Participation!

Last weekend was the year-end showcase at one of my dance studios.

This was a Big Deal. We didn't get to have one last year. It sucked the most for the kids who were graduating, not getting to have that last hurrah, so it was exciting to be able to have one this year. A couple of the kids who graduated last year were involved, so they got to have at least a bit of that experience.

Now, the crummy thing about the adult division is that no one ever wants to perform with me, which means I never get to perform. Well, I did once a couple of years ago, but since then, no one has been willing to perform with me so I never get to play and it makes me saaaaaaad! So this year I volunteered instead. I filmed the livestreams all three nights. (Read, I showed up and pushed a button on an iPad.) (Okay, it was a little more complicated than that, and I did other things, too, but still.) Anyway, I got to be there and hang out with cool dance people and watch the kids and I even got given flowers for my troubles, which was a nice (if completely unnecessary) touch. The parents were thrilled that their kids were doing something, the kids enjoyed themselves, and the teachers got to watch every single thing they'd been trying to drill into the kids' heads all year go right out the window.

Well, for some of the kids, anyway.

The older kids and the competition team kids all did a wonderful job. The three-to-six-year-old contingent, on the other hand, did just about as well as you'd expect them to. You see, there are roles to be filled by the under-sevens. These are time-honored tropes, and the littles take them Very Seriously. In any dance recital where you find the smallest humans able to stand upright, you will find the following:

1. The Twirler

This child will get on stage, start to twirl, and not stop until the music stops--if they even stop then.

2. The Deer in the Headlights

This child will get on stage, realize they're being watched by a whole mess of people, and simply cease to be able to move. They will stand and stare helplessly for the duration of the song, and will likely have to be ushered off stage by their classmates or an attending teacher.

3. The Ham

This child will get on stage and immediately start doing everything they can to attract attention to themself. They will make faces, jump up and down, do the most exaggerated version of the dance they can, and grin all the while like the smug little shit that they are.

4. The Nose-Picker

Does what it says on the tin, really.

5. The Bobbsey Twins

These children are attached at the hip. Inseparable. The best of friends. While on stage they will hold hands, play with each other's costumes, and generally ignore everything going on around them.

6. The 'I-Don't-Want-To-Be-Here'

Mom or Dad or some combination thereof are requiring this extracurricular, and the child is less than thrilled about it. They will get on stage and go through the motions with little to no enthusiasm.

7. The "Hi Mommy!"

This child will get four-and-a-half inches onto the stage, find their family in the audience, and immediately start waiving and calling out to them. They may do a portion of the dance, but it will be an afterthought--they're much more interested in making sure their parents see them.

8. The Boss

(Okay, full disclosure--this was me. Hands up, who's surprised? No one? I thought so.) This child is a miniature professional. They were told not to wave to their parents, so they won't. They will go straight to their spot on the stage and execute their dance with accuracy. They paid attention in class, after all. This child will somehow manage to do the dance while simultaneously throwing some serious side-eye at their classmates, and looking world-weary and put-upon and completely exasperated with the nonsense going on around them all at once. 

So there you have it. And you didn't even have to buy a ticket!

Sweet Summer Child

 Our 'summer kid', who turned into a part-time-all-year kid because, y'know, COVID and schools going virtual, had her last day today. She's off to college.

There was cake.

I've had occasion to think back to my college days recently. It really is the only time in your life--if you're lucky--that you have more control over your day-to-day than you do at any other time. Think about it. You set your own schedule. Yes, within the confines of the master class schedule, but for the most part if you don't want morning classes you can avoid them. You eat what you want, when you want. Your metabolism hasn't broken up with you yet so you can get away with it. You can stay up all hours if you feel like it. Colleges are usually surrounded by easily-walkable or transit-able places to get what you need, from groceries to frozen yogurt to new underpants when you have decided not to do your laundry. 

You can't appreciate it at the time. That's the way it is with most things, really. It only looks wonderful in retrospect. I think it only can look wonderful in retrospect. Our summer kid is going to spend the next four years mostly on her own terms, and she's going to live and grow and learn and try and fail and try again, and while it's happening, she'll be looking forward to the next thing. It's a human foible, our ability to forget to be in the moment. I'm just as guilty of it as the next person. While I don't look back on my college days with a great deal of fondness--everything that was not in England was awful, basically--I do remember the joy of being able to give yourself over to something you're genuinely interested in, being allowed to wrap yourself up in it and indulge in it and not surface for any reason unless you feel like it.

Can't do it these days. Gotta pay the bills. Ah, well. It is what it is.

In A Pickle

Well. Tuesday was A Day.

11:40, the receptionist comes to tell me there's a pigeon on the sidewalk that doesn't look well. I, being the bleeding heart animal lover I am, go to investigate. There is, in fact, a pigeon on the sidewalk. It's sitting. It's not moving a whole lot. I send the receptionist back indoors for a box, and proceed to make friends with the pigeon. The pigeon isn't exactly in a hurry to get away from me, which I decide is either a good sign or the result of a bump on the noggin. Regardless, the pigeon is happy enough to sit with me and listen to me talk sweetly at it. The receptionist shows back up with the box. I had had the presence of mind to grab my sweater in case I had to perform the tried-and-true 'animal burrito' technique to apprehend our little feathered pal. My first attempts at herding the pigeon into the box were less than successful. We took a stroll across the road, and finally I had to be a bit more aggressive in my herding techniques, but eventually, the pigeon was in the box and my sweater was over the top, preventing any last-ditch efforts at escape. It was clear from this interlude that flying wasn't going to happen, so I was reasonably confident in the pigeon's ability to stay contained in the box without too much effort in fortification by me.

11:50, the pigeon in the box is brought into the office, and my sweater is replaced with a few rag towels we keep around for cleaning. The co-worker who is deathly afraid of birds is told that she does not want to know what is in the box, and is satisfied to remain in the dark. The box with the pigeon is relegated to a spot under my desk.

12:30, lunch time. I take the box with the pigeon in it to the Lindsay wildlife hospital. They see that the pigeon is banded, and therefore they can't take it. A banded pigeon indicates that it is domesticated in some description--a pet, or a homing pigeon, or a racing pigeon. They can only take wild animals. The pigeon, in its box, goes back into the car. 

1:00, since the parking is underground, the boxed pigeon stays in the car, and I go back to work.

2:45, the pigeon is checked on, and has settled comfortably onto a cozy towel. The county animal shelter is called and consulted, and I am told that animal services will call me back.

3:20, animal services calls and gives me instructions regarding dropping the pigeon off.

4:10, the pigeon is checked on, handled, and its bands are photographed so I can try to look up its provenance.  

4:30, I leave the office and a couple of land speed records and a few more traffic laws (Shh!) and take the pigeon to the county shelter, where he is taken in for observation and possible treatment.

At some point in the interim, I may or may not have named the pigeon 'Pickle'. I may or may not have gotten attached.

...I may or may not have gotten a bit verklempt when I left him with animal services...

But how could you not love that little face?!

I'll give updates if and when I have any. They said I could call tomorrow (Wednesday) at 8 to check in on him.

WEDNESDAY PM UPDATE: Is the same as was the Wednesday AM and NOON updates. Pickle sustained some sort of head trauma, and is having neurological difficulties--trouble balancing etc. No flying. They are giving him fluids and antibiotics and waiting it out. He's hanging around for the time being. Animal services were unable to locate his owner, but did contact the racing union on his band. If no one claims him, and he pulls through, he'll likely go to a rescue or be adopted out.

Yes, I did call three times today. Yes, I'm a little attached. So sue me.

That's one way to do it

 This is a bit of a variation on a theme from last week--bear with me.

 I've been reading Antony Sher, right? Creative process. The makings of a production. The creation of a role. All things I used to get to do when I was pseudo-adulting in college, and then in grad school. I miss getting to really sink my teeth into a project like that. Research. Rehearsal. Debate. Crafting a whole out of hand-selected parts. There's nothing like it.

WELL.

 I follow the Royal Shakespeare Company on social media (because I'm a cultured nerd) and they've got something going on at the moment that has me split 50/50.

 https://www.rsc.org.uk/henry-vi-part-i

They're opening up the rehearsal process to the masses.

50%: This is pretty neat, actually. People will get to see what goes into the makings of these productions. They'll be privy to the exploration and the brainpower and the bloody hard work it takes to get a show on its feet. They might even gain a greater appreciation for the art of theatre and its process.

The Other 50%: The rehearsal room is sacred. It can be daunting. Things sometimes go very wrong before they settle into something performable. Bringing a character to life can be an extremely vulnerable experience that needs a safe space--it's difficult to allow for that when you know half the county is tuned in, watching your every move.

You see what I mean?

 The beauty of this experiment is that it is an experiment. They're not staging a full production. This will culminate in a dress rehearsal which will be live streamed. They're working under COVID constraints, so they're up against additional challenges like keeping the actors socially distanced. From the production stills, it looks like everyone is performing from their own 6-foot square on the rehearsal room floor. 

If it weren't for the time difference, my morbid curiosity might get the better of me and I might tune in. As it is, I'll be interested to read about how it turns out. I sincerely doubt that this is any kind of change of direction for the RSC insofar as their regular production process, which is likely a relief to many of the actors, but as a 'bit piece', it ought to be an interesting diversion. Maybe. Probably. Okay, my inner actor is squirming. What can you do?