OK, so I'm generally a really sound sleeper and noises rarely wake me up, but I happen to have already been semi-awake at 2:50am the past three nights (had just gone to bed Friday and Saturday, up to use the loo tonight). For some reason there are bloody birds outside my bedroom window that, for the past three nights, have started chirping and singing up a storm right around this hour. What the hell? Shouldn't these birds be asleep at 3:00am? Why are they quiet--so far as I can tell--for the rest of the night, save for this roughly 20 minute raucous conversation?
And why does it always seem to start at almost the exact same time?! Am starting to feel like I'm in that Sarah Kane play, 4:48 Psychosis. SHUT UP BIRDS!!!
Sunday, 20 January 2008
Into Every Life a Little Rain Must Fall (maybe I don't want your flippin' umbrella!)
I just read an essay in The Chronicle of Higher Education, "Against Happiness: In Praise of Melancholy" (Eric G., Wilson, adapted from his book by the same name). In our current social climate, such a work seems almost heretical. I did a quick search for "happiness" on Amazon; first result? A work entitled Happiness: a guide to developing life's most important skill. (Matthieu Ricard, 2008)
I didn't look through the entire list, but this was followed by scores more books offering to show me how I, too, could learn always to see the world through rose-coloured glasses. And, really, isn't that a worthy--perhaps even necessary--aspiration? Wilson describes the current cultural ethos as one in which"the status quo is nothing short of manic bliss." Life's most important skill, indeed.
At the moment, happiness is a preoccupation of everyone from bio-scientists to philosophers and sociologists, psychologists to mass media and Joe Q public. Worldwide, people are being asked: in the greater scheme of things, just how happy would you say you are? The most recent stats I could find (www.nationmaster.com) had Icelanders at the top of the list, with a full 94% of citizens rating themselves as either "quite" or "very" happy with life taken as a whole. The U.K. clocked in at #9 (87% are happy here); the U.S. at #13 (84%); Canada at #17 (75%). At the very bottom of the 50-nation list? Bulgaria, with a score of -24%; over half the Bulgarians surveyed had claimed to either be"not very" or even "not at all" happy with life in general.
Now, I realise that these stats are influenced by any number of factors which I have neither the expertise nor inclination to discuss (phrasing of both the question and the multiple-choice answers; how these were understood by respondents; when, how, and by whom the question was asked; differing cultural values and norms; etc.) Taking the above poll at face value, though, one might take happiness to be an objective, quantifiable subject.
It's not. Happiness is a subjective state, and what I find interesting is the way it's become the only state that someone (OK, a lot of someones) seems to think we ought to be in. I understand that replacing negative thought patterns with more positive ones is a basic principle of cognitive psychology, and I don't discount the value of this. I'm not anti-happiness (and I certainly don't mean to minimise or glorify serious depression, which I view as separate issue entirely), I just wonder...shouldn't emotions be spontaneous rather than conditioned responses to stimuli?
For example, how am I feeling right now? It's mid-afternoon on a rainy British Sunday (is there any other kind? but I digress), and how I came to be writing this was that I surfed to www.aldaily.com and stumbled upon the essay mentioned at the top of my post. Nothing wrong with that, but right now I should really be tidying up the flat--I've had friends over the past couple of nights and things are in a state of casual disarray; I haven't seen the top of my desk in weeks for piles of paper, books, receipts, post-it notes, lists, etc. To my left is a stack of scripts, which reminds me: I'd planned to finish reading those today and choose which ones to use with my 9/10 Drama class. We're starting that unit on Wednesday and--come to think of it--I need to redo the lesson plans for the next three weeks. There was a, ahem, change of direction, and my scheme of work on devising had to be shelved. As for re-planning the unit, well, with all the packing of my office, schlepping back and forth between the old and new (we're in there as of tomorrow) campuses, who's had time? That's not quite true. I've actually had far too much free time during the work day this month (long story), which I haven't really used nearly as productively as I should've; too much free time has fomented boredom; the aimless flipping through of books, articles, the 'net; starting work on one thing but then abandoning it for something else. In short, I've raised raised procrastination to an art. As for the wasted time, I really do wish I'd used it more productively. On the other hand...
Bloody hell, that train of thought could go on forever! And yes, I've just stopped it (glanced down at the time, I really need to get on with things other than this), but it's already reminded me of the capital-m Mood I was in for much of last week. Oy, and all this work I still need to do...
If the World Institute of Happiness was to ring me this very moment, I'm not sure I'd tell them I was feeling "very happy." But so what? Again, I'm not talking about the separate and serious issue of deep depression, but do I really need to be ecstatically joyful all the time? Can't I sometimes just feel "meh"? Last week I was more than meh, I was "grrrrr," maybe even "GRRRRR!" When I first got back to England after Christmas in Canada, I was a bit sad. Does all this mean I'd best navigate back to Amazon and order Happiness? It is, after all, a guide to "life's most important skill"...
Thing is, I think being Happy! all the time wouldn't really be very happy at all. Wouldn't it get rather dull? If I trained myself not to feel anything but happy, how would I even recognise moments of random joy such as those I experienced last night with friends? Would I fully enjoy the serenity I felt this morning after going for a run on my favourite trail in a warm mist of rain? Is perpetually soaring at the heights of bliss a definitively better option than occasionally dropping into a pocket of despair? If it's my constant state, doesn't "happy" actually mean "neutral"?
In short, I won't be taking Matthieu Ricard et. al up on their offers to--for only £6.74 + SH!--train me in the art (though it should be noted that they usually call their brand of it a science) of Happy. I did, however, order Christopher Lane's Shyness: How Normal Behaviour Became a Sickness. Cosmetic pharmacology and the medicalisation of basic personality traits? Don't get me started...
NOTE: Just as I was about to hit "publish post," my computer spontaneously shut down and refused to restart (as it is wont to do, old piece of rubbish). Blogger auto-saves so all was not lost, but even so, my string of expletives was definitely not "very happy." I have a brand-spanking new tablet PC on order, though, and when it arrives later this week I may well go practically Icelandic with joy. Yay?
I didn't look through the entire list, but this was followed by scores more books offering to show me how I, too, could learn always to see the world through rose-coloured glasses. And, really, isn't that a worthy--perhaps even necessary--aspiration? Wilson describes the current cultural ethos as one in which
At the moment, happiness is a preoccupation of everyone from bio-scientists to philosophers and sociologists, psychologists to mass media and Joe Q public. Worldwide, people are being asked: in the greater scheme of things, just how happy would you say you are? The most recent stats I could find (www.nationmaster.com) had Icelanders at the top of the list, with a full 94% of citizens rating themselves as either "quite" or "very" happy with life taken as a whole. The U.K. clocked in at #9 (87% are happy here); the U.S. at #13 (84%); Canada at #17 (75%). At the very bottom of the 50-nation list? Bulgaria, with a score of -24%; over half the Bulgarians surveyed had claimed to either be"not very" or even "not at all" happy with life in general.
Now, I realise that these stats are influenced by any number of factors which I have neither the expertise nor inclination to discuss (phrasing of both the question and the multiple-choice answers; how these were understood by respondents; when, how, and by whom the question was asked; differing cultural values and norms; etc.) Taking the above poll at face value, though, one might take happiness to be an objective, quantifiable subject.
It's not. Happiness is a subjective state, and what I find interesting is the way it's become the only state that someone (OK, a lot of someones) seems to think we ought to be in. I understand that replacing negative thought patterns with more positive ones is a basic principle of cognitive psychology, and I don't discount the value of this. I'm not anti-happiness (and I certainly don't mean to minimise or glorify serious depression, which I view as separate issue entirely), I just wonder...shouldn't emotions be spontaneous rather than conditioned responses to stimuli?
For example, how am I feeling right now? It's mid-afternoon on a rainy British Sunday (is there any other kind? but I digress), and how I came to be writing this was that I surfed to www.aldaily.com and stumbled upon the essay mentioned at the top of my post. Nothing wrong with that, but right now I should really be tidying up the flat--I've had friends over the past couple of nights and things are in a state of casual disarray; I haven't seen the top of my desk in weeks for piles of paper, books, receipts, post-it notes, lists, etc. To my left is a stack of scripts, which reminds me: I'd planned to finish reading those today and choose which ones to use with my 9/10 Drama class. We're starting that unit on Wednesday and--come to think of it--I need to redo the lesson plans for the next three weeks. There was a, ahem, change of direction, and my scheme of work on devising had to be shelved. As for re-planning the unit, well, with all the packing of my office, schlepping back and forth between the old and new (we're in there as of tomorrow) campuses, who's had time? That's not quite true. I've actually had far too much free time during the work day this month (long story), which I haven't really used nearly as productively as I should've; too much free time has fomented boredom; the aimless flipping through of books, articles, the 'net; starting work on one thing but then abandoning it for something else. In short, I've raised raised procrastination to an art. As for the wasted time, I really do wish I'd used it more productively. On the other hand...
Bloody hell, that train of thought could go on forever! And yes, I've just stopped it (glanced down at the time, I really need to get on with things other than this), but it's already reminded me of the capital-m Mood I was in for much of last week. Oy, and all this work I still need to do...
If the World Institute of Happiness was to ring me this very moment, I'm not sure I'd tell them I was feeling "very happy." But so what? Again, I'm not talking about the separate and serious issue of deep depression, but do I really need to be ecstatically joyful all the time? Can't I sometimes just feel "meh"? Last week I was more than meh, I was "grrrrr," maybe even "GRRRRR!" When I first got back to England after Christmas in Canada, I was a bit sad. Does all this mean I'd best navigate back to Amazon and order Happiness? It is, after all, a guide to "life's most important skill"...
Thing is, I think being Happy! all the time wouldn't really be very happy at all. Wouldn't it get rather dull? If I trained myself not to feel anything but happy, how would I even recognise moments of random joy such as those I experienced last night with friends? Would I fully enjoy the serenity I felt this morning after going for a run on my favourite trail in a warm mist of rain? Is perpetually soaring at the heights of bliss a definitively better option than occasionally dropping into a pocket of despair? If it's my constant state, doesn't "happy" actually mean "neutral"?
In short, I won't be taking Matthieu Ricard et. al up on their offers to--for only £6.74 + SH!--train me in the art (though it should be noted that they usually call their brand of it a science) of Happy. I did, however, order Christopher Lane's Shyness: How Normal Behaviour Became a Sickness. Cosmetic pharmacology and the medicalisation of basic personality traits? Don't get me started...
NOTE: Just as I was about to hit "publish post," my computer spontaneously shut down and refused to restart (as it is wont to do, old piece of rubbish). Blogger auto-saves so all was not lost, but even so, my string of expletives was definitely not "very happy." I have a brand-spanking new tablet PC on order, though, and when it arrives later this week I may well go practically Icelandic with joy. Yay?
Friday, 18 January 2008
a silver lining?
So I hop on the treadmill yesterday, glance up at the telly, and every single screen--with the exception of #5, which continued their coverage of some cricket match, bless them--is showing a plane on the ground but distinctly not on a runway, and...well, looking a little beat up. iPod goes off, I plug into the audio, and I learn that British Airways flight 038, Beijing to London, has just crashed a short distance from Heathrow terminal 4.
I flipped between several stations as I ran and, less than an hour after the plane had gone down, a few theories were floating: engine failure? landing gear malfunction? caught in an unexpected air current? pilot error? Of terrorism, though, nary a word.
While all stations, from BBC and CNN to regional and local networks, talked to aviation specialists, eyewitnesses and others about the cause of the crash, what reporters and their interview subjects spent the most time on was the "wow" factor: a plane fell out of the sky and into a field, yet not a single life was lost and (at least initially), only three minor injuries had been reported. BA038 didn't hit its mark on a runway, but neither did it hit any of the homes in the residential areas it had descended perilously close to nor cars on the busy roads nearby. Yes, it looked a little worse for the wear as it lay belly-in-mud in a field, no landing gear visible, but it was essentially in one piece, neither torn to pieces nor engulfed in flames. A plane crash of any kind can haredly be described as minor, but looking at this one..."wow" indeed.
I was struck by how positive the reports were. Above all else, they focused on the fact that true disaster had been averted, and--even as "pilot error" remained a possibility during those first hours--what a credit this was to the captain and his entire crew. It was refreshing. I've become so accustomed to the "who can we blame?!" (typical answer: despicable Jihad warriors) mentality that permeates so many parts of today's world that listening to the first-on-the-scene media look instead for "who did something right" was something of a "wow" itself.
Maybe there's hope for us yet.
I flipped between several stations as I ran and, less than an hour after the plane had gone down, a few theories were floating: engine failure? landing gear malfunction? caught in an unexpected air current? pilot error? Of terrorism, though, nary a word.
While all stations, from BBC and CNN to regional and local networks, talked to aviation specialists, eyewitnesses and others about the cause of the crash, what reporters and their interview subjects spent the most time on was the "wow" factor: a plane fell out of the sky and into a field, yet not a single life was lost and (at least initially), only three minor injuries had been reported. BA038 didn't hit its mark on a runway, but neither did it hit any of the homes in the residential areas it had descended perilously close to nor cars on the busy roads nearby. Yes, it looked a little worse for the wear as it lay belly-in-mud in a field, no landing gear visible, but it was essentially in one piece, neither torn to pieces nor engulfed in flames. A plane crash of any kind can haredly be described as minor, but looking at this one..."wow" indeed.
I was struck by how positive the reports were. Above all else, they focused on the fact that true disaster had been averted, and--even as "pilot error" remained a possibility during those first hours--what a credit this was to the captain and his entire crew. It was refreshing. I've become so accustomed to the "who can we blame?!" (typical answer: despicable Jihad warriors) mentality that permeates so many parts of today's world that listening to the first-on-the-scene media look instead for "who did something right" was something of a "wow" itself.
Maybe there's hope for us yet.
Friday, 7 September 2007
Learning from students
Some of my favourite moments in teaching are those in which I realise how much my students are teaching me. The first week back is always rough; at my school it's been especially difficult this year. The powers that be have decided to be "innovative" (idiotic?) and implement three-hour lessons this year.
Needless to say, staff and students alike are going through some growing pains with this. As a professional I've done my best to maintain a positive outlook, but to be honest it's been a stretch. Given my own frustration, I would more than understand if students started to rebel...in fact, I almost expect them to.
The reason I made it through this week with my insanity (almost) intact, though, is that they haven't. They've risen to the challenge, and as tough as three-hour lessons are, they seem to be working. I'd like to take the credit for that, but it's my students who are making it happen.
I was beyond touched when one of my y10 students, a boy of 15, approached me after lesson to tell me that he was going to keep working hard because he "trusted me." I gave a confused "ummm...thanks?" response, so he elaborated: he likes drama with me because I push him enough to help him improve, but never so much that he'll fail. So...if I was the one saying we could do drama for three hours, then he wasn't going to "let me down."
Sometimes I wish I was allowed to hug students. Sure, Ben's words were flattering to me as a teacher, but they meant a lot more than that. They reminded me of a lesson I'm ashamed to say I'd forgotten during the course of this crazy week: you get from students what you give them. Similarly, they tend to meet your expectations of them, whether that means rising or falling to get there. No matter how difficult this year may prove to be, it's going to work so long as my students and I both keep trusting and challenging each other to do our best and then do better. Thanks kids, I wouldn't make it through this year without you!
Needless to say, staff and students alike are going through some growing pains with this. As a professional I've done my best to maintain a positive outlook, but to be honest it's been a stretch. Given my own frustration, I would more than understand if students started to rebel...in fact, I almost expect them to.
The reason I made it through this week with my insanity (almost) intact, though, is that they haven't. They've risen to the challenge, and as tough as three-hour lessons are, they seem to be working. I'd like to take the credit for that, but it's my students who are making it happen.
I was beyond touched when one of my y10 students, a boy of 15, approached me after lesson to tell me that he was going to keep working hard because he "trusted me." I gave a confused "ummm...thanks?" response, so he elaborated: he likes drama with me because I push him enough to help him improve, but never so much that he'll fail. So...if I was the one saying we could do drama for three hours, then he wasn't going to "let me down."
Sometimes I wish I was allowed to hug students. Sure, Ben's words were flattering to me as a teacher, but they meant a lot more than that. They reminded me of a lesson I'm ashamed to say I'd forgotten during the course of this crazy week: you get from students what you give them. Similarly, they tend to meet your expectations of them, whether that means rising or falling to get there. No matter how difficult this year may prove to be, it's going to work so long as my students and I both keep trusting and challenging each other to do our best and then do better. Thanks kids, I wouldn't make it through this year without you!
Wednesday, 11 July 2007
I love, love, love teaching drama, and sometimes am even enamoured with teaching it in high school rather than uni.
I hate, hate, hate the following:
-"Must be nice to get to spend the day playing instead of working." (WFT?! Yes, I often truly enjoy my job and have a great time with some of the assignments, but I'd REALLY like to have the geniuses who say things like this teach just one drama lesson...or be in charge of just one field trip to West End London where a lost child is probaby very hard to find)
-"I shoulda been a teacher--wicked holidays!" (Fine, by all means...what's stopping you? Have fun in teacher's college!)
- "At least you don't have marking to worry about like I do." (Really? Crap, I wish someone had told me earlier--could've saved me a LOT of time!)
-"What do you mean you've got to do your lesson plans? Just tell them to be trees or something." (Perhaps you and the genius who thinks I play all day can co-teach a lesson...can I watch?)
Ah, whatever...on days like today when I'm both swamped (term reports due Friday, grading to finish, performance showcases to help with, etc., etc., etc!) and tired (didn't get home till 23:30 last night because I was making sure children didn't get lost in London) I get a little cranky.
In general, though, teaching isn't a profession I chose in order to impress anyone; if certain individuals want to believe that teaching drama is a paid holiday so be it. At the end of most days, I probably DID have more fun than a lot of people do whilst at work, and it doesn't really cost me anything to privately mock those who think I play all day, smile sweetly at them, and inwardly smirk over the fact that if they didn't hate their own jobs they probably wouldn't take shots at mine.
I hate, hate, hate the following:
-"Must be nice to get to spend the day playing instead of working." (WFT?! Yes, I often truly enjoy my job and have a great time with some of the assignments, but I'd REALLY like to have the geniuses who say things like this teach just one drama lesson...or be in charge of just one field trip to West End London where a lost child is probaby very hard to find)
-"I shoulda been a teacher--wicked holidays!" (Fine, by all means...what's stopping you? Have fun in teacher's college!)
- "At least you don't have marking to worry about like I do." (Really? Crap, I wish someone had told me earlier--could've saved me a LOT of time!)
-"What do you mean you've got to do your lesson plans? Just tell them to be trees or something." (Perhaps you and the genius who thinks I play all day can co-teach a lesson...can I watch?)
Ah, whatever...on days like today when I'm both swamped (term reports due Friday, grading to finish, performance showcases to help with, etc., etc., etc!) and tired (didn't get home till 23:30 last night because I was making sure children didn't get lost in London) I get a little cranky.
In general, though, teaching isn't a profession I chose in order to impress anyone; if certain individuals want to believe that teaching drama is a paid holiday so be it. At the end of most days, I probably DID have more fun than a lot of people do whilst at work, and it doesn't really cost me anything to privately mock those who think I play all day, smile sweetly at them, and inwardly smirk over the fact that if they didn't hate their own jobs they probably wouldn't take shots at mine.
Saturday, 30 June 2007
It's not as though I'd want to panic, right?
A dear friend of mine moved to Mexico City last year; exciting for her and somewhat nerve-wracking for me. Ka hates that I do this, but I check up constantly and send links to travel advisories, crime stats, terrifying news articles about the level of violence in Mexico...I'm glad she's enjoying herself there, of course, but I can't help wishing that she lived somewhere safer.
Like England...or not...Ka popped up on MSN earlier with "So who needs to move somewhere safer?" On Friday, London's West End became impenetrable when police found a pair of DIY bombs--abandoned Mercedes containing gas cylinders, petrol, and nails--rigged to go off as clubs emptied that night. Yesterday, two men attempted to crash a Jeep Cherokee--also primed to explode--into a passenger terminal at Glasgow Airport. Things were already tense, what with 7 July being the two-year anniversary of the London train bombings, but these events tipped the scale: in the language of U.K. terror-alerts, the situation is officially "critical."
I knew all this before Ka's message today, yet for some reason it took me a minute to figure out what she was on about. What's nagging me now is not fear that something might happen, but perplexion that I'm so blasé about it all. Blasé's the wrong word, maybe more...oblivious? Or, to be cynical, jaded?
If I actually stop and think about the entire situation, or even just these most recent events, of course I'm affected. Unless I make a point of doing so, though, it might as well be news about the price of tea in China.
My idealistic side suggests this (non) reaction is just my brain's way of protecting me; I couldn't possibly live and function in this society if I experienced the full range of emotions typically associated with imminent and credible threats of danger, and daily flight-or-fight responses would damage if not destroy me, psychologically and physiologically both. Acknowledgement is impractical.
My realistic side suggests that I don't react because I'm immune. Terror plots, bombs that do detonate, wars and casualties, ideology and hatred...all of these things are as certain as death and taxes. When I lived in Canada the worst terror-level was "red," and it applied to our American neighbours not ourselves. "Critical" vs. "red" is just semantics/semiotics, and my idyllic English village is only a few miles from this ugly neighbour, but is it really any different?
I'm in awe of our ability to adapt, and surprised by how quickly the exceptional becomes the norm. I'm also sad that bombs and terror alerts now constitute that norm, and that a terror plot that's already been foiled doesn't even feel like headline news. I don't think I like where we're headed...
Like England...or not...Ka popped up on MSN earlier with "So who needs to move somewhere safer?" On Friday, London's West End became impenetrable when police found a pair of DIY bombs--abandoned Mercedes containing gas cylinders, petrol, and nails--rigged to go off as clubs emptied that night. Yesterday, two men attempted to crash a Jeep Cherokee--also primed to explode--into a passenger terminal at Glasgow Airport. Things were already tense, what with 7 July being the two-year anniversary of the London train bombings, but these events tipped the scale: in the language of U.K. terror-alerts, the situation is officially "critical."
I knew all this before Ka's message today, yet for some reason it took me a minute to figure out what she was on about. What's nagging me now is not fear that something might happen, but perplexion that I'm so blasé about it all. Blasé's the wrong word, maybe more...oblivious? Or, to be cynical, jaded?
If I actually stop and think about the entire situation, or even just these most recent events, of course I'm affected. Unless I make a point of doing so, though, it might as well be news about the price of tea in China.
My idealistic side suggests this (non) reaction is just my brain's way of protecting me; I couldn't possibly live and function in this society if I experienced the full range of emotions typically associated with imminent and credible threats of danger, and daily flight-or-fight responses would damage if not destroy me, psychologically and physiologically both. Acknowledgement is impractical.
My realistic side suggests that I don't react because I'm immune. Terror plots, bombs that do detonate, wars and casualties, ideology and hatred...all of these things are as certain as death and taxes. When I lived in Canada the worst terror-level was "red," and it applied to our American neighbours not ourselves. "Critical" vs. "red" is just semantics/semiotics, and my idyllic English village is only a few miles from this ugly neighbour, but is it really any different?
I'm in awe of our ability to adapt, and surprised by how quickly the exceptional becomes the norm. I'm also sad that bombs and terror alerts now constitute that norm, and that a terror plot that's already been foiled doesn't even feel like headline news. I don't think I like where we're headed...
Thursday, 14 June 2007
From luddite to blogger
Since I've been in England I've changed in lots of ways, one being my comfort level with the virtual world of tech (surely there's a far hipper term for it but cutting-edge cool has never been my claim to fame). In Canada, I resisted getting a cell phone for years...I think what initially put me off them was the expectation that if you had one, people could reach you any time and any place they wanted to. Worse that, that they should reach you any time and any place, regardless of what they were calling about.
I took a senior theatre production class at uni, and getting a cell phone was actually required: when you were running some aspect of a show, people needed to be able to reach you. Fair enough, I figured; it's what would be expected if I held such a position in the "real world," so why not get used to it now. I reckon that in the real world I wouldn't have thrown my phone, screamed at it to shut up and leave me alone, accidentally-on-purpose forgot to charge it or take it with me, and generally cursed it's existence as much as I did whilst I worked on my major show for DRAM445 (though I was stage managing, and so it's very possible that theatre professionals would have driven me equally insane if not more than the folks at school).
I'm sure some of it was the relative novelty factor, this being before everyone had a cell, and more of it was probably legit than my selective memory allows: the tech director confirming the location of the production meeting, or one of the actors letting me know they were running late to rehearsal, for example, probably reduced stress rather than create it. I think the call that best epitomises my time with cell #1, though, is this little treasure:
ME: (barely conscious) uhh...mmm...yeah, hello?
MR.X: (very loud, excessively awake) Aim, how's it goin'? Was the phone off or
something? This is like the third time I've called. Whatcha doin'?
ME: I..uhh..right, you were...uhh...
MR.X: What's wrong with your cell? You sound weird--hey, go stand closer to a window,
maybe that'll fix it. (long pause) Aim? You still there?
ME: Wha...oh, umm yeah, I....uhh...
MR.X: (surprised) Shit, did I wake you up or something? Sorry, Aim, just needed to--
ME: (striving for professionalism) No, of course, what's up?
MR.X: Right, you know daylight savings time? Does it start today?
ME: (thoroughly confused) Does what? What are you talking about X?
MR.X: (playfully) What, are you like hungover or something? WAKE UP!!! Daylight savings
time--is that, like, on now?
ME: (through gritted teeth) Daylight savings time? That's why you're calling me?
MR X: (unwittingly playing the role of 'moron' to a T) Yeah, I mean, I can never remember
what day to change the clocks on 'cos my mom used to always keep track of that stuff and
I just thought you're all organised and stuff so you probably--
ME: (torn between praying for my own death and thinking living through the hangover's
worth it if it will give me a chance to kill X later) Would be a good person to call at nine-o-
fucking clock on Sunday morning to check if you were being an even bigger fuckwad than
you'd realised and actually calling at eight-o-clock instead? Is that it?
MR. X: (somehow genuinely surprised) Oh, uhh...you sound kinda pissed. Umm...well I uh...
y'know, I just though you're, like, the Stage Manager so you'd probably know, so--
A series of beeps as call is ended and cell turned off. A muffled thud as it accidentally
crashes into an area rug rather than the hardwood floor it was thrown at. The
treasured sound of silence; quick fade to black.
Wow, that memory is chillingly clear even these many years later. Reliving it actually tweaked an urge to...I don't know, hurt good old "X." I suppose I'll settle for poking him on Facebook, or maybe he's downloaded SuperPoke and I can dropkick him and throw a sheep instead.
Yes, in addition to a fancy camera/video/mp3/Bluetooth mobile phone (Brits look at me like I'm nuts if I slip and call one a cell) on which I text constantly and talk ocassionally, and old-fashioned forms of communication like MSN messenger and email, I now keep in touch with X et al. via Facebook (hey, some people still don't have Skype, and I can't run it on my work laptop anyways), and...have apparently crossed a line I swore many times I never would and become one of those people--the ones that blog. For now, let's stick with the theory that it's just a England-induced phase I'm going through...
I took a senior theatre production class at uni, and getting a cell phone was actually required: when you were running some aspect of a show, people needed to be able to reach you. Fair enough, I figured; it's what would be expected if I held such a position in the "real world," so why not get used to it now. I reckon that in the real world I wouldn't have thrown my phone, screamed at it to shut up and leave me alone, accidentally-on-purpose forgot to charge it or take it with me, and generally cursed it's existence as much as I did whilst I worked on my major show for DRAM445 (though I was stage managing, and so it's very possible that theatre professionals would have driven me equally insane if not more than the folks at school).
I'm sure some of it was the relative novelty factor, this being before everyone had a cell, and more of it was probably legit than my selective memory allows: the tech director confirming the location of the production meeting, or one of the actors letting me know they were running late to rehearsal, for example, probably reduced stress rather than create it. I think the call that best epitomises my time with cell #1, though, is this little treasure:
Really freaking early on a Sunday morning, after we'd all been out for a
post-rehearsal drink or ten the previous night. Phone rings loudly, simultaneously
blaring the prelude the Beethoven's 9th in full analog glory and causing the night-
stand to quake thanks to ever-handy 'vibrate' feature. Ignored, it starts to
beep insistently thanks to even handier 'missed call notification.' The
beep is soon overpowered by an encore of the Ode.
post-rehearsal drink or ten the previous night. Phone rings loudly, simultaneously
blaring the prelude the Beethoven's 9th in full analog glory and causing the night-
stand to quake thanks to ever-handy 'vibrate' feature. Ignored, it starts to
beep insistently thanks to even handier 'missed call notification.' The
beep is soon overpowered by an encore of the Ode.
ME: (barely conscious) uhh...mmm...yeah, hello?
MR.X: (very loud, excessively awake) Aim, how's it goin'? Was the phone off or
something? This is like the third time I've called. Whatcha doin'?
ME: I..uhh..right, you were...uhh...
MR.X: What's wrong with your cell? You sound weird--hey, go stand closer to a window,
maybe that'll fix it. (long pause) Aim? You still there?
ME: Wha...oh, umm yeah, I....uhh...
MR.X: (surprised) Shit, did I wake you up or something? Sorry, Aim, just needed to--
ME: (striving for professionalism) No, of course, what's up?
MR.X: Right, you know daylight savings time? Does it start today?
ME: (thoroughly confused) Does what? What are you talking about X?
MR.X: (playfully) What, are you like hungover or something? WAKE UP!!! Daylight savings
time--is that, like, on now?
ME: (through gritted teeth) Daylight savings time? That's why you're calling me?
MR X: (unwittingly playing the role of 'moron' to a T) Yeah, I mean, I can never remember
what day to change the clocks on 'cos my mom used to always keep track of that stuff and
I just thought you're all organised and stuff so you probably--
ME: (torn between praying for my own death and thinking living through the hangover's
worth it if it will give me a chance to kill X later) Would be a good person to call at nine-o-
fucking clock on Sunday morning to check if you were being an even bigger fuckwad than
you'd realised and actually calling at eight-o-clock instead? Is that it?
MR. X: (somehow genuinely surprised) Oh, uhh...you sound kinda pissed. Umm...well I uh...
y'know, I just though you're, like, the Stage Manager so you'd probably know, so--
A series of beeps as call is ended and cell turned off. A muffled thud as it accidentally
crashes into an area rug rather than the hardwood floor it was thrown at. The
treasured sound of silence; quick fade to black.
Wow, that memory is chillingly clear even these many years later. Reliving it actually tweaked an urge to...I don't know, hurt good old "X." I suppose I'll settle for poking him on Facebook, or maybe he's downloaded SuperPoke and I can dropkick him and throw a sheep instead.
Yes, in addition to a fancy camera/video/mp3/Bluetooth mobile phone (Brits look at me like I'm nuts if I slip and call one a cell) on which I text constantly and talk ocassionally, and old-fashioned forms of communication like MSN messenger and email, I now keep in touch with X et al. via Facebook (hey, some people still don't have Skype, and I can't run it on my work laptop anyways), and...have apparently crossed a line I swore many times I never would and become one of those people--the ones that blog. For now, let's stick with the theory that it's just a England-induced phase I'm going through...
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