Oh, What A Beautiful Mornin'

I've been trying to blog this for ages, and it just hasn't been working out. I can't leave my thoughts on musical unspoken, but there's simply no way to explain it to you.

If you've never been on a stage, you can't possibly comprehend the feeling that wells up inside you in the seconds before you go on. A reverential hush settles over the murmuring audience. The lights go up. You step out into the glorious warmth of the spots. That's what you can see-- but how to explain the rush of joy, the adrenaline, the heart-beating-out-of-your-chest feeling as you take that first step? It can't be done. There isn't a metaphor to do it justice. What about the swell of pride that erupts in your heart as you take that final bow? If it's never happened to you, you can't possibly understand. And if you've been on stage, there's no need for me to explain it to you. You know exactly what I'm talking about.

I don't know how to explain the bond I formed with a person who doesn't even exist. I feel bad for people who don't do theatre-- they only ever get to live one life. Theatre nerds get to slip into someone else's life over and over again, experience things they would never get the chance to otherwise. However, when you spend the majority of your free time in someone else's skin, it takes effort to peal away and become yourself full time again. I swear I'm not schizo, but I can't bring myself to say goodbye to Laurey Williams. As disgustingly cliche as the words are coming out, she's a part of me now, and I'll be keeping her strength, her determination, and her "come hither" looks in reserve for whenever I should need them.

Perhaps the most inexplicable thing is the profound connection you make with inanimate objects. A ribbon in your hair. The "Elixir of Egypt" that's actually a bottle of candy from the dollar store. The set. Oh goodness, the set. They tore down Aunt Eller's house last week and I cried. I feel crazy for caring so much about a few pieces of wood and a ribbon, but I do. That ribbon was as much Laurey as I was, and that house had become so much more than a set.

I'm not gonna lie, I'm still coping with the confusion produced by sudden copious amounts of free time. I have frequent withdrawals that only listening to the Oklahoma! soundtrack on repeat can resolve. (Haha.) But I can't tell you how thankful I am for the incredible experience. There are moments that will remain in my mind forever, for whatever reason.

There are firsts: the first time we saw the lights on the finished set, the first time we sung with the orchestra, the first time I hit that note in "Out of My Dreams," the first time I nailed the hand jive in "Oklahoma!"

There are in-betweens: dance parties in the wings during "Scandal/Outrage," green room Adele sessions at intermission, goofing off on stage between school and rehearsal, fireside chats at Ms. Murphy's house.

There are lasts: The last time Murphy called places, crying on stage for real on closing night, the last "Yeow!", the last curtain call.

To those of you uninvolved, these mean nothing. They're words strung together. But to me, and anyone else reading this who knows what I'm talking, about, they're everything.

About halfway through, I received a pair of leather character shoes. They're black, scuffed, and vastly uncomfortable, but I wouldn't trade them for anything. Remember how at the end of the ball Cinderella got to keep her slippers? Yeah. That's how I feel. :)

Thanks for the adventure. I love you all. :)

Eight Days a Week on Stage

This weekend marks the closing of Oklahoma! , and I don't know what I'm going to do when it's over. Rest assured there will be blog posts.

In the meantime, have a song. Late. Again.



Clever, huh? :)

Nine Days a Week

... Why do I even bother to call it Eight Days a Week anymore?? Late again. My apologies.



Haha. Get it? Because I keep missing! And you wonder where I went! Haha. I'm funny.

Eight Not at All Bitter Days A Week

I MISSED LAST WEEK AGAIN. Boo. I promise once musical is over I'll have time to blog again. For now, you get this.



Hahaha. I'm so funny.
(It's not really that funny.)

Eight Debates a Week

I'm watching the South Carolina debate... and they're talking about taxes... So this is what you get. (Yeah, I did miss last week. My bad.)

Here There Be Dragons

I have known those who lock up their love
In ventricular vaults, watch it glisten and gleam
Against blood-covered walls in their four chambered hearts.
They become dragons,
Clutching their gems in shivering claws
While lusting after love,
Still more love,
More jewels to fester blindly
In the darkness.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I originally intended for this poem to be about why it's worth it to invest in people even though there's a risk factor. If you don't, all the love you have isn't worth a thing in the world. Now I think it can mean several things, though, so feel free to form your own opinion!

Misadventures in Choreography

Some people are endowed with incredible grace. They radiate elegance. They're effortlessly beautiful. They float instead of walk.

Today was my first real day of choreography. My dancing generally consists of cabbage-patching and head bobs and other such awkward movements. Alone. In my room. Where no one can see me.

Needless to say, I am not one of "those people."

This is my first and only year of being in musical, and as such I have never done choreography before in my life. Sometimes it's kinda cool to be the rookie who got the lead. Other times... it's not! (Haha.) I don't imagine it would be that bad if I was somewhere in the back, but when you have very little rhythm, next to no coordination, and zero experience, the front is not the place to be. Surrounded by twirling angels in oh-so-professional-looking jazz shoes who can plie and chinae and sashay, I'm struggling to even pivot on one foot in my trusty grey Cons. (Or spell those words, for that matter.)

I'M OUT OF MY LEAGUE, MAN.

It turns out that I don't know the first thing about being graceful. Apparently it's incredibly feminine to keep your feet together whenever possible. There is a massive difference between pointing your foot and pointing your toes. Swaying with the balls of your feet is far more elegant than swaying with your hips. Who knew? Not me.

All my life I've been blessed (or maybe burdened?) with being naturally good at stuff. I've never had to work very hard at academics to make the grade. I memorize things easily. Writing has always come somewhat naturally to me. As a general rule I don't have to work exceptionally hard at much of anything. At the risk of sounding incredibly vain, I'm a pretty talented person.

I'm entering a whole new world here. I'm gonna have to work really hard to accomplish something this time. It's kind of awesome. It's gonna take energy and sweat and coming home with muscle aches. It's gonna take practice and practice and more practice. But by the end, I think it'll go down as one of my greatest accomplishments. At least in my head.

I kept apologizing to Linda (our marvelous choreographer) today for messing up constantly. She wouldn't hear it. "Don't you even worry about it. You're gonna get it. You're gonna look fabulous."

Feet together. Point your toes. Smile.