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

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.