Precautions

If I could have my way, I'd isolate the entire cast and crew five days before opening night. I'd lock them up in a secure building (something vaguely resembling a compound) and then I'd breathe easily for the first time in a long, long time. The compound would have the latest amenities, its grounds landscaped, private, secure. The cast and crew could ask for (and receive) anything they wanted, provided they didn't go anywhere or do anything.

I can't tell you how much I worry when I hear that Dan went horseback riding, or when I see him pass the time, during a rehearsal break, walking on the back of the chairs in the auditorium. I worry every time Ellie drives her car, not because she's not a safe driver but because everyone else is crazy. I worry when Seth leaves town, even for an afternoon. I worry when Jamie hangs lights 30 feet into the air or Susan climbs the tallest ladder I've ever seen to safety pin a curtain fold...(speaking of climbing ladders, I had an awesome idea yesterday. As lights hit the stage we noticed a long piece of wire hanging from the rafters. What to do? Remove it? Dangerous. Tie it, somehow? Not pretty. Tie something (meaningful) to it? Hm...Then, genius! My genius, that is, I've never suffered from false modesty: I took the Zeppelin with the bride silhouette attached to it and suspended it from the wire. We stepped back, lights hit the stage, and above Conni's area, the Zeppelin floated beautifully, a reminder of Larry Tarkowsky's love for impossible flying machines...I did a little victory dance that is usually not meant to have an audience, and we continued to hang lights.)

Collaboration, worry: the curse of the playwright. The playwright needs other people to produce a show. Again and again, I envy the poet, the fiction writer, all the writers, in fact, who do not depend on a collective. Not because the collective is undependable (I've worked with some of the most reliable people one could ask for), but because accidents do happen. So, yes. I'd love to lock up cast and crew in secure, glass cages, and cater to their every whim until the evening of the performance when I'd release them onto the stage...Is this a strange thought? Absolutely. But would it solve all my problems? Yes, it would. Why can't the cast experience the isolation that, in the movies, at least, astronauts experience before a trip to the moon or to some other nasty planet? In my perfect world (the one with the theatre with the awesome marble floors), this exile would be mandatory. In the real world...Realism again. My archenemy.

I'm waiting for Ellie, to go shopping for the white top. I'm also trying to gather my thoughts for this afternoon's live interview, so I won't babble without a point. I have to stop by the office and take care of some school work (although teaching seems the most surreal part of my job these days), and then I have to go to Fletcher to spray paint white a few more props.

Rehearsal at 6, as always. We've settled into this maddening rhythm with a certain ease. After a while, madness becomes second nature. Monday. Five days left. In their imaginary glass cages, the actors get ready for their parts. The enclosure is perfect, the cast completely protected. In my mind, where all things fantastical take place, precautions have been taken to assure success.