Baby, don't wait for the moon...

I was on my way to the dentist this morning and was not particularly in the best of moods. I have not been sleeping well (read as: I have not been sleeping). I have been completely unable to turn off my brain. I have been extremely discouraged by the lack of humanity in the comments and discussion about potential Governor's School closure. I have been thinking a lot about the fall of man, selfishness, and Toby from Sweeney Todd. I was considering doing a post about how we cannot escape the consequences of the fall using Toby as an example (so much anguish in my life about why Toby ran away and wasn't there when Lovett needed him, because I absolutely understand why and wish I didn't), which would probably include a deconstruction of the stage direction, "Wildly he tries to break down the door. It is too solid for him. Whimpering, he stands paralyzed." Then I decided that spending hours writing out Sweeney Todd analysis, while comforting, would indicate that I'd regressed at least two years. I have reached the point that comes in every break, the, "Okay. Done with break. I need to get back to New York immediately," point.

Then I was on my way to the dentist, which I was not looking forward to, as much as I do love and respect everyone at my dentist's office. (No really, they're extraordinary people.) But as there is still some swelling and pain in my masseter muscle, I wasn't particularly looking forward to keeping my mouth open for the time required for a cleaning.

But then I got an email, and I can very happily say:

I am directing The Maker of Dreams by Oliphant Down next semester.

(yes, Oliphant.)

So now everything is preproduction work. Start some composing. Pull out the commedia books that I brought home but haven't looked at for fear of unapproved heartbreak. Hunt for images hunt for images hunt for images. (Emily's mother gave me an alphabet book for Christmas and when I looked at it I was like, "This is SO Maker of Dreams.") Go to ARGS tomorrow and squeal over it with Becker, the only other person in the world who knows this play.


And back to New York on Thursday. Mmm... back to real winter. My favorite.

Pierrot: I can't sing when it's cold.

Pierrette: Ah, you're like the kettle. He can't sing when it's cold, either.

--The Maker of Dreams. Whee!