Re-hearsal

I am often at my happiest when I’m rehearsing. Not before a rehearsal starts or, indeed after it finishes. But during, yes. I get lost in the challenge and the process and, when I look back on a session, I can see that I threw off some of my natural and evolved inhibitions and pranced around a lot, trying to sort things out. The process takes me out of myself and my daily concerns such that nothing else matters except that the scene plays, that the actors are fulfilled, and that hardly a stray word or action remains in place.

We’re deep in the rehearsal process right now and the honeymoon time is very nearly over. For me, the ‘honeymoon time’ is the brief period where the shows seem quite a long way off and there still seems to be time to get everything done. This, of course, is an illusion. There is never enough time to get everything done and the shows are always right around the corner. As time progresses, far too quickly, the illusion withers and fades. We have a bit more than two weeks left until we hit the stage with three of my plays. We have to get our lines off, know where we’re moving to and from, find some props, source some music, sell some tickets (God, help us) and make ourselves at least partially happy that we won’t make a holy show of ourselves on the night.

I am often at my happiest at rehearsals, but I am often at my most stressed too.

I remember writing about the previous rehearsal period, which was a few years ago now, and my friend Jim reminding me that I’m a very lucky son-of-a-gun to get to do all this. To see my scribbles learned and sweated-over and acted-out for the benefit of an audience with a pulse. I need reminding of this periodically, as my blood-pressure rises. I am indeed lucky. Blessed, one might say. The dedication and patience of the cast members never fails to amaze me. I am a bit of a pain in the ass when directing (as I am this time, with one of the three plays) but the guys tolerate my constant interruptions and general goofing about in a way that is quite beyond understanding. As a person directing my own writing, I am constantly cutting out words and even entire speeches. I always feel the writing should be able to sway a little in order to suit the individual actors who are performing it. It’s not a one-way street. They bend to meet the words, of course, but I don’t think it’s any great harm if the words bend back to meet them too. Does that even make sense? It does to me but it’s Sunday morning and I haven’t had my coffee yet.

On Thursday 17^th and Friday 18^th October we will be onstage at the beloved Linenhall Arts Centre here in Castlebar. We will put on three plays by yours truly. Dance Night, Conception Pregnancy and Bert, and Two for a Tenor. It won’t be as long-winded as it might sound. One of the plays is short (but it’s one of my favorites), one of the plays belts along like a goddamn steam train and the last one has previously shown itself to be a bit funny and sweet, if maybe a tad rude in places.

I am so overwhelmingly grateful to the inestimable Castlebar Musical and Drama Society for coming along and seizing these plays, even as they begin to wind themselves up for their next big musical extravaganza. As an unfailing attendee of all their shows, I am totally buzzed at this opportunity to work with such talented members of the cohort. I am equally indebted and, in no small measure, moved to have a number of key players from the original productions come back to reprise their roles. Donna, Vivienne, and Eamon, where would I be without you? An additional joy is the return of three of our treasured 'teen cast' people from the teen play years. Katie, Aoife and Charlie, what a joy to get to do theatre with you again as adults.

Are you in Castlebar on those nights? If so, maybe you’d come down and see what we plan to do. We may not challenge your higher intellect, nor solve the mysteries of the world, but I think I can promise you a pocketful of laughs and, if we all play our cards right, maybe a little tear too. And isn’t that what those mask guys who represent theatre always do? Laugh a little, cry a little. That’s theatre, innit? And we’ll be giving it a solid 'good go' in a few weeks’ time. So come and see us if you can.

Tickets from: https://www.thelinenhall.com/whats-on/events/a-comedy-tonight

I have to go and finish my prop list now. I have to find some music tracks and a believable doorbell effect. I have to ask Ronan if I can borrow his nice free-standing coat hanger again and figure out how to get Kevin’s couch transported into the theatre. I have help with this, and I am very grateful for it, but my head still dances with all of the requirements and the possibilities and the fear and the fun.

This, for me, is living. This, for me, is life.

Thank you for letting me continue to play.

Wedding Bliss

We’ve been at a wedding for the weekend, Friday included. We only got home last night. It was a lovely wedding. Here are a few words about it.

I don’t believe in Weather Gods (even though I cover my bases by giving them Capital Letters). The notion of some sky-based personage, chucking around lightning bolts and thunder heads doesn’t really do it for me. But, on Friday, it was hard not to think that there was some higher Norse power at work. Someone who had had a particularly good sandwich or seen a really nice boxset and decided that, yes, the weather has been completely awful for the past entire month, but Niamh and Vincent have been so cool though it all, what the hey, let’s chuck ‘em a break.

In short, the weather was glorious.

The venue was glorious too. It was a lovely house by a lake, with a wedding pavilion, and a boathouse wedding venue where the end wall was entirely made of glass and looked out onto the lake. This is where those Weather Gods really started to bring their stuff. The panels on this glazed end wall were slid entirely open and the wonder of the lake itself became an integral part of the space. We all eased in, in our black-tie regalia and our gowns and our shades and our fascinators and, blow me down, we were one good-lookin’ collective.

A string quartet of elegant ladies struck up the Monty Norman theme from you-know-where, as the groom, Vincent, entered with customary style and grace. The Bride, on John’s arm, was simply beautiful. The ceremony was conducted by a Humanist celebrant. I lost that word for a moment just now and wrote the word ‘Naturist’ as a place filler, but I rubbed it out again so don’t worry, clothes stayed on. The reading were sourced from lovely places like Philip Pullman and Terry Pratchett and the string quartet soared through timeless movements such as ‘Wrecking Ball’. One extract from the readings mentioned dragonflies and this was illustrated by real live dragonflies working the lake’s glassy surface out behind the wedding party.

For me, I think the highpoint of the ceremony was the exchanged vows, each of which had been written for the other to read out and which had not been seen beforehand. This brought the fun and warmth that one would always expect from this lovely couple, but it also brought a memorable example of the levels of empathy and mutual understanding they enjoy from each other. We, who had gathered to witness a joining together, certainly witnessed it at that moment.

One of Niamh’s closest friends Anita (her name is not really Anita) spoke movingly about love and friendship and the string quartet played Deborah’s Theme. I can’t speak for anyone else, but it was right up my street.

On a lakeside lawn, after the ceremony, we drank Prosecco and Tom Collins (who I thought was a local auctioneer, but we live and learn) and mingled and failed to mingle in roughly equal measure. Peacocks wandered through and offered their opinion. The Weather Gods continued to spray their benevolence in the most pleasing of fashions.

The dinner was brilliantly illustrated by Lisa, Niamh’s sister and one of my favourite people in the entire world. The courses were punctuated by speeches, which were all unerringly lovely. But Niamh’s Dad, John, was the first to totally win the room with his natural and heartfelt memories of his wedded daughter and their wonderful life to date. Vincent’s Dad had committed his entire contribution to rhyming verses and, one felt, if he hadn’t done it, there would have been a level of disappointment as he is well known for it. He did it right, never sacrificing a warm moment or a good gag at the altar of the rhyme.

Meanwhile, the tables echoed with that wedding mix of extraordinary conversation. I sat with John from Texas, and we dissected the vagaries of the Irish roundabout road junction system. We reached some valuable conclusions, but it will require a measure of government action on our recommendations to see everything finally put right. A shout out, too, to lovely Helena, who reads this blog every week but would be equally lovely even if she didn't. 

The band were nifty and cool. The lead singer had an enviable falsetto that we all secretly tried to copy and all secretly failed to varying degrees. They were inventive in their setlists, typically mixing perennial Irish favourites with Cuban party vibes. The necessary riff from ‘Wicked Game’ was provided by Falsetto Man on a tin whistle. The dance floor strutted their appreciation.

The next day, we decamped to Niamh’s family home where Nimah's Mum and Dad, John and Marian, were the effortless hosts they always are, just, this time, on a considerably larger scale. John’s garden, a decade-spanning labour of love, had been waiting for this day all of its life, as mini-group after mini-group ambled its ways and marveled at its multi-sensory overload. That photo on top; that's his garden. 

A wondrous weekend, a couple well-and truly married. I wish them what I have been blessed enough to have for myself, peace and love, health and companionship. I wish them everything they wish themselves.

Regrets from the day, the weekend, the wedding? There are always regrets. So many wonderful people, so many loved ones. The day goes so quickly. There isn’t the time to sit with everyone and tell them how darned good it is to see them. There isn’t time to say we hope we see them again soon and to hope that all is okay with them, out there in their real world.

We don’t get to say it, but we get to think it all right. Hell, some of us even go and write it down.

But then, as we know, some of us are just plain weird.

Not Feeling It

'Blogging.' 

Is that what we still call this thing I do? 

Or has the world turned sufficiently that now it’s just called 'typing something every week and sticking it up on the Internet.' Internet… is that even what we still call it? It’s all becoming a bit of a mystery.

All I know is I’ve been doing this ‘blogging’ thing for longer than seems sensible or viable or even useful.

I look back over the website I post this stuff on. Posts date back to 2008 with no meaningful break in between then and now. A quick bit of (unreliable) addition reveals that there are now 852 posts. Average about 800 words per post and that’s, well, quite a few words.

This isn’t surprising. It’s in my nature to not give up on things. If I start something I like to see it through. That becomes something of a problem when something doesn’t present its own finish line, its own logical end. So, the likelihood is that I’ll keep on doing this until the place I post to shuts down or until I die. I’ve long ago reconciled myself to the fact that this rather futile exercise is for my own benefit, much more than anybody else’s. That’s fine by me. Sometimes I know that some kindly reader will find some use or entertainment in something I put up here. That’s wonderful. An added bonus. Always welcome. But mostly, it’s about me, how I’m happier in myself when I’ve set some words down and shared them around.

A point, Ken, is there a point to this week’s typing?

Not much of a one. Just simply that I’m not really feeling it this past couple of weeks. The only way I can get myself to sit and write this week’s ‘thing’ is to set that very thought down. There is no other thought I feel ready or equipped to deal with today.

Fear not, Ken. (I’m going to talk to myself for a minute now. ‘First sign’ etc.) You’re not going to stop writing these things, not in the immediate future anyway, unless one of the aforementioned scenarios play themselves out. Stopping is not really in your nature. So, if writing a thing this week, about how you have nothing to write, gets you through to next week and a little more inspiration, then so be it. Carry on to the end. Just come back fighting next week and stop pissing around with this navel-gazing malarky.

Why am I not feeling it, I hear you cry. Or rather I hear myself pretending to hear you cry. It’s been one hell of a few weeks, in fairness. Things I don’t want to talk about, at least not yet. Some of them potentially wonderful, some more of them undoubtedly awful. None of them ready for discussion.

Perhaps it’s as simple as that. A series of subjects are monopolising my mind and none of them are ripe or suitable for this ‘thing,’ whatever it is.

I’ve written posts like this before when I’ve gotten stuck. They help me got over the roadblock. The muscle-memory of fingers on a keyboard moves my mind to places and things I can write about. It will probably hatch something-or-other by next week.

Meantime, thanks for dropping by. Sorry that there’s not a good laugh or a silly idea of even a vague memory for you to take away with you.

Maybe next time, eh?