After Reynaldo died, he dreamed he was a cat.
Or rather, he dreamed that he had been a cat having a dream about being Reynaldo.
It was all very confusing, but when he woke up, he knew that something must change.
He knew this because the cat's dream of being Reynaldo had been so utterly and hopelessly boring. So boring, that even a housebroken calico, content to do nothing but lie in the sun while switching his tail and dozing off every few minutes had found his dream of being Reynaldo rather dull and pedestrian.
Things were making both more and less sense as Reynaldo was coming around. Someone was shining a flashlight in his eyes and asking him questions that he wasn't quite able to discern--in fact he was having a hard time piecing together more than two or three words in a row. And yet everything seemed so clear. So much clearer than they had been in a long time.
He realized that he was staring at the ceiling. He pinched and then blinked open his eyes several times before he noticed that the ceiling was moving. The white tiles and humming florescents streaked overhead just quickly enough that he had a hard time focusing on them before they left his field of view. They turned a corner and he realized that it was he, and not the ceiling overhead that was moving. He straightened the fingers of his right hand and felt the cool metal frame of the hospital gurney he was apparently being conveyed upon.
10:41 pm--Corner of Stanworth and 3rd
The Grassroots Shakepeare Company
This is one of the most exciting and challenging projects I've worked on in a long time and I'm loving it. We open this week!
Head over to The Grassroots Blog for more info!
Kindness of Strangers
So I was at the park, rehearsing with Grassroots, when I get a call from someone saying they had found my lost notebook--turns out I had left it somewhere else in the park at rehearsal the day before. (I hadn't even realized yet that it was missing)
So I'm glad I wrote my phone number in the front of my moleskine and glad that someone was kind enough to track me down. That note book is the only hard copy evidence of the last three years of my life.
Harbingers
Crickets = the official arrival of summer. The most heavenly insectoid hallelujah chorus You'll ever hear.
The Library
Sometimes I'm not sure what to do with my life, but then I come here and everything changes...
If there is any place in the world with some magic left in it, it is here.
The Lastest
My latest project:
The Grassroots Shakespeare Company
Check it out!
and
find us on facebook!
Some Things Are Worth Paying For
I believe that some of the most beautiful and worthwhile things in life cost just a little bit more. Almost always they come with a high price of personal sacrifice and hard work--but sometimes they require a selfless sacrifice from many.
As I heard about all of the tax protests earlier this week, I couldn't help but think of this girl in Ohio and all of the hard work she has put in so that she can have just a little ray of sunshine in her life.
The truth is, our tax dollars often fund the arts. And if we get all bent out of shape over paying taxes and demand cuts--the arts are often the first things to go. The one small piece of beauty in this girl's life will be the first thing to go.
So please, before we all get in a huff about things, let's stop and consider what we'll be losing as a whole, as a society and as a culture, if we allow the selfish demands of our individual pocketbooks to take control.
Watch: Ohio Serenade (come on, it's only eight minutes long)
Your thoughts?
(But please, if you care to comment, at least take the time to watch the short clip in question.)
3.27.09-2
Dolores lay quietly weeping in bed--her warm tears filled the wrinkled corners of her eyes before cascading down the sides of her face and into her thin white hair matted on the hospital pillow.
An angel had been sent to comfort her, but Dolores continued to feebly press the red call button she held tightly clutched with both hands. She was convinced that the majestically beautiful messenger at her side was yet another one of her frequent hallucinations brought on by advanced dementia.
Often, she knew when she was hallucinating and would quietly close her eyes and hum until the visions departed.
She clicked the red button again.
She was afraid of yielding to the dementia, but seeing that she was alone, she licked her dry lips and ever so softly exhaled the question:
"Why are you here?"
The angel said nothing, but smiled gently and gazed back at her with kind eyes full of understanding. She was surprised to see that the angel was beginning to weep.
"You pressed the call button?" came the reply from the foot of her bed. "What can I help you with?"
It was the nurse. Her cheeks were flushed red after being outside in the cold on her smoke break.
"Is my daughter here yet?" asked Dolores, her eyelashes still wet and glistening.
The nurse only looked puzzled and cleared her throat. Her mouth frowned.
Just after the nurse left, the angel knelt at Dolores' side and whispered something so softly and delicately in her ear that she could scarcely make it out. The tears continued to roll down the sides of her soft leather cheeks and she clutched the red call button with both hands.
