February 3, 2014

Deluge on the roof, Monteverdi on Spotify.

Drove after rehearsal to Waynesville to audition for HART’s oncoming season. The drive out there by night was less daunting than the thought of it had been. My $1000 glasses are as useless for driving as they are for everything else. The throbbing cattle-call scene in the lobby was not to my taste, but it did indicate a level of interest in the community which must have been gratifying to the theater. All shows were auditioning at once. Parts of it were well organized; parts of it weren’t. I was interested in Macbeth, but auditioned for To Kill a Mockingbird as well, as there was nothing else to do until my call. Steve was, as ever, excellent and relaxed with his auditions, but the woman who’s directing Mockingbird was almost a parody of bumbling folksy community theater amateurism. I’d have bolted from the room if having done so would have been less obvious. Though I determined in two minutes to have nothing to do with that project, I was irritated when she kept by-passing me, and I finally had to raise my hand and insist on an audition I didn’t want. The level of auditions–except for that of my old friend Leah–was very low, though there is another night of auditions tonight. It’s been a while since I’ve acted. Maybe that’s what I need. D was there, trying out for Macbeth in a fully unintelligible Scottish accent. The Macbeth superstition was so deep that one was asked not to read Macbeth, but “Mackers.”

A box of CDs went missing during the move with A and his friend on Saturday. I’m going to try to put that out of my mind. M has been wanting to send me something by mail, and though I responded, somehow he didn’t get the address, and he handed me the item before church. I thought it might be a check for the return (partial, I anticipated) on my investment in his production. I sighed with relief, as moving is very expensive. It was a thank you note. A lovely thank you note, but--