Feck.
So yeah, auditions for next fall's mainstage production of The Cripple of Inishmaan. They posted callbacks tonight, and I'm called in tomorrow (well, today), for, you guessed it, Johnnypateenmike.
Of course I'm not complaining, because it's a mainstage callback, and there were strangely few this time. And I have a good shot at getting the part. But would I want to play a part I've already played? Maybe to see what I can do new with it, or see how a new production changes it. At the very least, it's phenomenal exposure if I do a good job, which I figure I probably could, given that I already spent 8 weeks on the character. But I don't know. There are a lot of other shows happening that quarter.
I could always just not go to the callback. If I do, and I get cast, I'm obligated to take the part.
I don't know. I'll think on it. I'll probably just do it. It would be fun, and an excuse for listening to Celtic music and drinking a lot.
When did this quarter get so ridiculous? The Elephant Man ended a few weeks ago, but nothing is showing any signs of letting up. This show that I'm on-and-off assistant directing opens tomorrow. The audition tonight, and a voice jury before that. Two scenes in acting class this week, and two more final scenes next week. Doing a friend's short film on Sunday. Rehearsal Friday for the Edinburgh play in August. Doesn't look like there will be much repose, either. I'm home for less than three weeks in June, then to Oxford for a month and Edinburgh for a month for yet more theatre.
I shouldn't complain. I know that if none of this were happening I'd bitch about being ridiculously bored. But it's a rough trade-off: abject boredom versus ball-wrenching stress, lack of sleep, and gradual loss of sanity. I always have gone with the latter, and probably always will. For some reason despite the obvious long-term health effects I can't seem to shake it.
Anyway, stuff's all right. I just have to write this freaking poem for tomorrow, two days late, 30-50 lines of blank verse. I just keep putting it off, and I now realize that the last LJ post I made, at 6:45 in the morning, was also when I was up all night working on a poem. Maybe I'm not cut out for versifying.
Is that even a word?
I got to get off this. I'll start by finishing the entry in blank verse, to warm up.
Malingering here, I pause to contemplate
The ways in which I piss my time away.
Without a doubt, the most ridiculous path
That I can take. This bullshit has to stop;
An uninspired poem lies inert
In my unconscious. Reason screams at me
The simple phrase: "Just get this fucking done."
You shite-gobbed fecking bitch
Fecker.
Etc.
Of course I'm not complaining, because it's a mainstage callback, and there were strangely few this time. And I have a good shot at getting the part. But would I want to play a part I've already played? Maybe to see what I can do new with it, or see how a new production changes it. At the very least, it's phenomenal exposure if I do a good job, which I figure I probably could, given that I already spent 8 weeks on the character. But I don't know. There are a lot of other shows happening that quarter.
I could always just not go to the callback. If I do, and I get cast, I'm obligated to take the part.
I don't know. I'll think on it. I'll probably just do it. It would be fun, and an excuse for listening to Celtic music and drinking a lot.
When did this quarter get so ridiculous? The Elephant Man ended a few weeks ago, but nothing is showing any signs of letting up. This show that I'm on-and-off assistant directing opens tomorrow. The audition tonight, and a voice jury before that. Two scenes in acting class this week, and two more final scenes next week. Doing a friend's short film on Sunday. Rehearsal Friday for the Edinburgh play in August. Doesn't look like there will be much repose, either. I'm home for less than three weeks in June, then to Oxford for a month and Edinburgh for a month for yet more theatre.
I shouldn't complain. I know that if none of this were happening I'd bitch about being ridiculously bored. But it's a rough trade-off: abject boredom versus ball-wrenching stress, lack of sleep, and gradual loss of sanity. I always have gone with the latter, and probably always will. For some reason despite the obvious long-term health effects I can't seem to shake it.
Anyway, stuff's all right. I just have to write this freaking poem for tomorrow, two days late, 30-50 lines of blank verse. I just keep putting it off, and I now realize that the last LJ post I made, at 6:45 in the morning, was also when I was up all night working on a poem. Maybe I'm not cut out for versifying.
Is that even a word?
I got to get off this. I'll start by finishing the entry in blank verse, to warm up.
Malingering here, I pause to contemplate
The ways in which I piss my time away.
Without a doubt, the most ridiculous path
That I can take. This bullshit has to stop;
An uninspired poem lies inert
In my unconscious. Reason screams at me
The simple phrase: "Just get this fucking done."
You shite-gobbed fecking bitch
Fecker.
Etc.