Friday

Friday.

In the morning, I search your face as the sun seeks you under the overpass. And writing now, hours later, I can't recall what I'd hoped to find.

At the performance, arriving late, just as it had begun, so waiting further off on the sidewalk, while most everyone gathered in a parking lot, encircled by runners.  A beginning.  Feeling left out, ceremony.  People wearing name tags, I wondered if I should have one, too?  (And when we entered the lobby after, I did make one, though it was unnecessary.)  Instructed to move closer when the dancers/runners stopped, a story began.  New ways of thinking about the streets (what was before, and before that?  What ghosts walk alongside us?)  Wondering about the whales, was that just part of a story or are they here, waiting along the waterfront? (Someone saw whales at Deception Pass, not the southern pods, who only eat fish, these ate a mammal, perhaps a migration.)  And then we marched solemnly together through the neighborhood and into the theatre, smoke sat heavily along the floor and the performers gathered and waited on the stage.  And so it continued.  I was a witness, though I don't know what happened.

Going home after, as I got off of the first bus, a man lying on his back on the sidewalk in front of me, hands at his side, luggage three feet south of his feet.  I stopped and watched his breath, not sure if I should approach any closer. Not sure if he was alive.  He did breath, then his left hand twitched, as I continued to watch him, he rolled to his side, eventually sat up, I asked if he was all right, he nodded, I can only guess if it was in answer.  He lay back down.  A woman further down the street waved me over, asked if we should call 911, neither of us had a phone.  A bus pulled up and she told the driver, he proceeded to get off of the bus and walk over to the man, said something to him, told us he recognized the man, that he was drunk, that he would call someone.  Her bus arrived, I crossed the street to wait.  He pulled himself unsteadily to his feet, unbalanced legs wide. Sat down, pulled his luggage (a blanket in one of those plastic zipper things they come in) over to him, zipper broken.  I began to read, when I looked up again, he was gone.  Just his luggage there. I worked my eyes to the corner, he was talking to another man, then stumbled into the street, traffic coming, he made it across and wandered off into the night, I prayed any angels to spare to watch him tonight.  As my bus pulled up, I heard another man say, "oh, shit" and then the sound of piss hitting the sidewalk as I got on the bus.  No inhibition.  Sirens blare in succession the whole time I wait.

Thursday

Tuesday.  Woke up to what I thought was a hawk calling, but when I looked out my window, there was only a very vocal squirrel on the roof, tail up in alarm, talking toward a tree.  Never did see what it was focused on.  Missed class because I was feeling "dis associative?"  As if I was going to get vertigo, and I was concerned about how I would get home if I did.  Didn't get worse.  Didn't particularly get better.

Went to see a doctor on Wednesday to see if was my ear, but she couldn't reproduce the symptoms, so I don't know.  Still feeling odd, but I made it through class last night without any more problems.  Now everything hurts. Tiger balm and ibuprofen.  We have our performance tonight.  Went over everything we will be doing for that, last night.  Found myself weak in the legs by the time we got to walking backward.  Need more carbs today.  More fruit.  More water.

Haven't been able to get to the garden all week.  There was an unexpected attempt at rain yesterday, but I don't think it helped.  I hope everything survives in spite of my lack of attention.  Soon.

We'll get out early tonight, but then one more class.  Then I'll figure out what's next.

Saturday, after a Master Class

It gets very dark when it rains.  Crazy weather day.  Stomach still killing me, and barely got any sleep, but decided to roll out of bed and try to get to this master class with Peter Ksander at On the Boards.  He's a set designer.  I thought it would be really full, because the presale tickets (for the performance There There) are all sold out, and I wouldn't get in...blah, blah, blah.  Anyway, my bus was late, so I missed my transfer, and so I stayed on the bus and went with plan B because it started to pour.  (So wet out today.)  Anyway, it was raining pretty hard when I walked over.  I was the first attendee there, just the Regional Program Director sitting in the lobby when I walked in.  A few more people came in and then the weird monsoon weather hit, with hail and hard blowing rain.  Everyone else came in soaked, all of our jackets drying off across chairs along the lobby perimeter.  I think there were 12 or 13 of us altogether.  Made for a great conversation about theatre, art, space, performance, etc.  Lots of ideas and thoughts to process.  Glad I made it.

Anyway, if there is a goal for audience engagement with the work, I think in addition to thinking about how we stage work, we need to address cultivating the audience for the work as well.  And I think that needs to include creating an "in" for the audience at the performances.  Not being hostile to the audience.  Not being so confrontational that you essentially say "fuck you" to the audience because they aren't hip enough to get it.  I understand the desire for elitism.  I understand wanting to exclude, especially if you were ever an outsider, a black sheep, ostracized, etc (I've certainly been there), but you have to let people in.  To not do it (well aside from being an unhealthy way to live) is to risk being so insular you implode or become irrelevant.  This isn't something that was discussed, it's just something I think about a lot.  People complain about work being too safe, but you gotta build the audience for other types of work, so it's supported.  So it can thrive and add something to the conversation.  We need the conversation.  So, how do we make it happen?  (And I think this is especially important if you want to address the human condition-which art does, and want to affect society.  Someone needs to witness the work, and be affected by it.  Art doesn't, or shouldn't, exist in a vacuum: you need an audience.)

Doing laundry, listening to football game, and going to the show again tonight (hopefully, I can get in with my comp.)  No pictures, yet.  Am hoping my stomach will hurt a little less before I leave.  Maybe it's inflamed.  I don't know.  Just. Really. Hurts.

Tuesday evening, reading

Listening to the radio, attempting to write updates on the other neglected blogs. Afterwork, I went to MOD Pizza and read another hundred pages of David Copperfield before returning it, past due, to the library. It was almost 90 degrees but with a pleasant breeze when I left work. I was sitting on the patio area and was visited by a wasp/hornet-type creature. It really wanted my pizza. I tossed it a piece of meat in hopes of it leaving  me alone, and eventually it began to gnaw off bits of that and fly off, to return and do it again. Kinda' interesting. I generally prefer it when they don't bite me.

The sun was a warm, low-slanted glow. A tannish dog with a long face, lay on the sidewalk, tied to a bike rack, waiting to be returned to. It's mouth open in a panting smile, the hairs on it's lower jaw a bright halo in the early evening light.  Walking home, I turned to see a man chase a car and stand in traffic, oblivious to the cars around him, and then passed block party after block party, remembering it was the block party night across the city. My neighborhood never seems to do one, but I could have gone to the one near work, I got a notice about it, but I forgot, plus I didn't have anything to bring.

I was starting to get a headache by the time I left work. I drank water and beer (not the brightest choice) and I still have the headache, but because of the beer, I'm waiting to take anything for it. I suspect I'm dehydrated.  Now, I'm much more into the book, and will have to wait. (I get lost in the writing, it helps me to stop my involuntary (completely involuntary) swooning over him, whom my brain is determined to no longer be into, but apparently my heart isn't listening. The thing is, nothing will come of it, but it's not ego-based for me, whereas with a lot of the other men I meet, not all, it's more about I like that they like me. With him, I just like him. And I like that about me. So, maybe it's all about me. Shrug.)  Maybe I'll get the book again in-between quarters. The show is the weekend after Labor Day, I also have my audition for the scholarship that week. I need to write my application and work on a monologue. They say it should be something I love, but I don't know enough to really love any. I just haven't read enough, lately. I read alot of plays when I was in my early 20's, but that was awhile ago, and I'm not sure I loved any of those anyway, plus I'm older. I guess I'll look this week. I'd rather have one ready than pull something together at the last minute. Plus the application, ahhh, how will this change my life? How will this move me forward? Yeah, need to digest that one. More script work now. It's later than I thought.