Another Show
The buzz around the office a little louder.
The talk of dresses, shoes, and other accoutrements of the trade.
The paper work appears a little more important.
The problems and accomplishments of the week melt in anticipation of the main event.
Plans for parties are made.
And every time, I am surprised when I walk downstairs, and see the sea of people that have shown up for the festivities.
Who are all these people?
And every time, it takes me a minute to realize that all we have poured into these few brief hours is going to be lain bare before 1000 sets of eyes and minds.
Careers are elevated.
Careers are tarnished.
And we are off and running.
Happy opening.
Friday, February 29, 2008
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
I have a terrible habit
of becoming unreachable in times of working on a show.
Sorry.
I guess it’s just a hazard of the business. I am getting better though.
For instance, the show I am currently working on does not open until Friday, and already I have made phone calls, delivered emails, paid bills, and even sat down in a favorite bubble tea place to blog, and comment.
All-in-All, an improvement to my normal modus operandi of total radio silence in the midst of a production.
But Michael, you might ask, could this dramatic change of events be related to the fact that the aforementioned production has had more free time scheduled into it than any other production here at HGO to date.
Well, yes.
But being handed time on a platter has not always, (usually doesn’t), (never has in memory) driven me to reach out and touch someone.
I find that for the first time in my life I am not surrounded by my usual group of up for anything any time kind of crowd that I usually find myself in. The “leave work, don’t want to go home, but don’t have any money, so buy a 99 cent box of hush puppies and walk around Wal-mart for the better part of 2 hours talking about everything and nothing and riding every damn children’s sized bicycle in the place”, kind of people.
Most people here want to go home at the end of the day. And watch TV. And order in.
Now, to be fair, a lot of them are married, or as good as. And there have been a few standouts, which enjoy a good adventure at the end of a very long day.
But such is not the norm.
Now I know the morale of this story, to make a concentrated and motivated effort to move outside and expand my social circle in this new hometown I have. But as was stated earlier, it has been historically difficult to do such a thing when every couple of weeks I completely disappear from all my existing social extensions.
I am getting better though.
Sorry.
I guess it’s just a hazard of the business. I am getting better though.
For instance, the show I am currently working on does not open until Friday, and already I have made phone calls, delivered emails, paid bills, and even sat down in a favorite bubble tea place to blog, and comment.
All-in-All, an improvement to my normal modus operandi of total radio silence in the midst of a production.
But Michael, you might ask, could this dramatic change of events be related to the fact that the aforementioned production has had more free time scheduled into it than any other production here at HGO to date.
Well, yes.
But being handed time on a platter has not always, (usually doesn’t), (never has in memory) driven me to reach out and touch someone.
I find that for the first time in my life I am not surrounded by my usual group of up for anything any time kind of crowd that I usually find myself in. The “leave work, don’t want to go home, but don’t have any money, so buy a 99 cent box of hush puppies and walk around Wal-mart for the better part of 2 hours talking about everything and nothing and riding every damn children’s sized bicycle in the place”, kind of people.
Most people here want to go home at the end of the day. And watch TV. And order in.
Now, to be fair, a lot of them are married, or as good as. And there have been a few standouts, which enjoy a good adventure at the end of a very long day.
But such is not the norm.
Now I know the morale of this story, to make a concentrated and motivated effort to move outside and expand my social circle in this new hometown I have. But as was stated earlier, it has been historically difficult to do such a thing when every couple of weeks I completely disappear from all my existing social extensions.
I am getting better though.
Sunday, February 17, 2008
I could use some help
I have been (on again, off again) collecting and thinking about an expressionistic idea. Not expressionism like the movement, more like the definition of; “to convey meaning by gesture, behavior, representation in art or drama, or in some other symbolic way.”
Regardless, I could use some help.
I have produced/found some 40 images that associate with the word Fall. They all follow a the relatively strict format of being black and white, high contrast, maintain a square format of about 4”, and (obviously) relate to the word Fall.
Ways in which I could use help:
1. I have no idea how to assemble these images. Collage, stand alone, suspended, mounted, applied, et cetra. Ideas for assembly would be appreciated.
2. I could always use more images. From literal to esoteric, the images range from the season of fall, to falling off a ladder, to the fall of Rome, to falling in love. Pretty broad. Additional images would be appreciated.
3. Suggestions of other more interesting interpretations of the word. I have thought of a few as was listed previously, there are many more. Additional interpretations would be appreciated.
Some might be asking what the possible purpose of this exercise will be. To be totally honest, it has none. Oscar Wilde stated that “all art is quite useless.” And when it really comes to the necessities of life and existence, he is pretty much correct.
Rather, take it as a call, both to myself and you, to flex that aesthetic muscle that seems to immediately atrophy when not in use.
That, and a constructive cure for the early stages of boredom.
Regardless, I could use some help.
I have produced/found some 40 images that associate with the word Fall. They all follow a the relatively strict format of being black and white, high contrast, maintain a square format of about 4”, and (obviously) relate to the word Fall.
Ways in which I could use help:
1. I have no idea how to assemble these images. Collage, stand alone, suspended, mounted, applied, et cetra. Ideas for assembly would be appreciated.
2. I could always use more images. From literal to esoteric, the images range from the season of fall, to falling off a ladder, to the fall of Rome, to falling in love. Pretty broad. Additional images would be appreciated.
3. Suggestions of other more interesting interpretations of the word. I have thought of a few as was listed previously, there are many more. Additional interpretations would be appreciated.
Some might be asking what the possible purpose of this exercise will be. To be totally honest, it has none. Oscar Wilde stated that “all art is quite useless.” And when it really comes to the necessities of life and existence, he is pretty much correct.
Rather, take it as a call, both to myself and you, to flex that aesthetic muscle that seems to immediately atrophy when not in use.
That, and a constructive cure for the early stages of boredom.
Saturday, February 16, 2008
Rain, Rain, Go Away
It’s raining in Houston.
When I was growing up, I loved the rain. I looked forward to the rainy days in anticipation of long coats, and puddle jumping. It was a change, a shift, in the everyday. Growing up in Southern California, rain doesn’t’ happen on the regular every year, if at all. So it’s kinda neat.
During High school, while wearing all black, raincoat flapping in the breeze, and Tool playing in the headphones, rain became an outward expression of my turbulent, darkened soul.
Or so I thought.
While still in High school, the “El Niño” happened. And it rained, always, for a very long time. Rain slowly stopped being the Emo justification I always wanted it to be, and became much more of a wet nuisance.
While in College, I came to enjoy the rain again. Southern rain, that is.
It comes in the spring. It’s warm, intense, and finite. Those were the days of the 5-minute thunderstorm; complete with lighting, thunder, and rain drops the size of small puppies. Glasses of wine, coffee, sweat tea on porches and park benches.
And of course, a resurgence of puddle jumping.
Living in Santa Fe brought the monsoon storm, at roughly 6 p.m. every day. Standing on the back deck of the opera house, amongst colleagues and friends, a cup of organic black lighting coffee in hand. The desert sky gone wild with fragments and shards of red and amber streaking the white cotton wisps. Raindrops lit from a thousand angles by a thousand colors falling on red desert sand, with an orchestra tuning up in the background, barely audible over the torrent.
It’s raining in Houston.
Things to remember about rainy days in Houston:
1. It’s takes a REALLY long time for laundry to dry in this already humid climate.
2. Nobody listens to tropical storm warnings.
3. Everyone brings up the rain in conversation while going through their rainy day, as if to justify not listening to tropical storm warnings.
4. And, people flock to the 4th largest mall in America, to avoid the rain, and carry on conversations about it.
It’s raining in Houston
When I was growing up, I loved the rain. I looked forward to the rainy days in anticipation of long coats, and puddle jumping. It was a change, a shift, in the everyday. Growing up in Southern California, rain doesn’t’ happen on the regular every year, if at all. So it’s kinda neat.
During High school, while wearing all black, raincoat flapping in the breeze, and Tool playing in the headphones, rain became an outward expression of my turbulent, darkened soul.
Or so I thought.
While still in High school, the “El Niño” happened. And it rained, always, for a very long time. Rain slowly stopped being the Emo justification I always wanted it to be, and became much more of a wet nuisance.
While in College, I came to enjoy the rain again. Southern rain, that is.
It comes in the spring. It’s warm, intense, and finite. Those were the days of the 5-minute thunderstorm; complete with lighting, thunder, and rain drops the size of small puppies. Glasses of wine, coffee, sweat tea on porches and park benches.
And of course, a resurgence of puddle jumping.
Living in Santa Fe brought the monsoon storm, at roughly 6 p.m. every day. Standing on the back deck of the opera house, amongst colleagues and friends, a cup of organic black lighting coffee in hand. The desert sky gone wild with fragments and shards of red and amber streaking the white cotton wisps. Raindrops lit from a thousand angles by a thousand colors falling on red desert sand, with an orchestra tuning up in the background, barely audible over the torrent.
It’s raining in Houston.
Things to remember about rainy days in Houston:
1. It’s takes a REALLY long time for laundry to dry in this already humid climate.
2. Nobody listens to tropical storm warnings.
3. Everyone brings up the rain in conversation while going through their rainy day, as if to justify not listening to tropical storm warnings.
4. And, people flock to the 4th largest mall in America, to avoid the rain, and carry on conversations about it.
It’s raining in Houston
Harold and Maude
Is genius.
You should go see it.
Or if you have seen it.
It’s genius, right?
I had a midnight movie date tonight with a new person from the Alley.
New social circles being forged everyday. Apparently, that’s how I role.
Today ends my time working at the Alley for a bit. I have to go back to my day job tomorrow in hopes that I can prep for the week ahead. And quite a week it shall be. Details to follow, as it unfolds.
Mostly out of curiosity, I sat in for about a half an hour on a technical rehearsal for Houston Ballet this evening. It’s odd to feel like a stranger again in a house that has become home over the past months. Different company, different people, different product, same problems.
Well, maybe not problems…
Entanglements.
I will say, it was nice to sit in that theater and not be all that concerned with what was happening onstage.
To just watch, and try to figure out what Gershwin has to do with throwing folding chairs around the stage.
I think it was meant to be ironic…
Or sad.
Either way, I’m glad it was dark. I was smiling from ear to ear.
You should go see it.
Or if you have seen it.
It’s genius, right?
I had a midnight movie date tonight with a new person from the Alley.
New social circles being forged everyday. Apparently, that’s how I role.
Today ends my time working at the Alley for a bit. I have to go back to my day job tomorrow in hopes that I can prep for the week ahead. And quite a week it shall be. Details to follow, as it unfolds.
Mostly out of curiosity, I sat in for about a half an hour on a technical rehearsal for Houston Ballet this evening. It’s odd to feel like a stranger again in a house that has become home over the past months. Different company, different people, different product, same problems.
Well, maybe not problems…
Entanglements.
I will say, it was nice to sit in that theater and not be all that concerned with what was happening onstage.
To just watch, and try to figure out what Gershwin has to do with throwing folding chairs around the stage.
I think it was meant to be ironic…
Or sad.
Either way, I’m glad it was dark. I was smiling from ear to ear.
Thursday, February 14, 2008
I'm at work
The place, not the act of.
"why" you might ask "are you sitting in your office on Tuesday night when you could be out, um, livin' it up."
Well, like so many other species that have come and gone, the internet at my house has become extinct. Additionally, I have been moonlighting at the Alley Theater, right next to the opera, for the past two days doing some good old manual labor and have not had the constant and ever present internet that I have here.
It has been really great to work outside of the opera for a couple of days. Eight hours, I do what I'm told, I hang lights where I am told to hang them, and nobody complains.
There is something inexplicably satisfying about washing your hands at the end of the day (well, lets be honest, throughout the day) and watching the sink turn gray.
It fills me with a sense that I have accomplished something, progress has been made, and it was made by me.
So often in my "day job" we work for hours and days and weeks, and see nothing at all, except for the occasional change of a number and an ever increasing stack of very important documents.
It's nice to put effort into something physical, every now and then.
I have also been working with just finished or just out of high school kids. No unions to be found. Work is asked to get done, work gets done, more work is then requested.
What a different world to the one I am sitting in right now. Not 100 feet away from a union stage where it is so easy to get jaded about every facet that goes into making a show. Increasingly so when every step is met with opposition and attitude.
But not today.
And not tomorrow.
And that's good enough for me.
"why" you might ask "are you sitting in your office on Tuesday night when you could be out, um, livin' it up."
Well, like so many other species that have come and gone, the internet at my house has become extinct. Additionally, I have been moonlighting at the Alley Theater, right next to the opera, for the past two days doing some good old manual labor and have not had the constant and ever present internet that I have here.
It has been really great to work outside of the opera for a couple of days. Eight hours, I do what I'm told, I hang lights where I am told to hang them, and nobody complains.
There is something inexplicably satisfying about washing your hands at the end of the day (well, lets be honest, throughout the day) and watching the sink turn gray.
It fills me with a sense that I have accomplished something, progress has been made, and it was made by me.
So often in my "day job" we work for hours and days and weeks, and see nothing at all, except for the occasional change of a number and an ever increasing stack of very important documents.
It's nice to put effort into something physical, every now and then.
I have also been working with just finished or just out of high school kids. No unions to be found. Work is asked to get done, work gets done, more work is then requested.
What a different world to the one I am sitting in right now. Not 100 feet away from a union stage where it is so easy to get jaded about every facet that goes into making a show. Increasingly so when every step is met with opposition and attitude.
But not today.
And not tomorrow.
And that's good enough for me.
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
I am determined
To fall asleep tonight.
But a coffee sounds really good.
I have of late, been suffering from the inability to fall asleep at a decent hour. That, compounded with the fact that all this week we have been maintaining “office” hours at work have led to a general gauzy haze around the day.
I keep thinking back to that one Palahniuk book. He discusses, with himself, the idea that when you don’t sleep, you are never really awake either. That you can’t have one without the other.
I would love to make an addendum to my pinky sworn oath. An addendum that has to do with caffeine. I wish there was a way to gently and easily let yourself down from the stuff. But I guess that just wouldn’t be the fun of the one-two combo of chemical and psychological addiction.
I guess you’re permitted at least one vice. Right?
Today contained another goodbye. In all fairness, the same goodbye as last night, different locale. And a good deal of rain and gloom to fit the theme.
It would have been great to have a cup of coffee.
But a coffee sounds really good.
I have of late, been suffering from the inability to fall asleep at a decent hour. That, compounded with the fact that all this week we have been maintaining “office” hours at work have led to a general gauzy haze around the day.
I keep thinking back to that one Palahniuk book. He discusses, with himself, the idea that when you don’t sleep, you are never really awake either. That you can’t have one without the other.
I would love to make an addendum to my pinky sworn oath. An addendum that has to do with caffeine. I wish there was a way to gently and easily let yourself down from the stuff. But I guess that just wouldn’t be the fun of the one-two combo of chemical and psychological addiction.
I guess you’re permitted at least one vice. Right?
Today contained another goodbye. In all fairness, the same goodbye as last night, different locale. And a good deal of rain and gloom to fit the theme.
It would have been great to have a cup of coffee.
Monday, February 11, 2008
It’s been 5 minutes
And I’m still looking at the blinking curser.
…
I’ve written and erased about 10 sentences in as many minutes. Some were witty. Some had lugubrious prose. Some employed unrealistic vocabulary. Some sucked. Some started very interesting story lines in my head, that ran their course, and ended with me staring at a blinking curser after a single word like “So..”, wondering what was so interesting about that particular storyline to begin with.
It’s crazy that so much can happen in a single day. Or two. (p.s. sorry about missing the post yesterday. I blame it on faulty internet connections, a.k.a. someone within a hundred yards of me figured out leaving your internet named “Linksys” and not putting a password on it is probably not a good idea).
But really, a day.
Yesterday, I did my dandiest to break routine. I drove for miles and miles, fueled by office coffee and the tunes provided me by one little ms bossy.
Miles and Miles.
Yesterday I watched Chinese New Year unfold, sipping bubble tea, with thousands of fire crackers and bottle rockets exploding and extinguishing in a cacophony of sensation that made me smile for 2 solid hours.
I found out I have summer, among other things, employment.
Today I worked, flirted, ate, drank, killed time, and said good byes.
Said Hello.
I was challenged to be a better person.
And I was reconciled for not.
World, as in wide web, a lot can happen in a day,
An hour.
A minute.
It’s been 5 minutes
And I’m still looking at this blinking curser.
…
I’ve written and erased about 10 sentences in as many minutes. Some were witty. Some had lugubrious prose. Some employed unrealistic vocabulary. Some sucked. Some started very interesting story lines in my head, that ran their course, and ended with me staring at a blinking curser after a single word like “So..”, wondering what was so interesting about that particular storyline to begin with.
It’s crazy that so much can happen in a single day. Or two. (p.s. sorry about missing the post yesterday. I blame it on faulty internet connections, a.k.a. someone within a hundred yards of me figured out leaving your internet named “Linksys” and not putting a password on it is probably not a good idea).
But really, a day.
Yesterday, I did my dandiest to break routine. I drove for miles and miles, fueled by office coffee and the tunes provided me by one little ms bossy.
Miles and Miles.
Yesterday I watched Chinese New Year unfold, sipping bubble tea, with thousands of fire crackers and bottle rockets exploding and extinguishing in a cacophony of sensation that made me smile for 2 solid hours.
I found out I have summer, among other things, employment.
Today I worked, flirted, ate, drank, killed time, and said good byes.
Said Hello.
I was challenged to be a better person.
And I was reconciled for not.
World, as in wide web, a lot can happen in a day,
An hour.
A minute.
It’s been 5 minutes
And I’m still looking at this blinking curser.
Saturday, February 09, 2008
I went to museum today
Well a couple of them.
I heart museums.
I went to this one first. It might be among my favorite spots it Houston thus far. It has never really been that populated when I’ve been there, which makes for a strong sense of ownership for the place when you are there. It’s the kind of place that you can find a new niche or perspective every time you visit.
And it’s free.
Then, after some misadventures and exploration, I ended up here. First time, and it did not disappoint. I’ve always had a love / hate relationship with Contemporary art museums. I feel like a lot of what is in them has not / will not withstand the test of time. That’s why it is called contemporary I guess. But it did have a really great assortment of stream of consciousness works. One of them continually referenced NPR, and wanted to know why there wasn’t more music being played. All in all an enjoyable, if not pretentious visit.
And it’s free.
Walking back to the car, I found and walked through this sculpture garden. I would describe the works as vaginal. Mostly because there are a lot of sculptures of vaginas.
And it’s free.
Upon completion of the walk, I entered the adjacent parking lot, where I was parked. I then realized that the overflow parking for the museums, where I was parked, is the parking lot for this Presbyterian Church. I audibly laughed when I realized that the vagina garden leads to a Presbyterian church. Or vice versa. Either way, it’s a bit funny.
And it’s free.
It really is nice to have a free day, every once in a while.
I heart museums.
I went to this one first. It might be among my favorite spots it Houston thus far. It has never really been that populated when I’ve been there, which makes for a strong sense of ownership for the place when you are there. It’s the kind of place that you can find a new niche or perspective every time you visit.
And it’s free.
Then, after some misadventures and exploration, I ended up here. First time, and it did not disappoint. I’ve always had a love / hate relationship with Contemporary art museums. I feel like a lot of what is in them has not / will not withstand the test of time. That’s why it is called contemporary I guess. But it did have a really great assortment of stream of consciousness works. One of them continually referenced NPR, and wanted to know why there wasn’t more music being played. All in all an enjoyable, if not pretentious visit.
And it’s free.
Walking back to the car, I found and walked through this sculpture garden. I would describe the works as vaginal. Mostly because there are a lot of sculptures of vaginas.
And it’s free.
Upon completion of the walk, I entered the adjacent parking lot, where I was parked. I then realized that the overflow parking for the museums, where I was parked, is the parking lot for this Presbyterian Church. I audibly laughed when I realized that the vagina garden leads to a Presbyterian church. Or vice versa. Either way, it’s a bit funny.
And it’s free.
It really is nice to have a free day, every once in a while.
I could speak to you of work
But I won’t.
I could speak to you of egos and eccentricities
But I won’t.
I could speak to you of the endless hours of an endless day
But I won’t.
I could speak of 100 clinks, from 100 glasses, at 100 tables
I could speak of meats, cheeses, and a seemingly endless array of sweets to delight the masses
But I won’t.
Instead, I will speak to you of a single quiet moment.
A moment of rest, amongst well orchestrated chaos.
I found myself wandering.
Some can make a fortune, secure a career, and live a dream at a party like this.
Some can.
I found myself wandering.
The building isn’t usually this dark. It’s like seeing it for the first time all over again. I almost forget what it looks like in the light.
I wander higher.
And higher still.
I sit on the bench I’ve sat before. I almost forget what it looks like in the light.
I sit, and I am quiet.
The endless hours of an endless day.
I am exhausted.
Egos and eccentricities.
I am at peace.
100 clinks, from 100 glasses, at 100 tables.
I am happy.
I could speak to you of egos and eccentricities
But I won’t.
I could speak to you of the endless hours of an endless day
But I won’t.
I could speak of 100 clinks, from 100 glasses, at 100 tables
I could speak of meats, cheeses, and a seemingly endless array of sweets to delight the masses
But I won’t.
Instead, I will speak to you of a single quiet moment.
A moment of rest, amongst well orchestrated chaos.
I found myself wandering.
Some can make a fortune, secure a career, and live a dream at a party like this.
Some can.
I found myself wandering.
The building isn’t usually this dark. It’s like seeing it for the first time all over again. I almost forget what it looks like in the light.
I wander higher.
And higher still.
I sit on the bench I’ve sat before. I almost forget what it looks like in the light.
I sit, and I am quiet.
The endless hours of an endless day.
I am exhausted.
Egos and eccentricities.
I am at peace.
100 clinks, from 100 glasses, at 100 tables.
I am happy.
Friday, February 08, 2008
I work, A lot
It’s the nature of what I do. My job, if you will.
I am often shocked, that others are shocked, when I explain a normal day, week, “contract”.
Yes, Contract. I know exactly when I am going to be unemployed. All the time. Every time.
So for those of you who don’t know, or wish to learn, or just want to kill some time peering into another life.
This was my day today.
7:30 – Snooze, toss, sleep
8:00 – Snooze, toss, sleep
8:30 – (begrudgingly) shower, dress, et cetera
8:55 – Arrive at work. Coffee. Notebook. Onstage.
9 to 1ish – work out the kinks of a new show. Run around. Placate.
1 to 2ish – Continue in my commitment to explore the tunnels of Houston and “enjoy” new and interesting subterranean eateries. (you can walk the entire length and breadth of Downtown if you know what turns to take!)
2 to 4:30ish – Drive to a local lighting shop to continue learning a new control console that the city is purchasing for next year. Translated, geek out unabashedly and for no particular reason with the representative of said console company (shocking right).
4:30 to 6:00 – Drive back to the opera. Coffee. Granola bar. Email. Email. Email.
6:00 to 7:30 – Work with the crew at the theater to get the show ready for tonight’s performance.
7:00 to 10:30 – Work/Watch the performance of the show. Critique. Compliment. Inquire.
10:30 to 12:30 – Go out with colleagues for beer, fried food, and venting.
12:30 to 12:45 – Walk back to the Opera. Drive home.
12:45 to 1:15 – Blog.
1:15 to … - Sleep?
Next time on “My Life”
7:30 – Snooze, toss, sleep
I am often shocked, that others are shocked, when I explain a normal day, week, “contract”.
Yes, Contract. I know exactly when I am going to be unemployed. All the time. Every time.
So for those of you who don’t know, or wish to learn, or just want to kill some time peering into another life.
This was my day today.
7:30 – Snooze, toss, sleep
8:00 – Snooze, toss, sleep
8:30 – (begrudgingly) shower, dress, et cetera
8:55 – Arrive at work. Coffee. Notebook. Onstage.
9 to 1ish – work out the kinks of a new show. Run around. Placate.
1 to 2ish – Continue in my commitment to explore the tunnels of Houston and “enjoy” new and interesting subterranean eateries. (you can walk the entire length and breadth of Downtown if you know what turns to take!)
2 to 4:30ish – Drive to a local lighting shop to continue learning a new control console that the city is purchasing for next year. Translated, geek out unabashedly and for no particular reason with the representative of said console company (shocking right).
4:30 to 6:00 – Drive back to the opera. Coffee. Granola bar. Email. Email. Email.
6:00 to 7:30 – Work with the crew at the theater to get the show ready for tonight’s performance.
7:00 to 10:30 – Work/Watch the performance of the show. Critique. Compliment. Inquire.
10:30 to 12:30 – Go out with colleagues for beer, fried food, and venting.
12:30 to 12:45 – Walk back to the Opera. Drive home.
12:45 to 1:15 – Blog.
1:15 to … - Sleep?
Next time on “My Life”
7:30 – Snooze, toss, sleep
Wednesday, February 06, 2008
You should listen to physical therapists
Because they know what they are talking about.
Really.
They do.
So once upon a time, a caliboy decided it would be fun to go roller-skating with his friends.
This same caliboy then fell.
Hard.
And it really hurt.
Then there was surgery, narcotics, and physical therapy.
The physical therapy came with all the fixings: big squishy balls, elastic straps of varying strengths, hot towels, cold packs, and a myriad of interesting electrical shocks.
Conversations go something like this…
“So, how are you feeling today?”
“Fine. I mean it hurts a bit, or whatever. Can I walk now”
“Not until the Surgeon gives the o.k.”
“Right”
“But that should be pretty soon. Things seem to be healing well”
“ya. So how long until, you know, I can run, jump, play? Basically do things other than get shocked and pull on elastic”
::chuckles nervously::
“Well running… Did you run before this happened?”
“Yup. Not for a while, but I really was looking forward to going out on the (insert job that didn’t happen), and they have lots of space and tracks to run and a couple of gym’s.”
“It’s going to take a lot more physical therapy to get this leg ready to take the kind of shock load that running exerts.”
“Oh. Like, how much longer?”
“Probably another 9-12 months.”
“Oh. Well my health insurance runs out in about a month.”
“wow…really?”
And so it goes.
I went to the gym tonight thinking I could prove him wrong. I was going to take my 3 months of physical therapy, my “perfectly-fine-and-capable-of-anything” left leg, and my thick-headed determination and I was going to run.
And it worked.
For about 5 minutes.
Up until the point that the grindy, poppy, numbing, then really painful sensation became too much to ignore.
And I walked.
I walked for an hour, out of spite.
But you can bet, come Friday I am going to rock the hell out of that elliptical machine. And I might even do the one with weird handles that move with every step.
Just to step it up a notch.
But hey, here’s to finding your limits.
Really.
They do.
So once upon a time, a caliboy decided it would be fun to go roller-skating with his friends.
This same caliboy then fell.
Hard.
And it really hurt.
Then there was surgery, narcotics, and physical therapy.
The physical therapy came with all the fixings: big squishy balls, elastic straps of varying strengths, hot towels, cold packs, and a myriad of interesting electrical shocks.
Conversations go something like this…
“So, how are you feeling today?”
“Fine. I mean it hurts a bit, or whatever. Can I walk now”
“Not until the Surgeon gives the o.k.”
“Right”
“But that should be pretty soon. Things seem to be healing well”
“ya. So how long until, you know, I can run, jump, play? Basically do things other than get shocked and pull on elastic”
::chuckles nervously::
“Well running… Did you run before this happened?”
“Yup. Not for a while, but I really was looking forward to going out on the (insert job that didn’t happen), and they have lots of space and tracks to run and a couple of gym’s.”
“It’s going to take a lot more physical therapy to get this leg ready to take the kind of shock load that running exerts.”
“Oh. Like, how much longer?”
“Probably another 9-12 months.”
“Oh. Well my health insurance runs out in about a month.”
“wow…really?”
And so it goes.
I went to the gym tonight thinking I could prove him wrong. I was going to take my 3 months of physical therapy, my “perfectly-fine-and-capable-of-anything” left leg, and my thick-headed determination and I was going to run.
And it worked.
For about 5 minutes.
Up until the point that the grindy, poppy, numbing, then really painful sensation became too much to ignore.
And I walked.
I walked for an hour, out of spite.
But you can bet, come Friday I am going to rock the hell out of that elliptical machine. And I might even do the one with weird handles that move with every step.
Just to step it up a notch.
But hey, here’s to finding your limits.
Tuesday, February 05, 2008
So I drum
A lot.
With my hands, straws, chopsticks, the elevator, the walls of the hallway I walk up and down everyday. It’s comforting, and I never seem to have a lack of rhythm, syncopation, and tempo in my head. It hit me today that I have not really played the instrument I studied/loved/lived for 10 years of my life, in many years.
No I don’t count the hallway walls as “playing”.
It was one of those things that, for a reason I can’t even remember any more, I just dropped. Monday, the usual hours of practice, the sticks held nonchalantly, my thumb toying with the layered upon calloused spots on my hands, a testament to the commitment of my technique. Lazy conversations in the pit, in the hall, on the stage, on the field, about where this career would take us, and what our end game would be.
Tuesday. Nothing.
Tools of the trade set down never to be pick up again. Calloused commitment fading to memory. Talk of money, of day-jobs, of maybe talking a few theater classes to pass the time.
And boom.
I live in Houston. I work at the Houston Grand Opera. I go to work, and draft, and plot, and talk with designers, and wear a headset, and carry a binder with lots of interesting documentation.
I talk to “the guys” about the benefits of HMI sources and L.E.D technology. I discuss the graphical, architectural, confrontational, and romantic quality of what I’m seeing on-stage, with the designer sitting next to me.
All of this world, vocabulary, and sphere of influence are, in the broad scheme, new to me. Really only 6 years old.
6 years since I existed in a very different world, vocabulary, and sphere of influence.
I went to a Percussion store today.
A privately owned place with a dozen or so practice/teaching rooms. I talked with the owner for sometime about my past, my present. And I put into words for him, for the first time, the story of how I came to be where I am. How I cam to live in Houston. How I don’t own a single stick, mallet, or drum.
He said “we should fix that!”
I said “yes we should”
With my hands, straws, chopsticks, the elevator, the walls of the hallway I walk up and down everyday. It’s comforting, and I never seem to have a lack of rhythm, syncopation, and tempo in my head. It hit me today that I have not really played the instrument I studied/loved/lived for 10 years of my life, in many years.
No I don’t count the hallway walls as “playing”.
It was one of those things that, for a reason I can’t even remember any more, I just dropped. Monday, the usual hours of practice, the sticks held nonchalantly, my thumb toying with the layered upon calloused spots on my hands, a testament to the commitment of my technique. Lazy conversations in the pit, in the hall, on the stage, on the field, about where this career would take us, and what our end game would be.
Tuesday. Nothing.
Tools of the trade set down never to be pick up again. Calloused commitment fading to memory. Talk of money, of day-jobs, of maybe talking a few theater classes to pass the time.
And boom.
I live in Houston. I work at the Houston Grand Opera. I go to work, and draft, and plot, and talk with designers, and wear a headset, and carry a binder with lots of interesting documentation.
I talk to “the guys” about the benefits of HMI sources and L.E.D technology. I discuss the graphical, architectural, confrontational, and romantic quality of what I’m seeing on-stage, with the designer sitting next to me.
All of this world, vocabulary, and sphere of influence are, in the broad scheme, new to me. Really only 6 years old.
6 years since I existed in a very different world, vocabulary, and sphere of influence.
I went to a Percussion store today.
A privately owned place with a dozen or so practice/teaching rooms. I talked with the owner for sometime about my past, my present. And I put into words for him, for the first time, the story of how I came to be where I am. How I cam to live in Houston. How I don’t own a single stick, mallet, or drum.
He said “we should fix that!”
I said “yes we should”
Monday, February 04, 2008
I wanted to be a writer
For about a minute.
When I was still looking for that one magical thing that would give my life purpose.
I don’t really like what/how I right. I feel like my writing style is predictable.
And formal.
I’ve always been a bigger fan of “intense-carelessness”. As this is a term I’ve just made up, I’ll explain.
I love it when a book, a painting, a sculpture, a home, a friend, a stranger can at first glance appear casual, calm, and collected. When the reality is professional, intense, and frantic. The appearance of one thing, and the reality of another.
I think facades are underrated.
They are what make the day to day interesting.
Words have an incredible power about them. They can cloud reality as effectively as reveal it. They can encourage as efficiently as destroy. They can create facades as quickly as they can rip them down.
A truly great writer can manipulate how, when, and why words are used to create innumerable layers of context, each one leading to a final, yet often infinite outcome. A truly great writer creates works that exist outside of time. These works become a fixed point in reality that never waivers. A lens that the masses from across the centuries approach and view their own reality through.
A truly great writer does all of this, and to read the work, you see none of it.
It appears approachable. It appears casual. It appears collected.
But all of these aforementioned attributes are just the cause. The means by which you are trapped, and pulled into worlds and thoughts not previously considered or desired, but which you now find necessary, and a part of you.
I’ve never liked my writing because the ending is always Clear. Fixed. Attainable.
I accepted a challenge, and took the legally binding oath of a pinky swear that I would increase my frequency of bloging.
I’ve never liked my writing.
When I was still looking for that one magical thing that would give my life purpose.
I don’t really like what/how I right. I feel like my writing style is predictable.
And formal.
I’ve always been a bigger fan of “intense-carelessness”. As this is a term I’ve just made up, I’ll explain.
I love it when a book, a painting, a sculpture, a home, a friend, a stranger can at first glance appear casual, calm, and collected. When the reality is professional, intense, and frantic. The appearance of one thing, and the reality of another.
I think facades are underrated.
They are what make the day to day interesting.
Words have an incredible power about them. They can cloud reality as effectively as reveal it. They can encourage as efficiently as destroy. They can create facades as quickly as they can rip them down.
A truly great writer can manipulate how, when, and why words are used to create innumerable layers of context, each one leading to a final, yet often infinite outcome. A truly great writer creates works that exist outside of time. These works become a fixed point in reality that never waivers. A lens that the masses from across the centuries approach and view their own reality through.
A truly great writer does all of this, and to read the work, you see none of it.
It appears approachable. It appears casual. It appears collected.
But all of these aforementioned attributes are just the cause. The means by which you are trapped, and pulled into worlds and thoughts not previously considered or desired, but which you now find necessary, and a part of you.
I’ve never liked my writing because the ending is always Clear. Fixed. Attainable.
I accepted a challenge, and took the legally binding oath of a pinky swear that I would increase my frequency of bloging.
I’ve never liked my writing.
I dislike matinees.
Immensely.
Always have. Even as a kid I can remember those times we went to the theater or to a film and the only thing that curbed a young boy’s excitement at the prospect of new adventures, was finding out that those adventures would be starting promptly at 2 p.m.
When I was first getting into the business of show, I learned to accept the Sunday matinee as a part of the world I was entering. The mutually agreed upon clause, established by the entertainment body, designed to appease that slice of consumers that cannot or will not venture out into the darkness to be entertained. Clear highways, cheap tickets, and early dinners are their creed.
I dislike matinees.
Theater exists in dark places.
Now don’t go off and take that to be some grandiose metaphor about evils of entertainment. Simply put, most performance spaces are dark.
Such was not always the case.
Theater used to exist in the light. The purest light of all. And it had fresh air. And conversation.
Historically speaking, it was religion that existed in the dark (again with the “not a grandiose metaphor”). Travel the world and you will find that a great many house’s of faith are dark, cold, cellars of introspection. A funny thing happens when the space around you that is illuminated gets smaller and smaller, your thoughts and musings turn inwards. It’s just the way of things. You can physically be in a cavernous space, but as the lights go down, your eyes do less interpretation of the world, and your mind does more.
A man named Wagner darkened the theater. (yes, that Wagner. And yes, a little bit of a metaphor). For the premiere of Parsifal, he commissioned and built a theater to his specifications. Among the changes, equal seating, reverting back to the Greek/early Roman model of concentric rings of seats. No boxes, no balconies. He put the orchestra under the stage for the first time. He wanted to remove the visual distractions of musicians playing.
And he made the theater dark.
No house lights.
Not one.
He wanted performance, well, his performance, to be a more religious experience. He wanted people to be affected by what they heard, and saw. The easiest way to accomplish this? Make it dark.
I dislike Matinees.
When you sit in a matinee, you never really forget that it is light outside. That 20 feet away the sun is shining.
The lighting feels different. The singing sounds different. The emotion is felt differently. The jokes are less funny. The tears fall with more rarity.
I dislike matinees
Always have. Even as a kid I can remember those times we went to the theater or to a film and the only thing that curbed a young boy’s excitement at the prospect of new adventures, was finding out that those adventures would be starting promptly at 2 p.m.
When I was first getting into the business of show, I learned to accept the Sunday matinee as a part of the world I was entering. The mutually agreed upon clause, established by the entertainment body, designed to appease that slice of consumers that cannot or will not venture out into the darkness to be entertained. Clear highways, cheap tickets, and early dinners are their creed.
I dislike matinees.
Theater exists in dark places.
Now don’t go off and take that to be some grandiose metaphor about evils of entertainment. Simply put, most performance spaces are dark.
Such was not always the case.
Theater used to exist in the light. The purest light of all. And it had fresh air. And conversation.
Historically speaking, it was religion that existed in the dark (again with the “not a grandiose metaphor”). Travel the world and you will find that a great many house’s of faith are dark, cold, cellars of introspection. A funny thing happens when the space around you that is illuminated gets smaller and smaller, your thoughts and musings turn inwards. It’s just the way of things. You can physically be in a cavernous space, but as the lights go down, your eyes do less interpretation of the world, and your mind does more.
A man named Wagner darkened the theater. (yes, that Wagner. And yes, a little bit of a metaphor). For the premiere of Parsifal, he commissioned and built a theater to his specifications. Among the changes, equal seating, reverting back to the Greek/early Roman model of concentric rings of seats. No boxes, no balconies. He put the orchestra under the stage for the first time. He wanted to remove the visual distractions of musicians playing.
And he made the theater dark.
No house lights.
Not one.
He wanted performance, well, his performance, to be a more religious experience. He wanted people to be affected by what they heard, and saw. The easiest way to accomplish this? Make it dark.
I dislike Matinees.
When you sit in a matinee, you never really forget that it is light outside. That 20 feet away the sun is shining.
The lighting feels different. The singing sounds different. The emotion is felt differently. The jokes are less funny. The tears fall with more rarity.
I dislike matinees
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