Eleventh Hour Postings

29 Oct


I need to get out of this current schedule so I have enough time to actually post a full blog before the midnight deadline…not just “start” one.

“Marty” offered some of her future ink quotes as writing prompts…but then the more I looked at them trying to pick, the more I realized they deserved their own full topic write-up, not just a quick flash in print.

…So I will be keeping them for tomorrow, and tonight, focus on late night city life.

…The highway is pock-marked with drivers, while I launch homeward bound from rehearsal and pub-hang. At the downtown exits, a few trickle off onto side ramps, and again on detours, so I am the only one (at quarter to midnight) sitting at a non-populated stoplight intersection, ill timed so the ghosts are given greens while I sit on a hill, just off Broadway. 

The Rialto sign lights flash in that 60’s Vegas reminiscence…with actual bulbs popping on in a wave of succession, as the Pantages (it’s classier more austere brother) looks on from across the street with it’s meticulous readerboard, just newly updated.  There on the corner, the only “front” open this time of night: the Bail Bonds building, is empty, as its single minder smokes a cigarette in the chrisp, fall air.  A flash from the signboards bouncing off the windows where the “Open 24 Hours” sign hangs…as if one NEEDS to advertise for bailing-out services, instead of them being a necessary part of proceedings, just down the street from the court and social services buildings.

…I yawn so widely, that my face nearly splits in two from the effort, as the light finally turns green.

…Should I go home and prep for bed first, or write the blog…becomes my question. Too much comfort, ‘tween the sheets, and I’d be out like a light.  I know this.  So I opt to write first, kicking off my sandals and peeling the wet tights from my feet…I toss them on the floor where I will find them in the morning and give ’em a good soak, then hang to dry in time for tomorrow’s run.

…We are still in soft-soled shoes…these sandals my only of such, as most opt for socks running about the stage.  I need more grip for my lifts and constant shenanigans, so have been living in these “shoes” all week.  A well aired pair, meant for dead of summer appropriateness and coverage…not rainy, leaf-slicked, puddle-filled parking lots and roadways.  Every night, I go home with soaking feet, which I either bathe in hot water, or beat back with an Airborn tab in water, just before brushing my teeth.

…Am glad the floor will be sealed and we return to shoes tomorrow. 

Work-and-review rehearsal, together with Act II tonight…back to runs tomorrow.  We open in 10 days, and are well prepared for it…not that we have nowhere to grow, only that we are solid and finessing…which is an excellent place to be, and often out of the ordinary at this point in juncture.

…Some new ideas for energy tomorrow. 

…It needs to be in constant supply (at different levels, naturally) and it’s a difficult feat end-of-a-workday to sustain.  Did good work at it last night and this, but I feel I need a back-up “just in case of emergency, break glass here” plan.  It mostly involves caffeine in coffee variety instead of my usual tea.  It’ll prob’ly help my bladder lots too…cuz my current worry is forgetting to go to the bathroom ‘tween scenes, and then get whirrled around on stage and accidentally pee all over everything.  This is just how my brain works.  And if you worry…that makes you have to pee too…so right now, I’m drinking mass amounts of black leaf and peeing or dancing around because I have to, pretty much all the time.  Which is not great once they add my dress and corset this weekend.  So I should prob’ly fix that.


…Three till One. 

I’m exhausted. 

…Time for face-washing and teeth brushing and falling onto the sheets.  Tomorrow: will add fresh laundered ones to the bed…was gonna tonight but then “life” happened and it was 6 hours later all of a sudden.

Time is always doing that when you least expect it.

…For now: it’s to sleep and drool till I wake up yelling at the alarm clock.

(aka: your average Tuesday.)


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