I approach my invisible audience guiltily, knowing I have posted nothing but health-related stuff in simply ages. The guilt goes forward and backward in time, since I am not posting anything I’ve made today, either. Sorry, chickens.
Speaking of chickens, my house backs up to a small farmer’s field (that is never sown, only endlessly plowed on days when the wind will blow all the dirt into my yard) and another property at the upper southwest corner that keeps chickens. Watching the chickens 50 yards away from me (or more, I’m not a good distance measure-er) in the evening when they suddenly emerge to strut about the field has become a highly anticipated occupation for me, while at the same time I mourn that they are too far away for me to hear them doing their chicken business. Our HOA doesn’t allow chickens, and in the spirit of how marriage is about having to fucking share and be flexible I am alone in the desire for chickens in my household. The child doesn’t count because he wouldn’t help with them anyway.
Our first play of the season opens tonight and it is just a terrible play. It’s part of a genre of play that serves only as a vehicle for the playwright to navel-gaze, and tells a story that isn’t interesting or worth telling. The cherry on top is that it features what is possibly the worst sex scene in the world in that it is directed in an unnatural, awkward and unrealistic way and set around a problem that is introduced mid-play for no real discernible reason except that should I ever meet the playwright I will be unable to make eye contact and will wonder when she shakes hands if her vagina seizes up that tightly or more tightly or what. The same amount of hard work and endless hours and thought go into a bad play as a good play, so it is kind of like running a marathon only to cross the finish line to find out that they canceled it and everyone has already gone home. Also, hiking pants are not designed for figure flattery, they are designed for function. I cannot make your actor sexy in her hiking pants, and I reached a point where, had I received one more email about it, I was going to send pictures of female Olympic snow-boarders with no words in reply.
See also: the pants are not the problem with your play, the inability of the female lead to deliver lines with any expression is the problem with your play.
Health issue wise, this has been an especially miserable few weeks. Essentially doctor-less, I have found that damp weather has a grave effect on my joints. I have also found that pain distorts my ability to respond to things and there have been two large dust-ups with my spouse that resulted in bad behavior on my part (as I told the Shrink, yes, I did ask myself if I wanted to get on this ride, and while the right answer would be no, I got on that ride and RODE THE SHIT OUT OF IT). The extra pain means I am X% more crabby, X%more angry, X% less in control of my mouth and thoughts. The timing is poor given the rotten play and a interim department chair who has, in just a month, reduced the department to clumps of people hissing angrily in tight conversations while he floats unaware in the clouds of his ivory tower. Also: there is no good time for increased pain, amirite?
The massage therapist is helping a great deal, but nothing will function as a magic bullet or completely ease anything, and degeneration is a process that doesn’t stop. The day before yesterday, wearing one of the two pair of expensive, “sensible” shoes that I currently own, I nearly fell down while teaching class. I clipped the wheel of a rolling chair and naturally my ankle chose to just fall on its side. I saved myself with the counter but elicited a couple of gasps from my students and was disappointed when my wish for instant death was not granted and I had to clumsily recover and try to pass it off as minimal. Internally, I was deeply upset—I had made the promise that I would not go forth with any sort of ankle brace unless I fell down again and while I didn’t fall all the way down, I would have had the counter not been within my grasp. So I am lying to myself and calling it “not a fall.”
I do have projects going, so there is hope of more creativity-related posts sometime soon. I am also the costume designer for our second production this semester, which will be SO much better than the first production that perhaps the sex scene wherein the thrusting is mimed in such a way that the male actor’s dick would have to be at least 24″ long will be wiped from our collective memories. One can only hope.