Memoirs of a hoofer

My eyelids are irreversibly closing. My stomach still hurts. For the past three days I felt as if I was going into labor. That is highly unlikely, unless I was approached by the Holy Spirit that informed me I'll bear the next prophet, just like Mary did (or told Joseph that's how it happened and he bought it... aaanyway). In case that happened, I must have been drunk. If it did not happen, I presume I have some sort of a virus or bacteria. Simply, I'm sick, because I finally have time. I have spent weeks, hours and hours every day, in a dark dungeon, sewing, painting, rehearsing for the soon-to-be-famous musical Cleopatra! (hey, we just opened. Give us a benefit of the doubt, and some time). I keep staring at the walls of my beautiful office, picturing the tired looks on Scott and Oliver's faces, who slaved in the dungeon for some six weeks non-stop day and night. Ollie would break into singing some cheesy non-descript radio songs - he would spontaneaously combust into singing, rather. Scott would jokingly bicker with Roger or Mark who cannot sew for the devil, but to his credit kept trying every single day. Or he would curse at and pray to the sewing machine that authored all the costumes for the show.
I miss seeing exhausted Nana (Ryan) stumble around with his skeptical look and appearance that awoke every last inch of motherly instincts in me and made me go fetch vitamins, beer, or cigarettes - whatever keeps Nana alive. He'd come alive at 7 pm alright, when he'd start guilting and harassing us into better performance, or throwing chairs when he deemed it necessary...

I love my job, mind you. But there is simply not enough purple glitter, not enough earpiercing wood saw noise, not enough cursing, in fact there is not enough alive-ness at all. It is the computer and I. The daily quest to resist the calling of the mop to clean the floor although it's thoroughly unnecessary, the calling of the peacefully sleeping dog to be taken outside again, almost against her will, or the calling of the rubber band ball to add more rubber bands to it...

If life is nasty, brutish, solitary, and short, just like Hobbes suggested, then the Machine club environs are perfect for living it to the fullest. See for yourself when you come to see Cleopatra!

I'm sure I'll be restored to full health by Friday, in time for another show, and then start feeling lousy on Sunday again, hit with a severe Machine withdrawal syndrome. First week off I had a bad sinusitis, second week I had the stomach inferno, I can't wait to see what my organism has in store for me next week. Wish we still had rehearsals every night. It was much healthier, I swear.