This morning, my cell phone rang at 7:45am. That’s not normally an issue, except that last night was a performance night, and I was starving by the time we finished, plus various well-wishers kept stopping us on the street as we walked home. That’s the blessing of both living in a small town and walking everywhere. Anyway, shortly after we got home, we left for Shari’s and their chocolate cream pie, which meant I was not in bed until well after midnight. So this morning’s phone call was early for me.
However, it was my new landlady, calling to say that the current tenants are moving out of my apartment and that I need to call to get the gas and electric switched over to my name so I don’t have to be without once I’m there. (She was terribly apologetic once she realized the time. It was late morning for her, and I am usually up by 7:30am, just not this morning.)
And just like the realization that slammed into me on Monday, that I’ve only got three weeks or so left here, this conversation made the whole Chicago move that much more real. It’s happening, I’ve just signed up for gas and electric service. Such prosaic actions that this must be real.
I’m turning my life upside down. In three weeks, we’re filling a moving van, stuffing the cats into the car and driving to Chicago. I have an apartment. I don’t have a job. Yet. I’m also not packed. Yet. I’m hyperventilating a little and feeling a bit dizzy.
Wow, I really hope this is the right decision.
I also hope they actually let me leave. For so long I’ve felt trapped in this town and this life, and now I’m finally getting out. But there’s a part of me that wonders if I’ll actually get to, or if at the last minute something will stop me and I’ll discover that I really do have to spend the rest of my life here.
Of course, now that I’m leaving, now that it’s becoming real in my head, as the end of my tenure here looms, I find myself questioning that decision. Because it’s what I do. I’ve been lucky here in some ways. I’ve been able to teach, which I’d like to continue doing because I love it so much, though so far, no bites. I’ve been able to participate in the Jazz Festival and rub shoulders with jazz legends like James Moody and greats like Benny Green and up-and-comers like Graham Dechter and the talent that is Jose Rizo’s Latin Jazz All-Stars. I’ve been lucky enough to do a couple of shows a year (though I’d like to do more–this year’s four is a happier number for me than the two a year I was doing for a bit there). So there are things I will miss about Moscow.
I’ll miss working with Rob Caisley, one of the most talented theatre storytellers it has been my privilege to be directed by so far.
I’ll miss Wheatberry’s Bakery and their cinnamon rolls and perfect sugar cookies. (God, how I will miss the sugar cookies.)
I’ll miss teaching my core classes. I love those freshmen (and others) like they’re my babies. Thank goodness so many of them want to keep in touch. Watching them grow and discover themselves over the course of their first year has been such a gift and a blessing. I really hope someone lets me teach again soon. It’s one of the best experiences I’ve ever had.
I’ll miss wildlife in the yard and seeing the stars. I won’t miss the air quality because it’s not as good as you might think country air would be.
I’ll miss David. God, will I miss David. He’ll be in Chicago for my birthday. And I’ll come back here for the opening of his show. But it will be a hard, hard separation. I’m remembering how tough it was for us when I first moved here six years ago and we saw each other for one week out of every five or so. This is a much longer separation over a much greater distance, and I am NOT looking forward to it.
But really, that’s about it. I’ve worked very hard to not root too deeply in this community, since it has only ever been a temporary home for me. I knew I wouldn’t want to stay here from the moment I arrived for my graduate school audition. Though the Palouse is beautiful, this is a very small, very isolated place, and I am a city girl. I always have been. Even growing up in little Boise, Idaho, I knew I wanted to be in a bigger, busier setting. I just hope my city edge and instincts haven’t been too dulled by the six years I spent here, in this friendly, small-town place.
As a result, and also because I’ve never really fit in here anyway, I’ve been terribly, terribly lonely. There aren’t many artists here my age. Very few, in fact, and the non-artist people here who are my age have other things going on in their lives. So even though I have lived in this tiny, close-seeming community, I’ve had very few friends, and really, only one non-Dave confidant. There have been very few people here who “get” me. Students are great, but they’re also young and transient, just getting started in this weird, wonderful artists’ life.
Thank God for the internet. If it weren’t for marvelous, supportive women like Heather and Laura and Vicki and Amy, I don’t know how I would have survived. Because getting out for breaks hasn’t been much of an option either. At least not during the academic year.
I know my Chicago friends all have their own lives, as I will have mine, but when I was in town apartment hunting last month, I re-discovered the joys of sitting in a room and having a conversation with someone who understands me. I had long, lovely heart-to-hearts with both Rebecca and Heather, and those moments were the very best of the trip. And soon I’ll be able to do that once a month at least. In the case of Rebecca, perhaps more, since she lives less than a mile from my new apartment.
There’s still so much up in the air about this move. When we’ll actually get to town, how I’m going to get my stuff from the storage facility where the movers will leave it to my third floor walk-up, how I’m going to earn some money, when/whether I’ll get to act again, when/whether I’ll get to teach again, how to make a long-distance marriage work, so many things I won’t be able to figure out until much closer to the move date or even after, as I settle in there.
But there are also things I already know, and probably the most important piece of knowledge is that I have a ready-made community of people who do “get” me in Chicago. And that makes up for a whole lot.

Dear God. What an odd set of nightmares I had this morning.
To preface, I am having brunch at 10:30 with one of the Men I Love. Right after the show closes, he’s moving to Minneapolis to join his wife who’s already there. And shortly thereafter, I’m moving to Chicago. We’ll only be six or seven hours apart by train or car, but it’s not just down the street or across town anymore. I’ll miss him. Lots.
I’ve been looking forward to this brunch all week, but that’s because of the menu. I only asked him to join me last night before the show when I discovered Dave wouldn’t be available. Well, I thought, if Dave can’t, maybe James will want to. He did. (Not surprisingly. He loves good food too, and this should be Very Good food.) So I called and left a message requesting reservations for 10:30 this morning. I did not hear back from the restaurant, even though their phone message states that they will call back to confirm. We’ve assumed it’s on anyway. I’m very excited. (And at this point, hungry.)
But in the end it’s only brunch, so why was it the focus of not one, but TWO anxiety dreams last night? Seriously. Two mild nightmares about not getting brunch.
In the first, I woke up once, then went back to sleep, and didn’t wake up again until 1:30pm. I was terribly distraught. No one had even thought to wake me, despite knowing how very very important this brunch was to me. There were a number of people I held responsible for that, though I’m not sure why.
In the second dream, James and I made it to brunch on time, though the space inside the restaurant was more like a mountain ski lodge than a teeny French bistro. Just as we were seated at our table, menus in hand but not opened, every one in the building heard a distant rumbling. “AVALANCHE!” someone yelled. I moved to a window and saw a wall of snow pouring down the mountainside at us. We all hurried downstairs to the bar (the dream-restaurant was built into the side of a hill, so the bar was shielded by mountain wall on the avalanche side of the building). But we still felt the thud as the avalanche hit the building and watched the snow pour into and over the parking lot. (The bar had floor to ceiling windows of the parking lot for some reason). We all immediately began trying to make calls on our cell phones, to make sure loved ones had survived the onslaught. Then I woke up, STILL not having had my brunch.
So, what the HELL? Two anxiety dreams about missing out on brunch? I mean, I’ve been looking forward to it and all, but still, it’s brunch. It’s not a performance or an important meeting. It’s fucking brunch.
Anyone want to explain?

Sigh. Back again. Finally. Finally I feel like writing and finally I have the time.
I think my issue was simply one of having too much on my plate. Romeo & Juliet has taken so much of my time and energy that I just haven’t felt like doing much of anything else. All I will say about it here is that it has not been an easy or particularly pleasant process. I don’t want to turn this space into a bitch-fest. Plus, I don’t want to scare audiences away. I think the show will be lovely. Our Juliet is a tremendously talented actor, she’s just stunning, and our Romeo is full of boyish earnestness. The fights are amazing, and Mercutio rocks the house. So you should attend one of our performances if you can.
Anyway, we open tonight, and after a late-starting final dress (some cast members are in High School Musical, which ran last night, and we couldn’t start our run until they had time to get into costumes and makeup for our show) and a session of notes that lasted until 12:30am, we were released until 6:30 this evening. Since Dave and I have been walking to and from the theatre, which takes roughly 40 minutes, and our first rehearsal was at 9am yesterday, following a late night the previous evening, we stumbled home like a couple of drunks. We were so tired we couldn’t pick our feet up or manage to walk a straight line.
Once home, I changed the cats’ water, did the standard getting ready for bed things (brush teeth, remove contacts, wash face, moisturize) and flopped onto the bed, where I passed out before I could get under the covers. I only know this because I woke up when Dave took my glasses off my face. I slept like the dead until 9:30 this morning.
And now I have a whole day ahead of me, since I don’t need to be at the theatre until 5:30. My call is actually 6:30, but I like to do a long and thorough vocal warmup, made doubly important by the show being outside. Plus, today I’ve placed myself on vocal rest, which means no talking at all until I start warming up for the show, and an extra gentle and thorough warmup to get my voice ready to work.
Because of the layout of the performance space, I can’t tell whether my volume is appropriate (normally, I just bounce my voice off the walls, but there aren’t any walls here), and I wasn’t able to get good feedback about it from Dave (no time) until last weekend, when the bellowing was already in my sense-memory. So now I shout even if I don’t intend to. As a result, last night, what with not getting quiiiiiite enough water to drink (dehydration has been an issue for me the entire time I’ve lived here, I’m not sure why) and the yelling for two hours at a time two times a day for several days’ worth of rehearsals and the exhaustion which manifested itself in poor vocal support, I ended up hoarse by the end of last night’s run. Not good. The remedy is to spend a whole bunch of time not talking. Which is what I’m doing today and possibly tomorrow. Thank GOD for texting, is all I have to say to that.
But as I said above–Jesus, I sound like the Nurse–I have a whole day ahead of me to do anything I want to do, and the first thing I wanted to do (apres-breakfast, anyway), was post here. Which has not been my impulse for the past few weeks. I’m glad. That I wanted to post again. I’ve been afraid that this was signalling the end of Sallyacious, and since I’m creeping up on the five year mark* (I KNOW!!! ), that would have been a tragedy. A small and personal tragedy, to be sure, but a tragedy nonetheless.
Anyway, I’m back, and I should be posting (semi-)regularly again. Provided I can find something to say. Now, I’m going to clean up my kitchen/studio space and paint, I think. Or I might just sit here and stare at things. Both are equally tempting at this point.
* We’ll have to have a party or something, only a small one, because most of the furniture and kitchen appliances and utensils will be packed by then. So it’ll probably be BYOB and BYOSnacks and BYOChairs and BYOmusic… You get the idea.

I just love this poem. I love it so much. I love that Clive James has expressed a universal human foible in such a beautiful way. A psalm to spite. How could you not adore it?
The Book of My Enemy Has Been Remaindered
by Clive James
The book of my enemy has been remaindered
And I am pleased.
In vast quantities it has been remaindered.
Like a van-load of counterfeit that has been seized
And sits in piles in a police warehouse,
My enemy’s much-praised effort sits in piles
In the kind of bookshop where remaindering occurs.
Great, square stacks of rejected books and, between them, aisles
One passes down reflecting on life’s vanities,
Pausing to remember all those thoughtful reviews
Lavished to no avail upon one’s enemy’s book—
For behold, here is that book
Among these ranks and the banks of duds,
These ponderous and seemingly irreducible cairns
Of complete stiffs.
The book of my enemy has been remaindered
And I rejoice.
It has gone with bowed head like a defeated legion
Beneath the yoke.
What avail him now his awards and prizes,
The praise expended upon his meticulous technique,
His individual new voice?
Knocked into the middle of next week
His brainchild now consorts with the bad buys,
The sinkers, clinkers, dogs and dregs,
The Edsels of the world of movable type,
The bummers that no amount of hype could shift,
The unbudgeable turkeys.
Yea, his slim volume with its understated wrapper
Bathes in the glare of the brightly jacketed Hitler’s War Machine,
His unmistakably individual new voice
Shares the same scrapyard with a forlorn skyscraper
Of The Kung-Fu Cookbook,
His honesty, proclaimed by himself and believed in by others,
His renowned abhorrence of all posturing and pretence,
Is there with Pertwee’s Promenades and Pierrots—
One Hundred Years of Seaside Entertainment,
And (oh, this above all) his sensibility,
His sensibility and its hair-like filaments,
His delicate, quivering sensibility is now as one
With Barbara Windsor’s Book of Boobs,
A volume graced by the descriptive rubric
‘My boobs will give everyone hours of fun’.
Soon now a book of mine could be remaindered also,
Though not to the monumental extent
In which the chastisement of remaindering has been meted out
To the book of my enemy,
Since in the case of my own book it will be due
To a miscalculated print run, a marketing error—
Nothing to do with merit.
But just supposing that such an event should hold
Some slight element of sadness, it will be offset
By the memory of this sweet moment.
Chill the champagne and polish the crystal goblets!
The book of my enemy has been remaindered
And I am glad.
“The Book of My Enemy Has Been Remaindered” by Clive James from Opal Sunset: Selected Poems, 1958–2008. © W.W. Norton & Company, 2008.
Source.

Go here. Smaller Fish is Dave’s blog, and he’s been taking photos (and video) at rehearsal. I’ve been posting pix to my Twitter feed, so you can see my point of view too, if’n yer innerested. Long days, hot days. Glorious days of work and discovery and joy.

Today is my last day off. Starting tomorrow, I have rehearsals from 9-4 until we open on the 24th. And NEXT week, we add in evenings. So I’m going to see what I can manage to get done today in the way of laundry, cleaning and so-forth, because it’s going to be a loong two weeks.

Just saw the new Star Trek. Yeah, I know, I’m the last person in America to have seen it for the first time. I don’t care. I fucking loved it. What an awesome movie. Solid writing, fantastic special effects, decent performances, some lovely tips of the hat to the original series, all-in-all, a really great summer blockbuster. Even though we saw it in the teeny “art house” theatre downtown. It was still hellaciously good fun.
At one moment, I thought Dave was going to fully geek out. He was practically seizing he was so excited.
And to think 1) we almost didn’t go tonight, it’s been a long week for Dave and he was TI-UHRD, and 2) as I watched the audience fill up the theatre, I worried that I might not enjoy the movie. I was definitely out of place in that crowd. Foolish, foolish me. I had a ball.
Kudos to J.J. Abrams and crew. I should have known you wouldn’t let us down.

It’s only a little after 11am, but I am already feeling like I got tons done today.
My day began around 7:30, as usual, with one very old, very mouthy, very demandy-pantsed cat insisting it was time to eat. Because Dave feeds her dry food when he gets up (after she yells at him for a while) and then I am supposed to give her some soft food shortly after that. This is all something she’s decided, by the way. Dave and I comply because her yowls are horrific if we don’t. Seriously. It sounds like she’s DYING.
So I got up like I usually do and fed Katala. Then I changed the water in the cats’ dish, like I usually do, started the kettle boiling for some tea and emptied the dishwashers. (We have two Fisher/Paykel dishdrawers. Love them love them LOVE them. Because they use very little water anyway, and when we only have a small number of dishes, we can just run one drawer. LOVE the Fisher/Paykel.)
And then, because it had been eating away at me for ages–and because the rest of the yard is beginning to look so nice, what with the lovely young ladies who are weeding the flowerbeds–I went out and pulled all of the grass, thistles and dandelions around the magnolia grandiflora. And then I pulled the thistles in the long flowerbed in front of the house. And many of the thistles in the grass. I filled a large trash can with the stuff I pulled up. That went into the pile in the driveway.
And then I grabbed my secateurs and started working on the frost-killed canes on the climbing rose on the east end of our little front porch. I discovered many, many new canes coming up from the root–yay! I missed its blooms this spring. Usually it’s covered with fuscia-colored blossoms that smell wonderful.
I didn’t get that whole climber trimmed because it’s going to require longer pants and a saw. As is the tree that’s growing up in the middle of it. I swear, I cut that fucking thing down every year, and every year it grows back bigger and faster. THIS year, I’m hacking it to the ground and pouring something nasty on the stump. But on the rosebush, I’m going to cut back the oldest canes (one of which is at least three inches across), which will require a saw. So that’s a job for later. However, I did get all of the dead canes that were threatening the porch and the door. Those are now cut down to the level of the porch floor. I stuffed all those in another trash can and dragged it to the back porch where I gave the same treatment–only cutting the dead canes all the way to the ground because I could get to them easily–to the climbers there.
And I discovered they’re budding again. On brand new canes that grew up from the root this spring after the killing frost. I’m so happy. In May, we got one brave blossom, and I was convinced that at least one of those bushes was dead. They’re such pretty flowers, and so fragrant. And we’ll get some of them this summer after all. As I said before, Yay!
I’d like to take a moment here to HIGHLY recommend Heirloom Roses. They sell virus free, own-root roses, which are much more resistant to all kinds of things, including nasty frosts. And if you get a killer frost like we had, where everything practically dies back to the ground, the canes that grow up from the root will still be the right kind of rose because it’s all one plant, not canes of one rose grafted onto the roots of another.
They’re not paying me in any way to say this, by the way. I’m just a tremendously satisfied customer. All of the roses we have in the yard except for two, the climber by the front porch which was here when we bought the house, and the wild rosebush that planted itself our first spring here, are from Heirloom Roses. Seven plants, I think. All of which are stubborn and vigorous. Hell, the rugosas have completely taken over their end of a flowerbed.
So that’s what I did for about two hours this morning. And then I came inside and showered and finaly had that cup of tea I boiled the water for before I stepped outside to do the weeding.
Next up on the agenda: cover letters. Followed by PACKING! Yay!

But I just now accidentally deleted them while cleaning up my hard drive. Normally, I would have ALSO copied them to my storage drive first, but I apparently didn’t. Nor, it appears, are they still on my camera because I wiped that drive too. AND they weren’t backed up because Windows chooses to put Photographs in a separate directory from Documents, and our backup system wasn’t set to copy that directory.
Goddammit.
I’m usually more careful than this, but my brain just doesn’t want to be working lately. I don’t know if it’s burnout or exhaustion or too much else on my mind right now or just a case of the wandering stupids. I only know that I can’t seem to focus on much of anything. Any little distraction causes me to wander off for hours. Much to my frustration (and now, apparently, loss).
It could also be allergies, I suppose. Sometimes, when I get all allergy-ridden, I also get vague and stupid. So it could indeed be that. I’ve been sniffly and wheezy for much of the last week. Don’t know what’s blooming right now, but I do know I’m not the only sufferer.
Anyway, you were supposed to get pictures here of my latest book, but those will have to wait until I’m back in Chicago, since that’s where the book is now. Instead, you were presented with a rather vague rant.
Sorry.
**Update** No, I didn’t discover/recover the photographs. Those are gone forever, I’m afraid. But I just opened my Free Will Astrology weekly horoscope and read this:
.

VIRGO (Aug. 23-Sept. 22): Your concentration for dicey assignments, like conquering fear and adversity, is sharp. And I bet you’ll summon a lot of stamina and resourcefulness if you’re pressed to solve a crucial riddle during a turning point in your own personal hero’s journey. On the other hand, humdrum details have the potential to flummox you, especially if they involve tasks you’re not even that interested in or committed to. The moral of the story: Banish absent-mindedness by keeping yourself focused on only the most riveting challenges.

AHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHA!
Ahem. He’s a funny guy, that Rob Brezney. A funny, funny guy. How the hell did he KNOW?

This is when art becomes interesting. When it makes you think and involves you in unexpected ways.
In Trafalgar Square, London, there are four plinths which hold statues. Only, right now, one doesn’t. And for 100 days this summer, a new person will get the plinth each hour as their very own, to do whatever they like on it (as long as it’s legal), as an exploration and celebration of the individual. Participants were selected by lottery, and their behavior is limited only by what they can carry onto the plinth and the scope of their imaginations. This is a 24/7 kind of thing, and there’s LIVE STREAMING VIDEO.
It just started this morning, but they’re still taking applicants.
This is fascinating.