On Soaring and Sinking (Blog #551)

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It’s day five working backstage for the national tour of The Wizard of Oz, and I woke up this morning in THE BEST MOOD. I really don’t know what came over me, but I started dancing as soon as I got out of bed, then grooved and shimmied all the way into the kitchen. I even plugged my earphones into my phone and turned up Christopher Cross. It’s all right, I think we’re gonna make it. But then in an effort to spin while moving from the refrigerator to the counter behind me, I dropped an egg on our open dishwasher, and it splattered all over the clean dishes. WHOOPS!

Arriving at the Alma Performing Arts Center, I was THAT GUY–the one who’s smiling and bouncing up and down with joy for no apparent reason. I don’t know–maybe having a routine and working a job that I enjoy is doing me good. Who knows? This was at nine o’clock, and I normally don’t even crack a smile until after noon. But this really has been a wonderful week. I’ve even been looking forward to driving home late at night and seeing my parents. They’ve been feeding me dinner and helping me make sure my paint clothes are clean, ready to go for the next day. As I eat, we talk about our day and catch up on each other’s respective soap operas. I often make self-deprecating remarks about living with my parents, but I think that needs to stop, since I wouldn’t have these positive memories otherwise.

Currently I’m on lunch break, which is only thirty more minutes. (Since I have other business to attend to at dinner, I’m blogging now.) Hum. I might have to finish writing late tonight. We’ll see. Anyway, somewhere during the last four hours, my good mood from this morning seriously dissipated. In its place has come a lot of internal chatter, mumbo-jumbo, and bullshit, which I think has mostly to do with my feeling like a stranger here. To be clear–everyone I’ve encountered–the cast, crew, and volunteers–are kind, considerate, and professional. Still, I don’t really KNOW anyone. At lunch and dinner when everyone else goes off in pairs or groups, I eat alone–just me, an apple and some peanut butter, and my computer.

This isn’t the easiest thing to do, observing–but not participating with–others who are having a good time. Not that people don’t talk to me or include me in things. I’ve certainly had plenty of those moments. But being the new guy isn’t the same as being the old friend or the established relationship. I don’t blame anyone for this situation. I am, after all, temporary help, and it takes time to form bonds. It was set up to be this way, and it’s ALWAYS awkward trying to figure out where you fit in.

Because I think we all–fundamentally–want to fit in.

You always have yourself to come back to.

Sitting down to write helps. I’m glad I’m doing this now instead of later. Because I’m reminded that no matter what kind of day I’m having–one that soars or one that sinks–I always have myself to come back to. As of yesterday, I’ve been doing this blogging thing for 550 days in a row(!), so I have plenty of documented evidence to remind me that people are people (doing the best they can), circumstances change, and emotions cycle through like the seasons. It’s all right, I think we’re gonna make it. Through everything, my job is to take care of me. And I can. I can be gentle and work with whatever arises, whatever shows up to be my teacher today, whatever shows up to bring me back to myself.

[Today’s top photo is from The Wicked Witch’s Chamber. I helped paint it (the bottom part). In this scene, Dorothy asks The Wicked Witch, “How did you get so mean?” The Wicked Witch replies, “Lots and lots of practice.” I imagine this answer also applies to how one becomes kind or gentle with oneself or others. Lots and lots of practice.]

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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No good story ever ends.

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The View from Stage Left (Blog #550)

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Today is day four working backstage for the national tour of The Wizard of Oz, and it’s once again dinner time. This has been an interesting experiment, getting up early (at 7:45) and working all day. Last night we left at 11; I think I finally passed out about 1. Due to this schedule, dinner is really the only time I have to blog. That’s another interesting thing, forcing my brain to pump out a post in about an hour. (Dinner is an hour and a half, and it takes me about twenty to thirty minutes to edit after having written). Anyway, currently I’m sitting backstage, stage left, in the dark at a prop table. I’m surrounded by a butterfly net, a giant hourglass, and the bucket of water Dorothy uses to melt the old witch.

Which old witch? The wicked witch.

Stage Left is where I spent all of last night, this morning, and this afternoon. As of now, everyone here is “running the show,” going scene-by-scene and song-by-song working out lights, sound, choreography, and everything else. As I’m part of the prop team, my job has been to help move sets and props on and off at the appropriate times. I wish you could see what goes on back here. I wish you had the view from stage left. For all the magic that happens on stage, there are dozens of people making it happen backstage. It’s this magical machine that’s planned down to the smallest detail. (For example, pulley ropes, light cues, and pieces of tape that designate where the sets go–called spike marks–are all color-coded.)

My predominant thoughts today–

1. On synchonicity

The universe is real trip sometimes. In yesterday’s blog I casually mentioned feeling like Bob Ross, since I’ve been painting so much. Well, not an hour later, I struck up a conversation with one of the carpenters on the tour and noticed that he was wearing a Bob Ross lanyard! There was Bob’s face hanging around his neck, and the exact quote I’d used written along the lanyard itself. “We don’t make mistakes, just happy little accidents.”

Crazy.

2. On receiving

In the last few weeks, I’ve blogged twice about the rich symbolism contained within the story of The Wizard of Oz, once in my birthday blog, and most recently here. I won’t go over the whole thing again, but suffice it to say this is a story that clearly speaks to my consciousness, as it’s about finding your voice, facing your worst fears, and becoming self-empowered, and this is a journey I’ve been on (or at least am currently on, since I’m not sure one ever “gets there”). Anyway, I think it’s pretty fantastic that I should end up HERE backstage at THIS SHOW. What a gift to receive. I’m absolutely having the time of my life. Thinking about what all that had to happen to bring me and this show together–well, it nearly brings me to tears.

Here’s a stage view of the Tin Man’s House and the Forest Trees that I helped paint/touch up.

3. On what one witch says to another

There’s a line in the show that I’d forgotten about, but which stopped me in my tracks when I heard it today. Dorothy has just gotten to Oz, and The Wicked Witch of the West is threatening her. Remember–she’s not really upset that her sister is dead, but is QUITE pissed off that Dorothy has taken her sister’s shiny shoes. (It’s always about footwear.) Anyway, Dorothy is shaking in her boots–well, her ruby red slippers–but then Glinda the Good Witch (who represents Dorothy’s guiding consciousness) says, “Be gone! You have no power here.”

Wow, what a powerful lesson. What a beautiful command to remember whenever our fears present themselves to us. “Be gone! You have no power here.”

4. On reaching the emerald city

After a full day of running the show, we’re just to the part where Dorothy and her friends reach The Emerald City. I’m still working the symbology of The Emerald City out, but I would compare it to my therapist’s office in my own tale. It’s where you go for hope. However, it’s also the place where you think someone else is going to solve your problems (like, Dorothy and her friends want The Great Oz to answer all their requests), but later find out that you have to do The Hard Work yourself; you still have to melt your witch (that is, face your shadow) and get yourself back home.

God, it’s such a long journey. So very fucking long and difficult. (I don’t recommend it; watch Netflix instead.) Anyway, when Dorothy and her friends first arrive, The Emerald City Gatekeeper says, “Have you come far?” Yes, of course, they have. We all have. So very fucking far. The Gatekeeper’s response?

“Believe me, every step is worth it.”

Honestly, this has been my experience. THE JOURNEY is tough stuff, but every difficult step is more than worth it. The results are so much better than anything Netflix has to offer. So run away, find your brain, your courage, and your own good heart, and kill your witches. Then get yourself back home, my dear. But know this–no one will believe the journey you’ve been on. (Dorthy’s family didn’t believe her.) No matter, since YOU will know–you’ve transformed. You’re different than you were before.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Go easier on yourself.

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From Forty Feet Away (Blog #549)

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I’m currently backstage at the performing arts center in Alma working with the national tour of The Wizard of Oz. It’s dinnertime. After two full days of thinking, What the hell did I get myself into?, I’m beginning to find my stride. It’s work, of course–my body’s stiff in the all the wrong places–but today has actually been the most fun I’ve had so far. I guess this is because I’m gaining confidence in the tasks I’ve been asked to complete and also getting to know some of the people I’m working with. I keep telling myself, You can talk to strangers, Marcus. Strangers can talk to you.

Despite the fact that I thought I’d be working with props today (and therefore dressed in a nice pair of jeans and a colorful t-shirt), I’ve spent the entire day (the entire fucking day) painting. This is why you shouldn’t let people know you’re good at something–they’ll keep asking you to do it. (Thankfully, I brought paint clothes to change into.) Last night one of the girls and I worked on the trees for the Tin Man’s House, so my job today has been to finish the rest of that set–touch up the bushes in the back, spruce up the grass floor, and completely redo the base. This has been quite the challenge, matching all the colors, but I’m getting better and better at mixing paints together. I feel like Bob Ross.

“We don’t make mistakes, just happy little accidents.”

Here’s a picture of the base BEFORE I started this morning. Notice that it’s pretty banged up from being on the road.

The base–I’ve been told–is supposed to look like bamboo. (I didn’t get that either.) But apparently in Oz, bamboo is white and shadows are blue. Anyway, in order to make this particular base look like some of the others used in the show, I started with a solid coat of white, sponged on blue all the way around, added blue lines about half an inch or an inch apart (this took forever), sponged on more blue, and finally added some red/brown grass at the bottom. Take a took.

Here’s a picture of the “grass” before. Well, the right side is before. The left side has one coat of sponged-on new green.

Here’s the grass after. I used three–well, I think, five–different greens.

Despite the kinks in my shoulders this project has produced, I really am proud of it. I absolutely adore musical theater–it has such power to positively affect a person–and I love that I’ve gotten to participate from the other side, to play one small part.

When my supervisor saw the completed Tin Man’s House, she said, “Marcus, that–looks–gorgeous!” Someone else said, “That’s the best that thing will ever look.” Of course, I know where all my mistakes are, all the details that could have been “better,” whatever that means. But one of the the construction guys said, “You have to remember that people with cataracts are looking at these sets from forty feet away.” This is a good reminder. Personally, I think it applies not only to musical scenery but also to humans. We’re so tough on ourselves. We pick ourselves apart. We zoom in our bodies and imagine our “flaws” to be bigger than they really are, flaws another might not even see, acknowledge, or care about. From forty, or even four feet away, another might remark, “You–look–gorgeous!”

[Incidentally, I realized on the way to work this morning that yesterday’s blog (#548) officially marked a solid year and a half of blogging. Woowho! And so this journey continues.]

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Life doesn’t need us to boss it around.

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My Emotional Oil Can (#547)

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It’s six in the evening, and I’ve been working–like, honest to god working–since eight this morning. Y’all, this is manual labor–for the national tour of The Wizard of Oz–unloading boxes, painting sets, whatever they want (that’s what I do). I didn’t even know this was a thing, working backstage for a touring musical. But apparently this show hires three or four dozen locals wherever they go. I got involved because I have a friend who runs the performing arts center here in Alma, where the show will go on next weekend.

As I understand it, a show will often “load in” the day before or even the day of a performance and “load out” the day after. However, the crew and all their equipment came in a full week early in order to touch up sets and run rehearsals for anyone new on staff. So this is my full-time job for the next ten days, including today. Anywhere from 8 to 12 hours a day, with union-mandated breaks for lunch and dinner. I’m currently on my dinner break–in my car–blogging.

I’ve got an hour to finish writing. And eat something. I should probably eat something.

This morning I helped unload boxes full of god knows what from three semis. I guess the show has four semis, but one isn’t here yet. Then I stood around for a good while doing really not a damn thing. As someone who’s used to being productive every minute of every damn day, this was a challenge for me–to wait. I mean, I’m being paid and WANT to be useful, helpful. But I guess that’s part of the deal–you work when someone asks you to work–which someone did eventually ask me to do. “Can you pick up donuts for everyone?” my friend said.

“Gladly,” I said.

Y’all, I don’t know if this donut thing is going to happen every day, but I personally think god has a sick sense of humor–asking a man who’s trying to lose weight to be the donut runner. Can you believe that I picked up 120 donuts and a dozen bagels for everyone here and didn’t eat a single one of them? Instead, I ate a protein bar.

We’ll see how long my resolve lasts.

At lunch I ran home to grab a change of clothes, as I was assigned to the prop mistress, and she said we’d be painting sets. I think that’s the right term, prop mistress. Regardless, I’m this girl’s bitch, and I’ve even been given an official title–prop head. That means that the other three or four prop people will be my bitches–I think. (I’m trying to not let it go to my head.) Anyway, back to the painting. I thought I gave that up when I quit remodeling houses, but no. I’ve spent the entire afternoon working on Dorothy’s house (that goes through the tornado and lands on the Wicked Witch of the East), the scarecrow’s post/cornfield, and–I think–Aunt Em’s chicken coop.

This process, I hate to admit, has been more stressful than I anticipated. As one of the boards on Dorothy’s house was damaged, I had to start with a blank piece of plywood and mix layer of paint with layer of paint until it looked like old, rickety wood. What’s more, it had to match–or blend–with the rest of the house. Of course, I’ve had to do all this to someone else’s specifications, which has been a humbling lesson for me. I’m so used to being in charge, especially in charge of all my creative endeavors. But today I’ve been the student, “the help.” When critiqued, my ego has hated it. When praised, it’s soared.

Criticism and praise. Two sides of the same coin. Either way, same pay.

It’s fascinating being on this side of a musical, all the little details you’d never think of sitting in your seat watching the show, the lights and cords you never see–the hidden doors and hinges. It all matters. As I’ve agonized over every brush stroke, I’ve thought, The better this is, the more magic it creates for the audience. On the back of the Tin Man’s set, there’s a note that says, “Did you remember the oil can?” This clearly has to do with the show, but I started thinking about the Tin Man and how he represents a person’s heart, and how a person’s heart can freeze up or get rusty if they don’t take care of it with their emotional oil can. Personally, I keep thinking, Am I finding reasons to complain, or to be grateful? Am I taking things personally, or giving grace to others and myself? Am I freezing up, or keeping my heart open?

Am I remembering my emotional oil can?

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Solid help and solid hope are quite the same thing.

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