April 13, 2014

Twittering of birds in the dark treetops. Palm Sunday. I face gospel-reading at three services this morning, beginning at 7:30, Matthew’s unlovely text. Then to the theater. Backstage is too giddy and tumultuous not to have an effect on the performance. Surely the din is audible in the audience. People go on stage laughing, or just having set down their cell phones. I could see the results last night. Our best crowd (loud, laugh-eager, attentive) was rewarded by what was in some ways our worst performance, lazy paraphrasing, distracted entrances, inattention, many of the actors so involved with lives off stage that they were on auto-pilot. You could see them blink into full consciousness when they realized their next line was not there. The set was set improperly and I was mid-speech in an action which involved a wastebasket, and the wastebasket wasn’t present. The one last time this afternoon is going to be a relief and a salvation. There’s a strict age separation backstage. The young people are not impolite, but their segregation from us old folks is firm and unwavering. We may break in, but we are never included in their conversation. Was it thus when I was on the other end? It wouldn’t do me good to enter their conversation, actually, for they are all fans of series of fantasy books that I never heard of, and fantasy TV shows that I’ve heard of but not followed. This seems to be their primary cultural material, and they relate incidents from them constantly. Is it just these, or are kids everywhere consuming fairies and sorcery and –apparently– nothing else? Anyway, I am weary at the hour I arose, and look a long distance to the end of the day.

Held the house last night for the late-arriving Bill Gregg. One actor from Titus Andronicus asked if I were feeling well, remembering how I dropped out of that play because of phlebitis. I said I was feeling well, but I knew my swollen leg had captured more of the audience’s attention than I wanted it to.