Dark

“Maleldil made us so. How could there ever be enough to eat if everyone had twenty young? And how could we endure to live and let time pass if we were always crying for one day or one year to come back—if we did not know that every day in a life fills the whole life with expectation and memory and that these are that day?”

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

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It is Dark Monday. This is the one day off I have from the show, and perfect timing for a surprise visit from a Hillsdale friend: Nick T., on his way back from a nuptial ceremony in Cleveland, crashed for the night. We have a sort of rapport that grew out of having a similar taste in professors and classes, and we’ve both graduated and live in Kentucky. Talked about movies, life after college, and how we don’t like to talk about politics at work, total discussions bringing us till about five in the morning. Spike TV on mute was full of eye candy—the usual low Girls Gone Wild and LiveLinks commercials, a nonsensically lengthy erectile dysfunction ad, and reruns of “World’s Wildest Police Videos” rife with repetitive slow-mo.

I’m counting down to my acting class in a few hours, letting my guest sleep off the long drive and long talks. Trying to focus on what it is we do next with this group of tween actresses. They’ll do their monologues today, with feedback from their peers, but the setup is for this Wednesday’s audition workshop. It sometimes amazes me how difficult it is to teach children to say their names and smile.

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Anyone who digs classical music—more specifically, pretentious variations on classical music—should check out The Wurst of P.D.Q. Bach with Professor Peter Schickele. The 2-disc album from 1986 has a lot of fun with the uppity caste of classical music, the most fun of the fun being the “Unbegun Symphony,” a seven-minute rip of famous pieces. I also like his “New Horizons in Music Appreciation Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony.”

My first real exposure to classical music occurred at age ten (maybe), when I discovered my dad’s cassette collection. He’d recorded some of his vinyl albums onto tape, including a few Mozart and Beethoven compilations. I slid them into my Talkboy (remember that silver handheld recording machine from Home Alone 2?) and listened to them as I fell asleep. For the longest time, I thought these were the complete works of Wolfgang and Ludwig, and it really wasn’t until I began to scour the Hillsdale College library that I realized just how shallow my knowledge of classical music was. I still don’t think it’s that deep—whenever I see a complete collection of works by a single composer, I feel a small twinge of fear, or intimidation. I think of music-major friends who are able to identify composer, work and movement almost instantly, and it makes me want to bow in awe.

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(the rest of this post was written at the end of the day)

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About that Talkboy: Got it as a Christmas present when I was little. Probably was the first experience I had with over-asking for something and actually getting it. Wore the thing out. Took it on a family vacation to Europe (or maybe that's where it was given to me) and spent many bored hours narrating our excursions, surely to the annoyance of anyone within earshot.

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So passes the Dark Monday.

Made it to work after the class, where only one of nine students didn't have her monologue memorized. That's the first step, I told her, because we can't work on anything if you don't remember what you're supposed to do, what you're supposed to say.

Last summer, a child in my acting class didn't have his piece memorized when it came time to perform, audition-style, for the artistic director of the theatre. He stumbled and mumbled his introduction and then twisted on his toes for a full five minutes, unable to leave the stage, unable to speak. The director and I just watched the poor kid squirm until it was clear he'd taken the point, and from that point on, we never had problems with him again.

The girl who didn't learn her monologue today sat in the folding chair, smiled blankly at me, flared her nostrils, and whispered, "Wow, this is awkward." It got a laugh, at least. The girl has natural comedic talent, but the knowledge that it comes naturally has produced in her an attitude that shies away from work. And say what you will about acting, but it's still work. Harder work than some folks realize.

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The same goes for my job, I suppose. No delusions of martyrdom, not anything like that. I guess right now is the artistic doldrums, an extended period of uninspiring, sparse work. As I was telling Nick T. today, I sometimes feel like it won't matter whether I actually go to work.

Everyone's gone from the office right now. It's quiet and dark. Instead of bemoaning that the best times in this job have passed, I need to recreate the joy. Especially if these are the first of the last days at this desk.