I really should be writing right now.

Well, I guess technically this is writing, but I should not be writing on a blog, I should be working on the play.

This is a problem.

It’s not done. It’s cast, but not finished. I suppose I could call it finished, in a sense; in the sense that all the scenes are written in some form, but, in another sense….

It’s not done.

Every time I read it, I find more stuff that needs to change. The problem is, I don’t really know what it needs to change into.

There is also the small problem of the utter terror that fills me every time I think about the play. I can’t stop wondering if I have made a huge mistake, that I am doing a tremendous disservice to the kids, and that I will get laughed out of the festival. I'm glad no one told me about the fear stage.

In the “stuff that rocks” column, the kids love the play, absolutely love it.

I guess maybe that matters more than the other stuff.


Maybe.

Melpomene and Thalia, take me away.

The ancient Greeks imagined a group of goddesses, the muses, whose realm was art -- they inspired the artist, the composer, the poet, and the writer. Artists throughout history have spoken of the feeling that their art was speaking through them, as if an outside force used their body, or words, or voice to birth something beyond the realm of average humdrum existence.

Art can take us beyond ourselves, or make us think in ways we never imagined, or move us to change ourselves. It holds the power to make us angry, or unspeakably sad, or beyond joyful.

Art is a hard, demanding taskmaster. There is no mercy when one is in the grasp of the muses. When the urge to create arises, everything else falls away – dirty dishes are forgotten, the television is turned off, and the creative pours forth.

I understand the Greeks a little more today. I understand the possession, and the obsession, that comes inextricable with inspiration. I understand, just a little, Michelangelo beholding a piece of marble and seeing within the image of David or the Pieta. I understand, a tiny bit, the passion that created Starry Night and Handel’s Messiah.

My mother arrives in town tomorrow to see my new house and celebrate my birthday. My house is in shambles from the past few days’ unpacking efforts, the trash is full, and the sink is overflowing. And yet, I sit here and write, because I must. The muses have taken possession of my soul, and until they release me, I must obey.

I am beyond all men most blessed.

I'm a big blockhead

As in, writer's block.

I have been pondering it for a while, and desperation has finally driven me to it.

I am writing a one-act play.

I've been trying most of the summer to pick a play for this year's competition, and I have not yet found anything I like. So, as I was mulling my failure as a play-finder in the shower earlier this week, an idea came to me, fully formed, and (hopefully) reasonably appealing and profound. Now I just have to get it on paper...or computer, as the case may be.

I'm nuts.

Mind dribble

Dang, I love Whose Line Is It Anyway. Hilarious, plus it gives me lots of ideas for auditions.

Speaking of which, my production season is officially OVER (cue angels singing). My last production was a talent show last Monday night, and it went swimmingly except for the part when the MC misread the first prize winner's name and gave it to the wrong person. Only three tie-up-loose-endy things remain: The Crucible cast has to sign the cast picture, if it ever arrives, I need to have a meeting about casting for my fall competition piece and one about course requirements to do student-directed one acts, but those should be easy enough. I thought about casting the play this spring, but that would require me to have a play picked out, and I don't. I have 23 scripts to read this summer. Not all of them are for competition though -- I have a few Neil Simon comedies to consider for December, plus I will have to help student directors pick plays next spring, so I thought I would familiarize myself with some while I have a bit of spare time this summer. Just one more of the unique challenges that come along with this whole directing-with-no-theatre-degree gig. The good news -- the drama teacher has agreed to do ALL my tech next year, so I don't have to worry about building sets, costumes, etc. I have no tech skills. If it were up to me everything would be on a blank stage with actors in all black. I love me some performance art, but I am not sure Rustburg is quite ready for my brand of abstract theatre.

I am almost finished planting for the summer too -- I have 2 pepper plants and some lettuce left to plant, and them I am all done, I think. I managed it all with the pots I moved from the old house, I only have to buy one more long planter, and I have some tomatoes in a Babylon bag. I am a bit scared for them though, the thing already fell once. That's why I put some in pots too. My patio looks like a crazy plant lady lives here, which is pretty accurate.
Speaking of plants -- I have irises! I saw a few the other day, and then when I walked around my house I saw a gazillion in one of the side beds. I can't wait for the roses to start blooming. I have teeny blueberries on the teeny blueberry bush, and I think I am going to plant a cherry tree up where my pine fell in February. Old McErin has a farm apparently, right in the middle of the 'burg.

We have 23 school days left, which is just unreal. I am super close to lots of kids graduating this year, and I am going to cry like a little girl at graduation. My drama program is really going to suffer next year after all the kids we are losing. I am excited about summer though -- maybe I will actually get unpacked. And maybe rested.

I promise pictures of the flowers and baby plants are forthcoming, I have to mow first, the grass is up to my eyeballs right now, and I would hate for the flash to scare the bugs.

I bet Faulkner, with all his stream-of-consciousness yumminess, would have loved blogs.

Pulling into the station.

You know that feeling at the end of a roller coaster when you pull into the little fake station, and as much as you would love to ride again, you are thankful for the breather? Even if you go get in line again immediately, at some point you have to get off and go home, or else you will never get the tangles out of your hair.

Last night was closing night of The Crucible, and I am sad to see it end. I will miss the kids so much, even though I will still see them at school it is not the same as spending 3 hours after school every day I will also miss the creativity, and the pressure, and the challenge.

I am excited about getting my life back, although I feel silly about it. I am looking forward to having clean clothes to wear, and picking paint colors, and exploring all the new flowers in my yard. Believe it or not, I am actually looking forward to unpacking.

Plus, I have lots of scripts to read. Gotta get a jump on next year.

Now I remember.

Last night I sat in the back of our auditorium and remembered why all the headaches and craziness of the past 3 months have been worth it.

It was amazing. My faith in the magic of the theatre has been restored.

Rude awakening of the day

We open in TWO WEEKS.

Don't expect to hear much from me until April.

We're walkin' on sunshine, wa-oh!

Disclaimer: this will be a really rambly post with lots of random disconnected junk. Prepare your brains.

Tuesday was the worst Crucible practice in the long and distinguished history of Crucible practices. It's not worth going into details of what went wrong, but once everyone left, I sat on the stage and cried and pondered whether I wanted to continue, and then went home and contemplated how bad school would be the next day if I had a hangover. I decided pretty bad, so those two hard lemonades stayed in the fridge. Yes, if I drank two hard lemonades in one night I would have a hangover the next day. Stop laughing.

Wednesday we had what is popularly known among my kids as a "Come to Jesus" meeting. I talked. they listened, or at least did a great job of acting like they were listening. I cried again. I used every scrap of skill in dramatic timing I have ever had. Apparently it worked, because Wednesday was the best rehearsal we have had so far. So good that in the last five minutes of practice, I played Walking On Sunshine by Katrina and the Waves on my tiny ipod speakers and we danced around on stage like crazy people. There is very little in the world as amusing as a bunch of drama nerds trying to dance. There is very little in the world as wonderful as being one of them.

I have not made much headway in unpacking, mostly because more and more, I don't want to. I like not having all that stuff, and I wish I could make a list of the stuff I really want (like my good shoes that I have not seen since moving day), make it magically appear, and then haul the rest of the stuff away. I know unpacking is a necessary evil, but for now it can wait until after the play is done, and maybe until after the prom. It's not going to hurt anyone for my stuff to stay in boxes for another month or two.

I miss my friends. One of my theatre kidssays that theatre buys souls, and he is right. Even though I love it, and no matter how all-consuming it may be I could never give it up, it is hard to sacrifice everything else. I read blogs and say hi in church, but it's not enough, and I miss them.

Twenty-fours more days until I can have my soul back, however temporary that may be.

The quality of mercy is not strain'd

It droppeth, as the gentle rain...

Those are literally the only two lines of memorized text from high school that I remember. There was a Shakespeare competition that my English teacher threw me into, and I memorized Portia's monologue from The Merchant of Venice, and screwed it up royally, because I suck at memorizing. It seems pretty appropriate at the moment though, since I have decided to show some mercy tomorrow.

Off-book day is the most dreaded day by most actors; the day when lines must be memorized, and thus the day it is most likely your director will yell at you. Tomorrow is off-book day for the Crucible, and I can already hear the wailing and gnashing of teeth.

But I have decided that since we are only practicing two days next week because of my move, I am going to delay off-book day by a week.

It's fun to be the nice guy.

Happy

Yesterday I stood on the stage and watched the activity around me; the kids working on the set, cutting boards and piecing together a table for the Proctors' kitchen, the girls sitting on the edge of the stage in earnest conversation, one home from college and come to visit, the other in the last half of her senior year and facing an unknown future, the group who discovered the wonder of playing under the platforms and dancing to the music playing from the tiny speakers attached to my ipod. Sarah Brightman was singing What a Wonderful World, and I had a rare moment with no one calling my name asking for keys to the bathroom or if they could use my phone or where some random item should go.
I spend most of my life searching, wondering, and striving, after happiness, or satisfaction, or just feeling like I fit somewhere, and most of that effort is pretty fruitless. But in that tiny moment, I was struck by an idea that overwhelmed me, and I had to suppress the urge to weep. In that tiny moment, I was so happy I could barely contain it, and I realized that all the unhappiness and dissatisfaction in my life pales in comparison, and all the work, and lost time and sleep are worth it in light of those moments of magic on stage.