"It's a great script. It needs rewrites but basically it's a great script. I know I've told you all this before, but it's just that if I don't keep saying it I'll forget it's the truth."
-- Rita, in George F. Walker's play Beyond Mozambique
--
I think I've always been afraid of things.
The first thing I remember being afraid of was the boom of footsteps I heard in the ceiling above me. I knew that in multi-level buildings, one man's ceiling could be another man's floor, and the thought of who--or what--was walking around up there kept me awake at night. I think this was shortly after watching Jurassic Park in theatres. I imagined that if there was a clear plastic cup half-filled with water on my nightstand, that with each boom from above the water would ripple, shivering, quivering, like me wrapped in my blanket.
Until high school, I was nervous every time I had to speak to a stranger in a public place. I remember being in a McDonald's and wanting more fries. My mom gave me two dollars and told me to go to the counter and order some medium fries. I was terrified because I didn't know what would happen if two dollars wasn't enough. I told her that, and she said it was enough. I shook my head. She gave me a quarter and said that it was for the tax. This ritual repeated itself during several McDonald's meals, and every time, two dollars was enough, and I returned sheepishly with the unused quarter and random change from the two dollars.
These days, I think I'm afraid of my writing.
--
I think that's why I stick to midlength blog posts. Rarely do I have to write things for work; the two-and-a-half plays I've written recently are an exception. Sometimes I wish I was like my journalist buddies, whose blogs consist of teasers for their stories that appear on the websites of the newspapers they work for.
Blogging is self-publishing. Self-fulfilling. Vanity disguised as self-expression. One only expresses oneself because one is presumptuous. That's one way of looking at it. Another way: it is self-expression disguised as vanity. One only appears pretentious because one needs an expressive, written outlet.
--
The play I wrote for TCTC has its dress rehearsal and staff watch tomorrow morning. I'm afraid of 11:00, an hour of reckoning, a litmus test, a group of people who know me but who don't know my play. People who don't read this blog. Co-workers, some with the power to decide whether I ever write for TCTC again.
I hope they laugh, I hope they cry, I hope they lose fifteen pounds.
--
Tomorrow is a big road-trip day. I'm going to a resort south of St. Louis to meet my family for Thanksgiving. Turkey Day.
When he was little, my dad's nickname was Turkey. He never climbed into an oven, no. Apparently the name comes from a game he and I both played when we were little. My mother called it "killing your enemies," and my grandmother called it "running around making funny noises." In my version of the game, I would reenact action sequences from cartoons and movies, leaping onto couches like I was hopping the tops of city buildings, pointing a garden-hose nozzle like it was a laser gun, imagining explosions that shattered my mother's Precious Moments figurines into dust and fritzed out my father's stereo with a shower of blue electric fingers, seeing scorchmarks and bullet holes appear in the white walls of our house while masked combatants sprayed ammunition at me, and on and on.
When my dad did it, I imagine the scenarios were much of the same. The sci-fi noises coming from his throat sounded to my grandmother like the warbling gobble of a turkey. Hence: "Stop running around, you little turkey."
--
I'm not afraid of turkeys.
11.24.2009
11.23.2009
Puppies
"We talked about literature and I was in heaven--also in a sweat from the spotlight he was giving me to bask in. Every book new to me I was sure he must have annotated with his reading pen long ago, yet his interest was pointedly in hearing my thoughts, not his own... Then there were the great novelists, whose spellbinding names I chanted as I laid my cross-cultural comparisons and brand-new eclectic enthusiasms at his feet--Zuckerman, with Lonoff, discussing Kafka: I couldn't quite get it, let alone get over it."
-- Philip Roth, in The Ghost Writer
--
I killed a lot of puppies today.
UrbanDictionary.com says the phrase, "killing puppies," either refers to smoking marijuana, or to asking a stupid question or giving a repetitive/stupid answer.
What I mean by the phrase is this: in writing, to get rid of something that you think is really good. That's not to say that the process of editing and cutting your own work down is a bad thing; in most cases, it's good. If it hurts you to highlight a section and hit delete, chances are the piece is now better than it was when it had accrued the extra baggage. What many writers consider their own genius, others consider extraneous, dull, and a form of literary masturbation.
A professor or high-school teacher of mine used the phrase, and I thought it was perfect. And I've continued to use it up to the present, when I say to you in the least flowery terms I can muster:
"I killed a lot of puppies today."
--
How?
Well, the play I wrote for ArtReach was running long. I hadn't budgeted enough time for the long songs and dance numbers, and when we timed it last week, it ran 1:06, an hour and six minutes. ArtReach guarantees a one-hour show and Q&A, and in general, that means a fifty-minute play.
Sixteen minutes (0:16) had to go.
And so, down the drain went the puppies. "Away!" I cried, with fingers flying over the keys. "Away with the joke about 'forgetting the forest and seeing the trees'! Away with thin comedic bits! Away with the heartwarming final scene where the moustachioed villain gives back the bags of money! Away, away, and away you go!"
(Or something like that.)
In a creative process of any kind, and especially in theatre, I believe you have to have at least one other person telling you which ideas are full-grown, healthy, Pedigree dogs, and which are diseased, runtish, awkward puppies. Children's stories like Charlotte's Web tell you to save the runts, but with the abstract goal of creating an ideal product, the runts have to die.
(Die, die, DIE! Away and away!)
And in many rehearsals, I think, the person with the most puppies is the director. With no one but a stage manager to kill them, these puppies continue to grow until, like a rash or boil, they are too large to be ignored. In this particular case, it's the opposite. I'm the playwright. I have loaded down my play with written-in puppies. The director is the one who has been asking me if it's okay to kill them.
All of these puppies have met their Maker, who has condemned them to oblivion. Adios, perros. So be it.
--
After all the cuts, we are down to fifty-two minutes. We did it. All's fair in love, war, and the massacre of small, metaphorical mammals.
And now, it's lunchtime.
-- Philip Roth, in The Ghost Writer
--
I killed a lot of puppies today.
UrbanDictionary.com says the phrase, "killing puppies," either refers to smoking marijuana, or to asking a stupid question or giving a repetitive/stupid answer.
What I mean by the phrase is this: in writing, to get rid of something that you think is really good. That's not to say that the process of editing and cutting your own work down is a bad thing; in most cases, it's good. If it hurts you to highlight a section and hit delete, chances are the piece is now better than it was when it had accrued the extra baggage. What many writers consider their own genius, others consider extraneous, dull, and a form of literary masturbation.
A professor or high-school teacher of mine used the phrase, and I thought it was perfect. And I've continued to use it up to the present, when I say to you in the least flowery terms I can muster:
"I killed a lot of puppies today."
--
How?
Well, the play I wrote for ArtReach was running long. I hadn't budgeted enough time for the long songs and dance numbers, and when we timed it last week, it ran 1:06, an hour and six minutes. ArtReach guarantees a one-hour show and Q&A, and in general, that means a fifty-minute play.
Sixteen minutes (0:16) had to go.
And so, down the drain went the puppies. "Away!" I cried, with fingers flying over the keys. "Away with the joke about 'forgetting the forest and seeing the trees'! Away with thin comedic bits! Away with the heartwarming final scene where the moustachioed villain gives back the bags of money! Away, away, and away you go!"
(Or something like that.)
In a creative process of any kind, and especially in theatre, I believe you have to have at least one other person telling you which ideas are full-grown, healthy, Pedigree dogs, and which are diseased, runtish, awkward puppies. Children's stories like Charlotte's Web tell you to save the runts, but with the abstract goal of creating an ideal product, the runts have to die.
(Die, die, DIE! Away and away!)
And in many rehearsals, I think, the person with the most puppies is the director. With no one but a stage manager to kill them, these puppies continue to grow until, like a rash or boil, they are too large to be ignored. In this particular case, it's the opposite. I'm the playwright. I have loaded down my play with written-in puppies. The director is the one who has been asking me if it's okay to kill them.
All of these puppies have met their Maker, who has condemned them to oblivion. Adios, perros. So be it.
--
After all the cuts, we are down to fifty-two minutes. We did it. All's fair in love, war, and the massacre of small, metaphorical mammals.
And now, it's lunchtime.
11.19.2009
Trumpet
"When rehearsing a Walker play, it's useful to raise the stakes higher than you imagine they could be and to increase constantly and mercilessly the size of the obstacles to understanding and communication among the actors. The more awesome the barrier, the greater the energy released to smash it and the more complete and desperate the emotional exposure. Intensify the desperation even more by removing cool intellect, by doing everything you can to nourish an instinctive response to the moment; free-fall through the words, do the unexpected, surprise each other, never let the bodies be a safe distance apart; make them too close or too far, but never leave them safe or settled. Discover by attempt, by ceaseless, active, breathless attempt. Do a scene over and over and over and over without pause until you work yourself into a thoughtless, lucid, present-tense fever, so that understanding comes from the gut, from living with the plays where they live, trusting to their extremity, taking a leap of faith across a bottomless emotional canyon, a leap justified by experience on the other side, experience inaccessible by creeping, incremental analysis. Set a punishingly swift pace and make the progress buoyant. Otherwise, the speech becomes considered, the bodies take a nap, the emotions hide away, the bravery is no more."
-- from Stephen Haff's "The Brave Comedy of Big Emotions: An Introduction" to Shared Anxiety, a collection of plays by George F. Walker, who wrote Zastrozzi
--
That description (above) of a rehearsal process sounds like heaven.
Which would mean that the current rehearsal process qualifies as earth, purgatory or hell. Take your pick.
--
Confrontation among co-workers is never pretty. Even uglier in theatre. Because the personal(ities?) and the business intertwine in a kind of Medusa headpiece, all vipers hissing at each other when the pressure is on.
--
I have returned, as I always do, to my refuge of books. A friend from last show's cast dropped by today with his new puppy and some gifts. Among those gifts was a paperback copy of my favorite E. B. White book, The Trumpet of the Swan.
I had to read the thing in sixth grade, right between The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe and Hatchet, by Gary Paulsen. Loved it. If I get the chance, I may reread it tonight, between The Fantastic Toy Shoppe and Holiday Follies.
--
Back on track as far as the identity theft goes. Got a new driver's license and the other cards followed, and I've reverted to an older, torn wallet. New cards, old wallet. One in, one out.
My cubicle is a mess. Props for the holiday touring show have been my main assignment for the last week or so. There's a narrow trail from the entrance to my chair, and piles everywhere else. There's a pair of scissors on the floor. There are no longer scissors on my floor.
--
Have the third in a five-workshop series this evening at a local community center. Because we originally advertised that it was going to be taught by another TCTC staff teacher, who specializes in (among other things) teaching music and voice, the parents have begun to complain that they aren't getting what they paid for. Little me, in a room with six kids for an hour, and only acting exercises to show for it.
So: Today, I launch my new campaign to teach children how to sing and dance. In the remaining three classes. I feel unqualified despite qualifications--after all, my degree is in Theatre, not Music, and not Musical Theatre. I have three hours, over the next few weeks, to teach six kids at least one song, voicewise, dancewise. Nothing else for it.
Sometimes life is a test. To see how well you achieve goals beyond your grasp. To see how you perform without a script. Or how good you are at faking your own abilities.
Talk the walk.
--
In my little world of books, I can read about experimental theatre, post-apocalyptic survival, mute swans, and jungle doctors performing Frankenstein-esque operations on unsuspecting natives. It's a good little world.
Good little escape, too.
-- from Stephen Haff's "The Brave Comedy of Big Emotions: An Introduction" to Shared Anxiety, a collection of plays by George F. Walker, who wrote Zastrozzi
--
That description (above) of a rehearsal process sounds like heaven.
Which would mean that the current rehearsal process qualifies as earth, purgatory or hell. Take your pick.
--
Confrontation among co-workers is never pretty. Even uglier in theatre. Because the personal(ities?) and the business intertwine in a kind of Medusa headpiece, all vipers hissing at each other when the pressure is on.
--
I have returned, as I always do, to my refuge of books. A friend from last show's cast dropped by today with his new puppy and some gifts. Among those gifts was a paperback copy of my favorite E. B. White book, The Trumpet of the Swan.
I had to read the thing in sixth grade, right between The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe and Hatchet, by Gary Paulsen. Loved it. If I get the chance, I may reread it tonight, between The Fantastic Toy Shoppe and Holiday Follies.
--
Back on track as far as the identity theft goes. Got a new driver's license and the other cards followed, and I've reverted to an older, torn wallet. New cards, old wallet. One in, one out.
My cubicle is a mess. Props for the holiday touring show have been my main assignment for the last week or so. There's a narrow trail from the entrance to my chair, and piles everywhere else. There's a pair of scissors on the floor. There are no longer scissors on my floor.
--
Have the third in a five-workshop series this evening at a local community center. Because we originally advertised that it was going to be taught by another TCTC staff teacher, who specializes in (among other things) teaching music and voice, the parents have begun to complain that they aren't getting what they paid for. Little me, in a room with six kids for an hour, and only acting exercises to show for it.
So: Today, I launch my new campaign to teach children how to sing and dance. In the remaining three classes. I feel unqualified despite qualifications--after all, my degree is in Theatre, not Music, and not Musical Theatre. I have three hours, over the next few weeks, to teach six kids at least one song, voicewise, dancewise. Nothing else for it.
Sometimes life is a test. To see how well you achieve goals beyond your grasp. To see how you perform without a script. Or how good you are at faking your own abilities.
Talk the walk.
--
In my little world of books, I can read about experimental theatre, post-apocalyptic survival, mute swans, and jungle doctors performing Frankenstein-esque operations on unsuspecting natives. It's a good little world.
Good little escape, too.
11.12.2009
Banking
"Mr. Banker, Mister, please,
How much does money mean?
Won't you reconsider, Mister?
Won't you do this thing for me?"
-- Lynyrd Skynyrd, "Mr. Banker"
--
Opened a new account today at a regional bank. It's step #24 in my list of 3,000 things to do before I can feel secure again in my identity and finances.
My new Kentucky driver's license was a breeze to get. It's highlighter-green, and it won't expire for four years. When I'm carded and the other person can't find the birthdate, I may never again have to explain, "It's under the last A in Nebraska." Now, it's in red. At eye level. Below the other lines of red writing. Which is a harder explanation to give, but they're more used to the KY licenses around here, so it's kind of a moot point. I'm probably the only one who will have to look around the card until I find the information I want.
That's what I'm getting at: It's just a driver's license, not too different from the one I had but different enough, and as a result, it doesn't feel like mine. It feels like someone else's ID. I paid $20 for something that doesn't even belong to me.
Funny how one's self-image is affected by a piece of plastic.
--
Had a meeting about music this morning. Met with the director of the holiday touring show and the musician who wrote the score, and we went through my adapted script cue by cue, song by song, making decisions about what stayed, what had to go. It took about one minute per page, and there are 43 pages. We sat and played tracks that were recorded probably over a decade ago. I noticed a lot of flaws in the script from a structural, nuts-and-bolts point of view: cues unnoted, lyrics miswritten, and even one troubling moment where all four actors were onstage and there was no one backstage to hit Play.
I have fixed said flaws. I think.
Tomorrow is the first read-through and rehearsal, and since I'm once again in charge of finding/making props, I've got a nice little project ahead of me. My biggest and most important task is to find two puppets: a teapot and a jack-in-the-box.
I have no idea where they are.
--
My workshops have been going well. I've done the "Rough-Face Girl" workshop close to twenty times in the last two weeks, and I've got it down to a science. It's my favorite kind of workshop. We take an existing work of art--in this case, the book The Rough-Face Girl by Rafe Martin--and teach the children to duplicate it through some simple theatre exercises.
Here's how it breaks down. First, I read them the story of the Rough-Face Girl, an Algonquin Cinderella story. While I read, I ask them to act out certain moments while they remain seated. So for example, they pump their arms back and forth to simulate running. Then, we talk about the fairy tale and relate it back to the Cinderella story. (My favorite part about this discussion is when I write the name "Cinderella" on the board, and we dissect the word. The first part, "Cinder," refers to the soot that covered the girl's skin, and the "-ella" denotes beauty; quite literally, the name represents the character's journey from ugly to pretty.)
The second part of the workshop consists of the kids creating their own fairy tale using a madlib. They give three ideas for each category (good character's name, bad character's name, the setting, various verbs, a magical event, etc.) and then they vote. Once we have all the blanks filled, I read their fairy tale while they act it out, this time on their feet.
It's a huge hit (if I may say so myself). I certainly enjoy this one much more than the vague, social-conditioning workshops preferred by parochial schools in very rich or poor neighborhoods, the Bullying workshop, the Manners one, or the Self-Esteem one.
Give them something more concrete, and less vague, I say. Let's take works of art and imbue them with human life, through enacted experience. Theatre is the art that can combine all arts into itself; as such, we should use it whenever possible.
--
Especially at a time when I need the release and escape that only theatre can provide, when I need to appreciate the value of real life through the vitality of fake life, these workshops can be a godsend.
At the bank this morning, the accounts manager sat behind his desk and I saw he had silver cuff links at the ends of his sleeves. They were the size of Superbowl rings.
"Are you employed, Mr. Stewart?" he asked.
"Yes. I work at the Children's Theatre."
"Oh? And what do you do for them?"
I told him. When I had the unsettling feeling that I had talked for too long, I stopped.
"Sounds fun. And interesting." He continued typing, those silver cuff links hovering over the plastic keys (so many letters and numbers and words) like chrome-plated angels sitting silent sentry over a dark city filled with depressing, depressed buildings and towers; and I told him that at the end of a really rough day how nice it is to remember that I get paid to share my talent. He said, "That is pretty cool."
"Yes," I said. "It's pretty cool."
How much does money mean?
Won't you reconsider, Mister?
Won't you do this thing for me?"
-- Lynyrd Skynyrd, "Mr. Banker"
--
Opened a new account today at a regional bank. It's step #24 in my list of 3,000 things to do before I can feel secure again in my identity and finances.
My new Kentucky driver's license was a breeze to get. It's highlighter-green, and it won't expire for four years. When I'm carded and the other person can't find the birthdate, I may never again have to explain, "It's under the last A in Nebraska." Now, it's in red. At eye level. Below the other lines of red writing. Which is a harder explanation to give, but they're more used to the KY licenses around here, so it's kind of a moot point. I'm probably the only one who will have to look around the card until I find the information I want.
That's what I'm getting at: It's just a driver's license, not too different from the one I had but different enough, and as a result, it doesn't feel like mine. It feels like someone else's ID. I paid $20 for something that doesn't even belong to me.
Funny how one's self-image is affected by a piece of plastic.
--
Had a meeting about music this morning. Met with the director of the holiday touring show and the musician who wrote the score, and we went through my adapted script cue by cue, song by song, making decisions about what stayed, what had to go. It took about one minute per page, and there are 43 pages. We sat and played tracks that were recorded probably over a decade ago. I noticed a lot of flaws in the script from a structural, nuts-and-bolts point of view: cues unnoted, lyrics miswritten, and even one troubling moment where all four actors were onstage and there was no one backstage to hit Play.
I have fixed said flaws. I think.
Tomorrow is the first read-through and rehearsal, and since I'm once again in charge of finding/making props, I've got a nice little project ahead of me. My biggest and most important task is to find two puppets: a teapot and a jack-in-the-box.
I have no idea where they are.
--
My workshops have been going well. I've done the "Rough-Face Girl" workshop close to twenty times in the last two weeks, and I've got it down to a science. It's my favorite kind of workshop. We take an existing work of art--in this case, the book The Rough-Face Girl by Rafe Martin--and teach the children to duplicate it through some simple theatre exercises.
Here's how it breaks down. First, I read them the story of the Rough-Face Girl, an Algonquin Cinderella story. While I read, I ask them to act out certain moments while they remain seated. So for example, they pump their arms back and forth to simulate running. Then, we talk about the fairy tale and relate it back to the Cinderella story. (My favorite part about this discussion is when I write the name "Cinderella" on the board, and we dissect the word. The first part, "Cinder," refers to the soot that covered the girl's skin, and the "-ella" denotes beauty; quite literally, the name represents the character's journey from ugly to pretty.)
The second part of the workshop consists of the kids creating their own fairy tale using a madlib. They give three ideas for each category (good character's name, bad character's name, the setting, various verbs, a magical event, etc.) and then they vote. Once we have all the blanks filled, I read their fairy tale while they act it out, this time on their feet.
It's a huge hit (if I may say so myself). I certainly enjoy this one much more than the vague, social-conditioning workshops preferred by parochial schools in very rich or poor neighborhoods, the Bullying workshop, the Manners one, or the Self-Esteem one.
Give them something more concrete, and less vague, I say. Let's take works of art and imbue them with human life, through enacted experience. Theatre is the art that can combine all arts into itself; as such, we should use it whenever possible.
--
Especially at a time when I need the release and escape that only theatre can provide, when I need to appreciate the value of real life through the vitality of fake life, these workshops can be a godsend.
At the bank this morning, the accounts manager sat behind his desk and I saw he had silver cuff links at the ends of his sleeves. They were the size of Superbowl rings.
"Are you employed, Mr. Stewart?" he asked.
"Yes. I work at the Children's Theatre."
"Oh? And what do you do for them?"
I told him. When I had the unsettling feeling that I had talked for too long, I stopped.
"Sounds fun. And interesting." He continued typing, those silver cuff links hovering over the plastic keys (so many letters and numbers and words) like chrome-plated angels sitting silent sentry over a dark city filled with depressing, depressed buildings and towers; and I told him that at the end of a really rough day how nice it is to remember that I get paid to share my talent. He said, "That is pretty cool."
"Yes," I said. "It's pretty cool."
11.09.2009
Piece
"Take a look ahead
Take a look ahead
Yeah yeah yeah yeah
Woo!
Now everybody's got advice they just keep on giving
Doesn't mean too much to me
Lots of people have to make-believe they're living
Can't decide who they should be
I understand about indecision
But I don't care if I get behind
People living in competition
All I want is to have my piece of mind."
-- Boston, "Peace of Mind"
--
Just got some good news from the Kentucky DMV. The letter reached Nebraska; the DMV in Lincoln faxed over my driving record; I can have a photo ID again no later than 4:30pm, today.
It was a good phone call.
--
Getting a new driver's license is the first step on a long ladder back to Normalcy. Like so many things, you never realize how often you need a photo ID--even if only for your peace of mind--until you no longer have one. The same goes for significant others and food, I guess.
New cards are arriving in the mail every day. I used to sign my credit cards where it says "signature" on the back. Now, instead, I write: PHOTO ID REQUIRED.
The things we do for thieves.
--
Speaking of thieves: Just found out that some of my relatives have been stealing from other relatives for years. Cashing Social Security payments, forging checks, and on, and on. The great irony is that the victim in this story feels guilty for it. I suppose if some stranger steals your identity, you feel that it is a random occurrence, that it was merely a matter of time before it happened to you; but when a loved one does it, you are caught in a tempest of confusion, betrayal, guilt, and specialized, intense, focused anger. You know the person who did it. They know you, too. You are sitting in the same room, at the same table, and they have stolen your plate.
It's like humanity is all around me in a kind of cosmic luau, innocent-faced boogey-boos lined up in a chugging, dancing limbo line. One by one, my perceptions of folks are shot as more and more people demonstrate their baser selves: How low, how low, how low can you go?
--
The Covedale drama program's show this weekend went off without a hitch. I was relieved. When your budding reputation is in the hands of intrepid youngsters telling a story about haunted houses, witches, cheerleaders and magic necklaces, all you can do is dress nicely, make an awkward pre-show speech, and stand by the ghostlight backstage, smiling nervously as children panic at the prop table, tiptoe behind the black curtains, and flip furiously through their scripts to remember their cue lines.
And after, you smile as parents tell you that it was cute, that they were sure their little one had so much fun, and that you have done a good job. Cute, fun, and good job. You take what you can get.
No children ran terrified from the theatre screaming that they would never get in front of a group of people again. So basically, it was a success.
Take a look ahead
Yeah yeah yeah yeah
Woo!
Now everybody's got advice they just keep on giving
Doesn't mean too much to me
Lots of people have to make-believe they're living
Can't decide who they should be
I understand about indecision
But I don't care if I get behind
People living in competition
All I want is to have my piece of mind."
-- Boston, "Peace of Mind"
--
Just got some good news from the Kentucky DMV. The letter reached Nebraska; the DMV in Lincoln faxed over my driving record; I can have a photo ID again no later than 4:30pm, today.
It was a good phone call.
--
Getting a new driver's license is the first step on a long ladder back to Normalcy. Like so many things, you never realize how often you need a photo ID--even if only for your peace of mind--until you no longer have one. The same goes for significant others and food, I guess.
New cards are arriving in the mail every day. I used to sign my credit cards where it says "signature" on the back. Now, instead, I write: PHOTO ID REQUIRED.
The things we do for thieves.
--
Speaking of thieves: Just found out that some of my relatives have been stealing from other relatives for years. Cashing Social Security payments, forging checks, and on, and on. The great irony is that the victim in this story feels guilty for it. I suppose if some stranger steals your identity, you feel that it is a random occurrence, that it was merely a matter of time before it happened to you; but when a loved one does it, you are caught in a tempest of confusion, betrayal, guilt, and specialized, intense, focused anger. You know the person who did it. They know you, too. You are sitting in the same room, at the same table, and they have stolen your plate.
It's like humanity is all around me in a kind of cosmic luau, innocent-faced boogey-boos lined up in a chugging, dancing limbo line. One by one, my perceptions of folks are shot as more and more people demonstrate their baser selves: How low, how low, how low can you go?
--
The Covedale drama program's show this weekend went off without a hitch. I was relieved. When your budding reputation is in the hands of intrepid youngsters telling a story about haunted houses, witches, cheerleaders and magic necklaces, all you can do is dress nicely, make an awkward pre-show speech, and stand by the ghostlight backstage, smiling nervously as children panic at the prop table, tiptoe behind the black curtains, and flip furiously through their scripts to remember their cue lines.
And after, you smile as parents tell you that it was cute, that they were sure their little one had so much fun, and that you have done a good job. Cute, fun, and good job. You take what you can get.
No children ran terrified from the theatre screaming that they would never get in front of a group of people again. So basically, it was a success.
11.06.2009
Bottled
"I do the best imitation of myself."
-- Ben Folds
--
Tuesday was my sister's twentieth birthday.
That night, my workplace was robbed--while a rehearsal was going on, while a bunch of kids were singing and dancing downstairs. Robbed: three laptops (including mine), some financial documents from upstairs, my leather coat (with wallet and keys in the pockets), and my briefcase.
In the briefcase: library books, the laptop, my checkbook, my passport.
Life. It happened.
--
So I'm back to square one. I don't want to go into angsty specifics, but let's just say I've been very conscientious about speed limits for the last few days.
Until a very important piece of mail arrives, I am powerless even to obtain temporary papers for this hiatus, these absurd doldrums, in which I find myself stranded: a shipwreck survivor waiting for the message in a bottle to float in on the tide, unable to send one.
Having no form of photo ID, I feel like a no-man, a non-entity making my way through the public places of the world where people don't ask questions and don't care who you are. Sidewalks, parks, parking lots. I feel safe in my apartment, where I can brew tea and watch movies. I feel nervous leaving my car anywhere, knowing Someone has a key, has a keyless entry remote, could be cruising around with their thumb on the unlock button. Listening for that tell-tale honk. Watching for the tell-tale beacon.
Nothing like identity theft to make a person hate bureaucracy, too. My desk is covered with Post-It squares in a loose flow-chart, first This Form, then That One, before I can go to That Office and get This Card, and so on...
--
What's the point of paying for insurance that provides no assurance as well?
The insurance company is trying to weasel out of covering the personal items that were stolen. Including my ID cards. And the cost of basically everything.
I am an actor. I was at rehearsal. I was working, at my workplace. As such, I ought to be covered by my workplace's insurance. Yes?
Fuck that, apparently.
Fuck them, too.
-- Ben Folds
--
Tuesday was my sister's twentieth birthday.
That night, my workplace was robbed--while a rehearsal was going on, while a bunch of kids were singing and dancing downstairs. Robbed: three laptops (including mine), some financial documents from upstairs, my leather coat (with wallet and keys in the pockets), and my briefcase.
In the briefcase: library books, the laptop, my checkbook, my passport.
Life. It happened.
--
So I'm back to square one. I don't want to go into angsty specifics, but let's just say I've been very conscientious about speed limits for the last few days.
Until a very important piece of mail arrives, I am powerless even to obtain temporary papers for this hiatus, these absurd doldrums, in which I find myself stranded: a shipwreck survivor waiting for the message in a bottle to float in on the tide, unable to send one.
Having no form of photo ID, I feel like a no-man, a non-entity making my way through the public places of the world where people don't ask questions and don't care who you are. Sidewalks, parks, parking lots. I feel safe in my apartment, where I can brew tea and watch movies. I feel nervous leaving my car anywhere, knowing Someone has a key, has a keyless entry remote, could be cruising around with their thumb on the unlock button. Listening for that tell-tale honk. Watching for the tell-tale beacon.
Nothing like identity theft to make a person hate bureaucracy, too. My desk is covered with Post-It squares in a loose flow-chart, first This Form, then That One, before I can go to That Office and get This Card, and so on...
--
What's the point of paying for insurance that provides no assurance as well?
The insurance company is trying to weasel out of covering the personal items that were stolen. Including my ID cards. And the cost of basically everything.
I am an actor. I was at rehearsal. I was working, at my workplace. As such, I ought to be covered by my workplace's insurance. Yes?
Fuck that, apparently.
Fuck them, too.
10.30.2009
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.
-- 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.
10.26.2009
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)
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.
10.22.2009
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
The life of the artist is pure, pure faith."
-- Garrison Keillor, in a podcast of "The News from Lake Wobegon," Sept. 19, 2009
10.19.2009
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:
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
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