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Your Daily Digest: On Target

I feel pretty good after tonight’s Pirates rehearsal, but feeling good made me act a fool, as usual. I deflected compliments and tried to be silly and inappropriate with people who probably aren’t fans of me being inappropriate. Not flirty, just silly, but how are they to know, right?

Tim R. was very kind to Rick R. and me, helping us with the bass parts of the Act One finale with no ego whatsoever. He genuinely wants to help. I mean, it can only make us all sound better.

I want to take credit, but the fight stuff is simple enough. I can’t tell if people are just being nice, and I won’t have that.

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For what am I grateful?

She said — to her, but I heard it — “Some people would love to have to make that choice.”

Deflections followed, the necessary defense. Who would want their problems diminished? We are our problems. I am, I know.

They say you cannot prove a negative, but I am proof. I define myself by what I do not, say not, am not. Each day sears me with decisions that are not mine, but for which I am responsible.

It’s fair.

That’s life.



I burden myself with the dreams of others, hoping they will help in return, but I am not the red hen and they are always welcome at my table. The bread is gone, and I feel guilty I did not make more.

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Some strange race, wrecked

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Your Daily Digest: The Chore of Society

I had to stop at the grocery store before I came home, because we needed things like milk. As I lamented the needless contact and meandering fogginess of the people around me, I saw a new friend of whom M and I have become quite fond. We exchanged brief small talk, but then immediately learned of each other’s projects, and fell to, scouring our work for joy and meaning. She is more together than I am, of course.

She has recently made friends with a big-wig at the Rep, and she expressed his and her feelings that people seem to hate the massive theatre presence, and that they both wish there could exist better mentorship between that goliath and the smaller companies in its shadow. I had been in long talks at the Alchemist just the night before, proposing my takeover of smaller companies in order to provide guidance and a more united front for theatre arts in the city.

My heart warmed some to know that my people do exist out there. It is hard to feel alone. I passed the feeling on to a friend mired in doubt. I do want to help everyone. I will work as large as I can. Some more time for sanctuary is perhaps all I need.

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How it must seem

It’s a pretty brutal job sifting through all that darkness.


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Change is…

I see the unending, uncaring universe,
and my mind spins like a pinpoint galaxy on an angel-head axis,
so I work smaller.

I see plains on fire and bellies swollen with emptiness,
and I hand out my single sandwich and wave away the grasping hands,
so I work smaller.

I see stars and stripes as asterisks to mask screams of profanity,
and my clear voice only adds to the cacophony,
so I work smaller.

I see paints poured into sewer grates from golden pots,
and they run in to runoff, raising rainbow soap bubbles in slippery streams,
so I work smaller.

I see people cloistered so close they are closed,
and, I like them, put my nose to the grindstone, until it peels the irises off my eyes,
so I work smaller.

I see the simpletons in the seats, snickering so they know they have support,
and I point the same way and howl, my finger out as a growl,
so I work smaller.

I see my belly crack as it creaks wide, comfort claiming creases,
and I know the tears will abate for a few hours,
so I work smaller.

I see the tarnish on my silver thread
and the scrubbing only rubs it red,
so I work smaller.

I brush my teeth,
and check it off the list.

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What you want

I’m good at theatre, and I hate it. Does that mean I’m actually bad at theatre?

I’ve spent 20 years of my life learning my craft, and now that I’m capable of creating at a high level all I do is compromise. Compromise does not feel like collaboration. My choices are to become a dictator asshole director, or to simply succumb to the pressures of external egos and make lesser art. Maybe theatre, despite my protestations, IS lesser art, because it resists the auteur? And to what end? To cater to the egos of the beautiful, the charismatic, and the capitalist?

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Masochism is just self-centered sadism

Seems to me that joy is the province of the naive or the sadistic.

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Writing Prompt: I look away from…

I look away from people in the theater when they change. Is it a bar against temptation, an attempt at maintaining polite civility, or simply fear of a bad reputation?

I look away from my code at the series I’m watching so infrequently. Why have it on at all, or at least visible?

I look away from my costars onstage when the eye contact gets too intimate. I look back, but the moment’s broken. Am I afraid? I don’t think so. It’s those moments when I feel like I’m too still and thus, somehow, uninvested. I need training.

I look away from my dogs on purpose when I enter the house. This supposedly makes me their alpha. It has not worked all that well, I don’t think.

I look away from the screen where I’m writing in the vain hope that some thing on my desk will give me inspiration.

I look away from The Witcher when I play it, during the conversations. The story is engaging, but there’s not much reason to watch the automatons onscreen go through looped motion capture which belies no actual acting. It’s interesting that bad movement is everywhere.

I look away from people when I dance with them. I cannot be free in their eyes.

I look away from fights I’ve choreographed to listen to them, but I should do it more. I’m so focused on storytelling and audio, yet I don’t score my fights very well.

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Your Daily Digest: My Crowd

Programming websites, when I can make progress, satisfies my itches quite well, I find. Unless I can show some kind of flashy, remarkable animation or something, no one cares about the progress. Which is the correct response, I suppose. I shouldn’t want praise for shoveling the driveway, and that’s the equivalent of making a computer understand a logic puzzle.

I got to learn from the outstanding Marti last night about call and response and Stanislavski and basically how to let go. Guess how well I did at that, noble reader? Yes, good guess. Quite poorly. I exhibited too much control, which is not the point of exploratory work. Ah, well. At least I am aware of it.

Tonight, I get to work with Jamie on some choreography for the Fireside’s Peter Pan. I hope to be able to give him some good ideas. If not, at least I won’t embarrass myself too much. I also get to teach a shred weight experiment class tonight, for which I am poorly prepared. Too much going, as usual, to clear my head for conceptual stuff. Also, the actors have received so much meta-information that I wonder if adding more fooferah to the pile would be a great idea.

Nevertheless, living the dream as they say.

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