sheets are done, in the binder, but that (along with the van) needs to get to the rehearsal area so they can load it up; when are we going? Are they ready? Are there props that need touching up or replacing? Set pieces ready to go? Hotel reservations? Confirmation faxes? Copies made? Updated calendars printed? Insurance forms updated? Registration card updated? What about the rust on the side of the van that we said needed to be repaired last week?

Are we having that Monday meeting today? Isn't it a quarter after one already? Should I eat my lunch now? When will downstairs be finished?

--

As of last Friday, my workspace has moved once again. Still on the second floor, though--that basement still needs two weeks' worth of work. Now I share with Jay, who until I lugged in my crap had his own office, who has been gracious enough to concede half of his desk to me. With my printer against the wall, my file tray on boxes to my left, and some utensils to my right, I have a cramped but cozy zone, with just enough space for a coffee mug and my chair. Jay's a quiet, cool cat, so we can easily share a single space, but come on. Come on.

What happened to the old space, the conference room? Well, rumor has it that soon it'll be torn down, kaput. The sledgehammers make war on the walls tomorrow, I believe, and that's two doors down the hall. Good.

--

Luckily, with no rehearsal tonight, I am free come three o'clock. My friend Matt McM. is in town this week with his Disney tour, so as soon as I'm gone from here, I'll show him around the area. Kick back, throw back some beers this evening. Would walk Eden Park, but the outdoors are soaked from this weekend's storm, nature's saboteur. Maybe swing by the library, the nice one downtown.

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Two weeks until the Covedale's after-school program starts up. Gotta plan for it.

Also: The manners workshop on Friday went incredibly well. Used the Beauty and the Beast idea, which worked amazingly despite that half of the kids hadn't seen either the show or movie.

At one point, I had a handful of kiddie thespians come up to enact various scenes from the playground, the dinner table, and the classroom. I had them first play out the scene with a bully using bad manners and the other reacting poorly, then switched their roles and had them play out the same scene. The second time, they had to reach some sort of compromise, with the victim using good manners to overcome the bully's lack of bad manners. Worked like a dream.

And on top of all of that, we talked about audience etiquette, which is perfect because they are taking several field trips to see three of our main stage shows this season.

Score, and score, and score.