posts for the wobbly hearted
Wow! How did it come down to five more performances and less than a week from when we arrive home?! Thank you to all who responded to my existential theatrical post; I appreciate all the wisdom and concerrn and have thought about it as the performances persist. What a strange phenomenon though, theatre. I do love it a great deal.
Now that I have had the shock of realization that I will be leaving this place soon, I all of the sudden miss it. I love the way it looks at night, and how the clouds move so close to the ground. I love that it looks as if it has been dipped in a vat of gothic age and aura. I love the Scottish spirit and tenacity and folklore (even if the Scottish charge was only unbeatable twice...damn Romans). I love the terrain here. Though it is no Oregon, it does indeed have terrain. It is a good reminder of the land that we build on. But enough of this, I haven't left yet!
My irritation with my director has subsided. We still disagree on some interpretation, but I am not as bothered by it now. Let time heal most things.
In other news. We are still awaiting aa couple more reviews. One from Fest and another from the List. I will get ahold of those asap. I went to a show the other night called "Stories for the Wobbly Hearted" by Daniel Kitson (http://danielkitson.com/) he was brilliant. If anyone can find any books or transcripts by him, you will not be sorry; he is a beautiful story-teller.
I am getting distracted by what's going on in the bar here, so I am gonna go now. Take care everyone. I love you and miss you.
Love,
Tyler
posted by alex caffall @ 9:48 AM
1 comments
1 Comments:
Sunshine Summer 2005
Small children jump endlessly in the lobby like spawning salmon in a far too shallow stream. Their hungry parents wander in a confused state of disarray, holding shattered fragments of decomposing social security cards. A carpet lies on the floor decorated with a multitude of unknown stains from countless minor mishaps through the years.
The room temperature is highly unstable. It changes from unbearably hot, to impossibly cold with the minor shift of your head. It’s as if the thermostat has been placed in the control of an egotistical madman who generates great joy from our permanent state of shock.
In the office, there plays a constant and never ending sound track of ringing phones. With each ring come more and more hardship and pain. Just like a flooding river, the sand bags can only hold out for so long. Soon we will be drowning in the wave of soiled waste water.
With no floatation devices in site we are swept into the warehouse. A dark forbidding world ran by spider monkey on some sort of amphetamines. He rides a yellow chariot powered by propane and his own ego. With his flunky robot apprentice always in toe, he sweeps forth with a phone in one hand. The phone rings and he babbles in some sort of alien tong about the price of pennies. Lucky for us he is easily distracted so we make a run for it.
In to the mountains we flee! Sharp pointy monoliths rise out of the harden ground, and display a rainbow of imprisoned foods. A tuna fish that once swam free is now entombed in a shell of tin, only to be freed for his final doom at an unknown date. What madness.
Out of the warehouse we go. As day light shins on our pale, fearful faces it is clear this place is not for the light hearted. The walls echo the history in the layers of paint. Like rings in an old oak tree they can some how tell the stories if we are fearless enough to listion. About this time your Dad rolls in.
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