Things have gotten better, as they tend to do. Much of the tech week stress arose from a sense of dissonance caused by the cultural gaps between western and eastern Canadian theatre production. I was willing to accept the absence of a production manager, and even the lack of production meetings, right up till tech week; at that point, the results of those differences came upon us like an avalanche, and I spent the first part of the week silently screaming, "I wanna go home!" Well, that, and, "Oh, god, my back!"

But now my back is better, and the show is looking pretty good (apart from the blood effect, which is well on its way to being dropped), and I have come to the recognition that this IS home, and if I don't like the way things are done here, then I either need to campaign for changes, or suck it up and play with the home team.

A few bits of good fortune came along at the end of this week, to help perk me up. First, I got my new frames and lenses! They are larger and a bit more rectangular than the last pair, but not egregiously different (Puffin didn't notice till I pointed out the change). Mostly, I'm pleased that they are lighter, and no longer hurting my nose and ears.

Next, I found out what I will be teaching in the 2010/11 year. In the fall term, I'm teaching Playwriting. In winter, I'm teaching...Playwriting! But they're two different courses (I and II), so I will need to develop some sort of progression or evolution for my wee bairns. I haven't even begun to consider possibilities (I still need to finalize by Directing course next term), but I'd welcome any suggestions.

Play Production, Directing, Playwriting...these are the sorts of courses I should have been teaching all along. I've found my niche here, no question. And while I find it tempting, even now, to flounder towards teaching topics that fall outside my sphere of expertise (sure, I can teach a Commedia Dell'Arte class! I was in a Moliere play once...), I know I'm much better off sticking to what I know, at least until I'm fully settled here.

I wonder how long that will take? How long before Cape Breton is old hat for this prairie boy? A year? Five? Ten? I'm in for the long haul.

I wouldn't characterize this as the worst week of my life, but I am certainly in no hurry to repeat it. The fact that it's only Wednesday fills me with dread.

Mostly, the source of the difficulties is tech week for R&J. It's like any other tech week, really: a snafu-ridden crucible of tension in which actors (from Venus) and techs (from Mars) must somehow learn to communicate and work together. The only reason this one feels worse than usual is that the Puffin is stage managing, and I'm acting, so we've got equal doses of stress to lob at each other at the end of the day.

Puffin's stress is compounded by her schoolwork, mostly her marking. Again, this is nothing new, but maybe the fact that all this is happening here, in a completely new setting, makes it more acute. In any case, Monday had its share of meltdowns, and Tuesday felt like the teeth-gritting calm before the next storm.

Then, just before last night's tech run, I did something inexplicable to my back, and so I got to do the run in agony. (And, after notes, I got called up on deck to die again...and again...) The most worrisome part of this is that I'm not sure what I did; one minute I was putting on my costume and all was well; the next, I could barely stand up. It's still sore today, so much so that I had to spend the morning in bed, pumped up on Robaxacet. I dreamed of Hawaii, but in my dreams, the islands were full of bears, dinosaurs, and bee-coloured crabs. Even in the dream, I knew it was an illusion, an escape, and that when I woke up, the real world would be waiting.

Funny how the ivory tower and the playhouse have become "the real world." Sad how that makes them so much more stressful.

A week and a half until R&J opens. Lots of school matinees; I've produced a million of this type of show, but I've never actually acted in one. It may be a harsh lesson, to discover what I've been subjecting other actors to all these years.

The cast is pretty thoroughly bonded now, although the youth/student crowd and the older actors still spend much of their time in cliques. Not surprising, and not a big deal, as long as we all pitch in when needed. I'm trying not to think of myself as an instructor or role model, even though I'm acting alongside several of my students. I'm just a cast member who sets high standards for himself; hopefully others can take inspiration from that; if not, that's their choice. I'm certainly not going to delude myself into thinking that I'm responsible for anyone else's performances.

Except...I find myself easily distracted backstage, and I have to keep reminding myself to listen for my cues, and not to rely upon other (mostly younger) actors to keep track of the play's progress. During Tuesday night's run, I was late on one entrance; then I overcompensated on Thursday, and entered a whole scene early! I know better than that.

I also know better than to injure myself, but sometimes I can't seem to help it. Last night I dropped to my knees after getting "stabbed," and my knees are still killing me. I will wear kneepads from now on, but my knees are merely one small part of my increasingly fragile machine, and I need to take care of the whole thing. I'm certainly glad to have had the chance to play Mercutio now, because I expect in five years' time, I won't be able to keep up with all the dancing, cavorting, and swordfighting. Ask for me tomorrow, and you shall find me a grave man...

I finally got my writing space cleaned up, and most importantly, I banished the internet from its walls.  If I want to procrastinate endlessly, I'll have to get up, open my curtains, and walk all the way upstairs.

I haven't had much of a chance to test it out, but so far it seems to be making the writing process somewhat easier.  Non-writers frequently underestimate the importance of space.  It would be great if all you really need to write is time and a pen, but you need an atmosphere that can offer inspiration without tipping over into constant distraction.  Striking a balance in one's own home is especially tricky, because home carries a whole bevy of associations that don't necessarily connect to the writerly part of the brain (like: this is the place where I sleep).

I've traditionally done some of my best (or at least most enjoyable) writing in coffee shops, and while pickings are slim hereabouts, I've already found a comfortable niche at the Bean Bank in Sydney.  It's not feasible to go there every day, though, partly because I need to keep the house functioning too, but mostly because we're a one-car family, and our schedules haven't settled in a way that facilitates that sort of routine.  Hence the home-nook, which has the added benefit of bottomless coffee.

How typical, then, that just as I start to get comfortable (complacent?) in my patterns, something comes along to shake them up.  I have a CBU colleague/friend, also recently arrived from the west, and also a playwright in search of some sort of purpose/support out here in the theatrical highlands. She lives in Sydney, I live in Glace Bay; unless we schedule a supper together, we see each other once or twice a week on campus.  Last week, she burst into my office showing all the signs of a writer's crisis.

"How would you like to go in with me on office space?" She asked, not one to beat around the bush.

Turns out Nuttella (as she would likely hate to be called) has been having the same difficulties carving out a writing space in her house, and is now turning her sights to Sydney proper, and looking for a carving partner.  As we brainstormed options, it became clear there were other considerations beyond mere writing space: Sydney has few places for youth to gather; CBU doesn't have an artistic presence in the city; Nuttella has a friend looking for space for yoga classes; etc. etc.

Nothing was decided, although I resolved to inquire after another new friend, who recently bought a sprawling, three-storey house in Sydney and doesn't know what to do with the top two floors.  But the ball has begun to roll.  Today, as I was leaving the Bean Bank, I stopped and peered into the windows of a vacant bank building right next door.  Big open room; ceiling too low for a grid, but maybe with some light trees... and, of course, plenty of office space, though it would need to be de-corporatized...maybe some nice celtic wall hangings...

This is probably just another elaborate stalling tactic.  I probably won't write a thing till 2011.  But there's a certain bent appeal in this age-old process of space-hunting.  At least, now that I'm out of Edmonton, the costs are halfway feasible.

We got a hefty dose of Caper culture last night at the Savoy Theatre (lovely post-Victorian Victorian show house): "We Rise Again," an evening of music organized and headlined by the Cape Breton Chorusmen.  The Chorusmen are a loose affiliation of two dozen or so middle-aged white guys who like to sing a cappella.  They're not a choir, though, apparently; they do mostly barbershop and show tunes.  There was also a bona fide barbershop quartet (composed of some of the best voices of the Chorusmen), a piano and organ trio, and a lot of hoary jokes in between sets.

The Caper cultural experience manifested itself in several ways.  First, whenever the audience recognized a tune, they showed their appreciation by starting to clap along, regardless of whether the song was designed for that sort of participation.  That means you have to be on the ball, because if you're a bit slower than others at identifying a tune, it's going to get drowned out by clapping, at which point you'll lose your chance.  The final number (which was reprised in the encore, oddly) was a medley of Cape Breton tunes, but I missed about half of them for all the clapping.

(The two ladies sitting behind us didn't help much either: they arrived late, and once seated, they launched into a lively conversation whilst manipulating a seemingly endless supply of individually wrapped candies.  Rather than seeing this as a reflection of Caper culture, I'm going to chalk it up to good old-fashioned rudeness.)

The other moment of cultural dissonance occurred midway through the second act, when the stage was abruptly flooded with veterans.  As the host explained, it's getting close to Remembrance Day, and so the Chorusmen offered members of the local Legion some stage time.  They made the most of it: there was a sentry demonstration and a parade of colours; then we all sang O Canada, followed by four pages of popular tunes from World War I and II, followed by God Save the Queen.  Finally, the colours and the sentries marched out, and I said a silent prayer of thanks that there were no bagpipes involved.

In all seriousness: I know there are Legion-led Remembrance Day ceremonies throughout Canada, so it shouldn't feel like culture shock to encounter one here.  But I don't think any Albertan music revue would surrender almost 30 minutes of its programme to the uniformed.  In Alberta, culture and community are usually kept separate; or, if they do overlap, it's usually done with some degree of irony.  I might expect a World War II singalong, for instance, but it would be led by twenty-something Grant Mac grads dressed like field nurses, or something.

The point is, Remembrance Day means something different here because far more Nova Scotia men enlisted than did Albertan men.  There were simply more of them to enlist, especially in World War I; plus they probably had less to lose, if they came from impoverished families.  I was able to set aside my irony (although I blanked on half the words to God Save the Queen), and to see the proceedings as a patriotic Caper might; but then I remembered stopping for lunch in Oromocto, near the Gagetown Army base, and seeing 18-year-old cadets eating with their sweethearts, trying not to think about how soon they're liable to get shipped out to Afghanistan.

What does Remembrance Day mean when you're at war?  Is having a cheerful singalong of "It's a Long Way to Tipperary" harmless nostalgia? Or tender tribute? Or hypocritical naivete?

Ugh, long week. Lots of marking to catch up on, plus R&J rehearsals moving into a higher gear. We open in two weeks, and while the cast has made a lot of important strides, this is always the stage where it feels like nothing is moving fast enough, and there's no way we'll be ready. The fact that it feels like that every time I do a show reassures me, however.

Philip Henslowe: Mr. Fennyman, allow me to explain about the theatre business. The natural condition is one of insurmountable obstacles on the road to imminent disaster.
Hugh Fennyman: So what do we do?
Philip Henslowe: Nothing. Strangely enough, it all turns out well.
Hugh Fennyman: How?
Philip Henslowe: I don't know. It's a mystery.

(--Marc Norman & Tom Stoppard, Shakespeare in Love)

Anyway, yesterday's bull rush through marking, fight rehearsals, and teaching just about put me out of the game, so I'm taking it easy today and catching up on household chores. I picked a good day to stay indoors, too; it's building up to a full-blown nor'easter out there, which means wind, rain, and snow, all at the same time. The plum trees are down to their last leaves.

We're completely unprepared for winter: no snow tires, no boots, no shovel. I shall pray to the Sweet Mother of Monkeys to be spared a full-on seasonal incursion until after R&J has come and gone.  Then I'll have some time to deal with it all.

P.S. Finished Fall on Your Knees, finally.  Strong and enjoyable stuff, though some of the disastrous convergences strained credibility.  I also felt a bit removed from the four sisters, never having had nor been a sister myself.  But I enjoyed the subtle hymn to miscegenation that seemed to rise like a refrain through each section of the novel.  And Dad, you were right; there was sexual abuse, and incest, and lesbianism; I just had to wait for all the pay-offs.

Dear Science-Fiction,

 

This is going to be hard to say.  We’ve been pals for as long as I can remember.  Before I made friends with your little sis, Fantasy, or your delinquent teenage brother, Horror, it was just you and me, in the womblike warmth of the cinema house, bathed in the warm glow of exploding Death Stars.  We’ve been so close for so long, I can barely imagine life without you.

 

But I think it’s time we took a break.

This is not goodbye forever; please don’t think for a nanosecond that I’m calling you exhausted or extinct.  I’m not like those pundits who maintain that the future is here, and so we should therefore drop the “science” and go back to plain old fiction.  I like your science.  It’s one of my favourite things about you.  But there’s more to you than that.  You have a heart, and I think it’s worn out.  It needs time to mend, and I’m willing to be patient.

 

I realize this might be confusing to those who don’t know you as well as I do.  So I’m going to provide a bit of context by describing how I’m come to see you recently.  Maybe this will be helpful for you, too, Sci-Fi (can I still call you by that nickname?).  Maybe, once you’ve seen yourself from all angles, you’ll have a better idea of where you can go from here.

 

People who don’t know you think you look funny.  They sometimes only see the lurching, unbalanced way that you move—like that big, bolt-necked monster in the movie version of Grandma Shelley’s old bedtime story.  But you only walk that way because you’re out of balance.  Right from the start, you had too much to carry, and it made you stumble and careen between extremes.

 

I blame your two daddies for pulling you in such different directions (it’s okay that you have two daddies, though; if anybody ever teases you about that, you have my permission to vapourize them).  Daddy Verne was so celebratory about your new toys, and he just loved to speculate about what you were going to do next.  Daddy Wells was more cautious—cautionary, even, because he thought all your toys could turn around and hurt you if you weren’t careful.

 

You’ve continued to play with toys, and you’ve even settled into a routine of playing with the same ones over and over again: spaceships, time machines, robots, VR, and your newest one, the Cyberspace-Posthumanism Playnet (although even that one is almost 30 years old, and starting to show its age).  A lot of people think you’re still a kid because you play with toys, but I know better. I know you’ve grown up to the point where you can use those toys to make important points.  You use them to show us ourselves.

 

But even then, you’re so unbalanced.  Sometimes your stories end with happy, perfect worlds, because you believe that, even though humans aren’t perfect, we have the potential to get there, and our tech can help us to evolve.  Your optimism can be progressive, like Star Trek’s multi-cultural space crew, or Torchwood’s bisexual counter-terrorists; or it can be conservative, like the elitist, aristocratic Jedi who save the galaxy (after ruining it themselves).  Either way, I love it when you’re humanist, because it means you’re willing to embrace us, warts and all.  Even when we’re terrible to each other, you take our good natures on faith.

 

But lately, that hasn’t been the way you’re most inclined to lean.  Lately, you’re leaning the other direction, the one that Daddy Wells taught you, though he got it from Grampa Darwin.  When you lean this way, you end up showing us that we’re really just a bunch of beasts—and if you give animals a toy, whether it’s a bone or a space station, they’ll use it to smash each other over the heads.  Wells saw the beast in how we colonize and oppress each other, but he couldn’t come right out and say that (being one of the colonizers), so he made the colonizers Martians or Morlocks instead.

 

It’s not that I don’t value your determinism.  I can learn a lot from it, and some of my favourite stories depend upon its core assumptions.  For instance, if we weren’t fundamentally animals, we wouldn’t fear death, so we wouldn’t try to invent ways to cheat death.  And it’s the need to cheat death—combined with our clumsy inability to control our toys in the long run—that has given us Robot-Marias, HALs, replicants, terminators, matrices, cyclons, and actives.  In fact, I’d be willing to admit that a majority of your best moments have leaned heavily upon determinism.

 

I have a theory about that, by the way.  I think most of the guys who write your stories (and they are mostly guys, even today) have very scientific outlooks.  I think they feel embarrassed or stupid if they don’t embrace science 100% in their outlooks and their writing.  And since evolution is still considered controversial, they feel they have to rally around it—witness all the resentment and sarcasm that gave birth to the Flying Spaghetti Monster.  It gets into their blood, until every story they write rests on the foundation that humans are soulless animals, incapable of accomplishing anything truly miraculous, because there’s no place for miracles in science.

 

For me, all of this came to a head in Battlestar Galactica, which was one of your finest stories to date.  It somehow managed to situate itself right in the middle of both your tech-people axis and your humanist-determinist spectrum.  BSG liked to play with its tech, and its favourite game was hide-and-seek.  But it never got distracted by its tech when there were real human issues at stake, and it used its people and politics to reflect the real world, just like Daddy Wells taught us.  It was deterministic (“all this has happened before and will happen again”) and humanistic (people can become angels, and angels can show us the way home).  It started with apocalypse and ended with a leap of faith into the Garden of Eden.  It wasn’t a perfect balance, but I could see how hard you was trying, Sci-Fi, and I loved you for that.  No other genre would ever even attempt that kind of balancing act.

 

I know what you’re saying: if you love me so much, why leave me?  It’s not because I’ve seen you at your best, though it’s still hard for me to imagine how you could get much better.  And it’s not because the Sci-Fi tide has now receded into a fallow period of BSG wanna-bes (and formulaic Hollywood technophobia.  It’s because, now that you’ve done your level best to show me a clear, balanced reflection of humanity, right now, at this cultural moment…I need to spend a bit of time living in it.

 

I understand your warnings. It’s like you said in Dollhouse’s “Epitaph One” (the episode that tipped that series over into bleak determinism): “They were playing with matches…and they burned the house down.”  It’s what you’ve been shouting about ever since Grandma Shelley—or earlier, in fact, since Pandora and Prometheus and Adam.  Knowledge can be deadly if you’re curious/greedy/inherently flawed.  But I also understand your inherent promise: if you’re equipped with knowledge and faith in humanity, you don’t have to make the mistakes of your dystopian forefathers. Now that I’m equipped, I’m going to see what’s out there.

 

I’ve already started my search by cozying up to some of your genre-less fellow stories.  They’re just as fictional as you are, Sci-Fi, but they’re based on real systems in the present day.  Instead of learning the protocols of Starfleet, I’ve been learning about the drug trade and the justice system courtesy of The Wire, and about psychiatry through In Treatment.  These stories still struggle with the moral balance between humanism and determinism, but they aren’t distracted with world-building or tech toys; they’re about what they’re about.

 

Will I miss the mental gymnastics that your various technological permutations performed for my imagination?  Probably, a bit.  But your articulations of social and moral conscience have gone as far as I think they can go, for now.  When you call me back to make another leap of faith, I’ll be ready.  Until then, have fun with your toys.

 

Love,

SS

 

P.S. Can I still come see Tron 2?

The Capers have continued to set off their lawn-fireworks -- perhaps they're meant to brighten up the long stretch between Halloween and Guy Fawkes Day.

I'm not sure what November will bring for us, here; the weather is a continually unfolding mystery.  Romeo & Juliet goes up in a few weeks, and while it's pretty much the same process as any play I've ever done, I have no doubt that I'll encounter cultural curiosities that make the process feel new. Otherwise, my time is likely going to be spent tentatively and mindfully observing my own patterns. That, and taking care of my wife, seem to be my full time jobs.

My best wishes to all those on livejournal who are doing National Novel Writing Month. I admire your resolve, and while I think you're all crazy, it's a good kind of crazy. Maybe I'll do something like that next year; for now, having been here still less than 2 months, I couldn't imagine writing an Alberta novel, but think it's too early to write a Cape Breton novel.  I'll write a role-laying game instead.

We just barely got our friend put together in time for the trick-or-treaters to arrive. For the geek-challenged, the cutie (on the right) is a Beholder. You can't tell from the photo, but some of his eyestalks light up.

(Caper trivia: in Cape Breton, they set off homemade fireworks for Hallowe'en.)

Romeo & Juliet rehearsals are clipping along. Yesterday was the official off-book date, although as always, some are more off-book than others.  Kudos to Stephen and Breagh, the youngsters playing the two leads; they have the lion's share of verbiage, but they've managed to make tremendous strides towards memorization. (I've been 98% off-book for over a week, but I've done this before. Plus I'm dead before intermission).

We're back in the theatre after a brief exile during another show's run.  The set is being assembled as we watch; I pitched in for a few hours earlier this week, with only very minor injuries.  Once the set is complete, and the props have all rolled in (still waiting on swords--they're being shipped from Illinois!), I predict acting will take a great leap forward, as everyone realizes that we do, in fact, inhabit a specific, visible world.

But at this stage, even more important than acting is bonding.  And I felt the cast dynamic starting to click last night, as we ran through the first half of the play twice in a row at breakneck speed.  Cast members are starting to listen to each other, help each other, and give each other kudos after exits.  When somebody screws up, instead of internalizing their insecurities, they are able to laugh about it, and the others laugh with them, not at them.  It is, in short, an ensemble, and for that to happen with three weeks left to go before showtime suggests that great things lie in store.

Excited to receive a package from Paizo this morning, I tore open the outer box and poured the individually wrapped D&D miniatures out across the kitchen table. Then I used a knife to cut open the first item: a Young Gold Dragon!  Cool!  Mini #2 was a hippogriff -- almost as cool.  Then I sliced my finger while trying to open miniature package #3.  After a good deal of fussing with water, polysporin, and bandages, I brought my damaged hand back to the kitchen table to see what I'd suffered so much to obtain.

It was a Blood Scarab.

Grumble...bought a used iPod Nano through kijiji. Plugged it in when iTunes was open. "USB device not recognized. Driver needed."

Usually, when you plug an iPod into a computer armed with iTunes, it pops right up. I think I may have been swindled.

[grumbles, maintains faith in the fundamental decency of human beings]

UPDATE: I had to buy a new USB connector cable and re-install iTunes, but eventually I got the darn thing working. Now I have mobile tunage again -- for only slightly less than the price of a new iPod, in the end, but at least I was able to stick to my environmentalist guns by buying used whenever possible.

I turned 35 yesterday.  It was a great day; despite my distance from most of the old friends who have hitherto been onhand to help me celebrate such milestones, I still felt surrounded by friends and well-wishers.  The Puffin was great at encouraging me to determine the course of my own day without leaving everything in my hands (lest I get overwhelmed and scurry away to hide).  Even the weather cooperated; although it was rainy when I started rehearsal at 1pm, it was sunny and clear when I emerged at 4pm.  We went for an amble on the Sydney harbourfront, where a handful of ducks are still bobbing about in pre-migratory discombobulation.

There was also a fine breakfast at Colette's with nightingayle , a brisk shopping spree at Future Shop, and a robust supper at Joe's Warehouse (ie. steakhouse). But strangely, the moment that stands out most clearly for me was in the parking lot of Mayflower Mall, when Puffin took the wheel and drove a slow slalom around the towering lampposts that split the lot into an alphabetical grid.  I don't know if it was the absurdity or the carefree, bylaw-breaking spirit of the act, but it filled me with joy.  A slow slalom through life; a slightly drunken dance that makes a flat, unfriendly landscape into something beautiful and fun.

Later, on the pier, we talked about our goals and dreams, and once again I tried to shape this strange experience -- transplanting myself from prairie to island, from renter to homeowner, from little fish to little pond -- into a narrative that makes some sense, or at least points me in a definite direction.  I've been steadily increasing the pressure on myself: to get back into writing, or to apply myself more exuberantly to teaching and shaping the course of the theatre programme at CBU, or to network with other local communities, or to make our home & garden more sustainable, or all of the above.  But I admit that, while part of me unquestionably wants to do those things, any specific course of action -- or even prioritization -- still seems premature.  I've only been in Cape Breton for 7 weeks, although it seems like much longer. If I were an embryo, I wouldn't even have eyes or ears yet.

A Tarot reading helped me find a path, at least for the short term.  The goal, it said, was the King of Staves: spiritual mastery.  This is quite a path apart from writing (which can provide spiritual fulfilment, but which is primarily an intellectual exercise), or from community/academic work (the realm of the social, not the spiritual).  And while other cards suggested that I had the potential to offer some of my wisdom to others (ie. students), most of the reading gave me permission to look inwards for answers.  The card in the intellectual sphere was also telling: it was the Moon, and in that position, it meant "studying and recording patterns and changes."  So maybe, instead of thinking so much about what to do here, I can afford to keep thinking about the fact that I am here -- and what effects that change may be having on all my patterns of thought and behaviour.

Other cards acknowledged the momentousness of the transition, especially the Tower and Judgment.  But the solutions and suggested actions were smaller, more manageable: Two of Cups (be a good husband), King of Sacred Circles (don't forget how good you've got it), the Star (look up).  Despite the cosmic imagery on the cards, it made the whole business feel a good deal less overwhelming; I can let myself become somebody new here, and I can learn from the process of transformation, if I'm patient and observant, and go easy on myself.

It also renewed my resolve to make that Tarot RPG.  Does that count as writing, or spiritual exploration?  Can it count for both, or does that break my rule against multitasking?  [Records questions, eschews answers]

Just for fun, I made a playlist of all the songs in my music library by Canadian bands.  I wanted to determine my Can-con rating.

Turns out I have 941 (confirmed) Canadian songs...out of a music library of 7943. That's a measly 11.8%.

I blame R.E.M. and They Might Be Giants primarily for tipping the balance southwards, although Radiohead certainly contributes to the library's colonial content (col-con).

Who are your favourite Canadian musicians?

At school all day today...guest-taught the Puffin's Drama class this morning, meetings with students and colleagues all day, then my own class till 8pm, followed directly by an R&J rehearsal. The fluorescent lights have sapped my will to live...

Yesterday, by contrast, I did nothing. Well, not nothing, but I barely left the house, except in the morning to play fetch with a neighbourhood münsterländer, and in the afternoon to seek out coffee. I read, and wrote, and watched The Wire while ironing and assembling shelves. It was a brilliant day, lived at my own pace, and it made me marvel yet again at what a lucky man I am, to be here under the financial wing of my dear PhD.

And then, today...work. Well, not work, because play ain't work. Even marking, or counselling students, is barely "work" in the sweaty, ditch-digging sense of the word.  And even if it were, I only have to do it twice a week.

So I'm not complaining.  It's still a really sweet deal.  I'm just bouncing wildly between extremes, and wondering if there might not be a more balanced way to live fully.

It's another rainy/windy (rindy?) day, and every time I turn around, I see another task that needs doing...so I'm hiding away in books all day.

My current reading list:

• Fall on Your Knees by Anne-Marie MacDonald (thanks to nightingayle for lending me this caper-gothic romance)
• The Tarot: History, Mystery, and Lore by Cynthia Giles
• Siddhartha by Herman Hesse
• Being Peace by Thich Nhat Hanh
• Gardening Month by Month in the Maritimes by Duncan Kelbaugh and Alison Beck
• Your Organic Garden by Jeff Cox (based on a PBS TV series...anyone ever heard of it?)

With 6 books on the go, reading isn't much of a reprieve. Now every time I turn around, I see another book that needs reading.

Something about the management of my new life has yet to click into place.

CBU is the second institute of higher learning that I've taught for, and maybe the 5th with which I've had direct and intimate exposure.  Each one has been radically different in design and intent, but most of them have had one thing in common: they've been Alberta institutions.  Now I'm in a strange land, and the cultural differences are starting to manifest themselves at my new place of work.

In many respects, students are students, no matter where you go.  First-year university students are always going to be wide-eyed creatures, bewildered and excited, like a child who awakes on Christmas morning to discover that all of her toys are puzzles, and if she fails to complete them, she'll have to work at Tim Horton's for the rest of her life.

But the Cape Breton first-years went through a very different education system than mine, and they've brought some of their cultural assumptions along with them.  Moreover, some of those assumptions seem to be built right in to the university itself, since matters of policy (written and unwritten alike) were mostly fixed by academics and administrators who also went through the CB system, albeit not so recently.  Tradition is big here (there was a bagpipe player in the cafeteria during orientation week), and this culture's relative isolation makes it seem less radical than most liberal arts universities -- socially, if not academically.

The first thing I noticed was that students call me "Sir."  I chid one student about it, and his classmates immediately jumped to his defense: "It's a Cape Breton thing."  Fair enough; it's an unexpected demonstration of the sort of respect that I'd have to earn back in Alberta, but I can't say I dislike it.

But they also call Puffin, and all female professors, "Miss."  This puts the "Sir" in context -- these titles hearken back to one-room schoolhouses run by spinster schoolmarms.  I'm not given to cultural imperialism, but it doesn't seem right to call a married woman with a PhD "Miss," when the titles that would seem to demonstrate the most respect for her achievements are "Ms." or "Dr."  But it's automatic for them, deeply ingrained and entwined with their ideas of pedagogy.  Is it worth trying to train them out of it?

There are also indications on campus of an institutionalized elitism, designed to keep instructors firmly fixed at the top of the totem pole.  CBU is the only campus I've ever seen that has staff-only washrooms -- not just in the faculty lounge, but in the middle of the hallways.  Another weird thing: the custodial/maintenance staff is called "Housekeeping."  When a female custodian knocks on the men's room door before coming in to clean up after us, the knock is accompanied by the announcement: "Housekeeping!"  I've only ever heard that in hotels, although I wonder if it's a classist echo of the days when coal barons staffed their sprawling company houses with butlers and maids.  Custodians are not my servants, and I find myself cringing when I hear any word that seems to imply they are.

On the other hand, the "housekeepers" have their lunch in the faculty lounge alongside the teachers.  And I've never felt any sense of deference from any of the maintenance staff; they greet and chat with me in the same manner as the instructors.  So perhaps I'm getting unnecessarily hung up on semantics, or embellishing minor differences into major gaps.  What do you think?  Do words like "Miss" or "Housekeeping" make a big difference in the way we see ourselves, and each other?

We're into, gosh, I dunno, I'm gonna say Week Three of Romeo & Juliet rehearsals.  Things are clipping along at a good pace; Todd blocked the play in record time, and now that the cast is getting off-book and settling into an ensemble, the energy is starting to build, onstage and off.  My fight with Tybalt is blocked, although there are no signs of our actual swords yet, so we have to practice with foam rapiers -- that's liable to throw us off balance when the heavy, metal blades arrive.

And tonight, we blocked the Capulet's Feast dance number, which will be set to some new bit of rock and/or roll that the kids all listen to these days. The production concept is semi-Elizabethan, semi-modern, so we're doing dainty hand-raising turns (a la Shakespeare in Love), and pelvic thrusts (a la Rocky Horror Picture Show).  It's pretty fun. I've never danced onstage before, and very rarely off-.

The more I explore the nooks and crannies of the Boardmore playhouse, the more I like it.  It's a funny space -- apparently it was conceived as a theatre in the round, but halfway through the construction process, they realized the sight lines were awful, so they build the stage up on one side and threw a couple of vomitorium exits underneath the house.  That story may be apocryphal (there's very little written history at CBU), but I can't see why any architect would fail to include an upstage exit that loops back to the dressing rooms "down below."  It's also a very tall space, but not enough to have a fly gallery; and it's wide and broad, but doesn't quite have the layout to accomodate a proscenium arch.  Finally, there are these two quaint little platforms on house left and right that have stairs running down the wings -- juliets, although Juliet is not going to be found on either of them during our production.

Soon, I'm going to have to think of some plays to propose for next season.  They apparently alternate a Shakespeare show with a musical, so next season they'll be doing some bippity-boppity money-maker about which I couldn't care less.  But there are three other slots in the season, and they seem to be willing to entertain any and all proposals.  Here's their season this year if you don't believe me.

Any suggestions, team? The actors will be about 50% community members and 50% students, so lots of parts for young'uns would be great.  I'm thinking it would be nice to do something that evokes local history or cultural traditions, but something with an exotic flavour could be fun as well.

Saturday I held my first east cost D&D session. Sadly, it ended up being devoted entirely to character generation and rules explication; I had expected a certain volume of this, because many of my players are new to the game (or to the edition).  I wanted to push us to get at least a bit of role-playing in before we had to quit, to provide some intros and build a bit of team spirit -- but it would have felt like pushing, so I let it slide. The job of DM is all about party politics, especially with a young group.

Never the less, it seems like this posse may have chops.  Certainly I have a reliable, long-term team player in the Puffin, who once claimed she couldn't role-play to save her life.  Laird is also a veteran, and has a penchant for storytelling, I think.  Todd and Stephanie are used to board games, so they should have no trouble picking up the rules, but I don't know what they're expecting in terms of role-playing.  And then there's Kim, a student who seemed to emerge out of nowhere the day before our game was scheduled.  She's into anime and cosplay -- a geek through and through.

With one or two other interested parties lingering on the fringes, I have some flexibility in terms of group size. I've never played with more than 5 players before, but here my instincts are to let everybody in, just in case anybody decides not to stay for the long haul.  'Cause my games -- at least, the ones I really dig -- are the long haul.

After the formal gaming session, nightingayle came over and joined Sheila, Kim, and I for pizza and puzzles.  I brought out my notes for a new RPG system based on Tarot cards, and got considerable interest from all three ladies.  I wish I'd been able to offer them a game there and then, but the system is still mostly imaginary, and jumbled up in my head, mixed together with D&D and other systems.  Once I untangle it, I'm hoping it will grow into a user-friendly, story-focused, learn-as-you-go system of random story generation, determined by the draw of the cards combined with the imagination of the players.

This is where my mind roams as soon as I have the time.  I've been escaping to fantasy worlds as long as I can remember -- it's practically a vocation.  Now if I were really clever, I'd find a way to make it my career.

My iPod appears to have died.  It lived a long life -- I think I got it for Christmas in 2004 or 2005, and considering that Apple wanted me to upgrade to a new unit every year since then, it has bucked the trend and served me well.  It's an original model -- the kind that looked tiny when they first hit the market, but now appear bulky and awkward thanks to all the Nanos and Minis and Micros and Wees.

I had a hunch that some piece of technology was going to fail on me soon after I arrived.  My bets were hedged between my laptop (which is slightly younger than the iPod, but has recently shown more signs of senility) and my car (much older than any other machine I own, but I've worked hard to keep it in good shape).  Unless there's another shoe waiting to drop, I'm relieved that it was only my music maker that died.  All my tunes are backed up on an external hard drive, and these days I seldom use play them anywhere except at home.  I used to need music in the car at all times, but now most of my drives are short hops to and from work -- and besides, there are so many great country tunes on the local stations, who needs canned music?

The only tragedy: one of the Puffin's housewarming gifts for me was the delightful iHome, which I promptly anthropomorphized (like the Pixar lamp), and which now seems so lonely without its music maker plugged in.  I feel like I should buy a replacement iPod, just to make it feel better. What do you think, Laird?