Burning the Canada at Both Ends

I'm about half way through my retreat. Today we popped into Saskatoon to do laundry, buy comics, and (tonight) see Shakespeare on the Saskatchewan's production of Antony & Cleopatra.  The internet connection is on loan.

The retreat has been magnificently restful and restorative; not so much productive, but you know what?  Balls to that.  I had four of my plays produced this season, not to mention two plays + one Canadian Theatre Review article published last year.  Productivity does not have to be a priority right now.

Preparation might be...but once the mortgage application process was set in motion, there is very little to be done but wait.  And, as I just heard today, the waiting paid off: our mortgage has been approved, and our house purchase will go ahead as planned.

That means this time next month, I'll own a house.  And in two months, I'll be living in it.  Huzzah!

House buying continues to test the limits of my patience and comprehension. I'm not nearly as good at this alone.

Luckily, the Puffin is willing to take the ball -- in spite of an already chaotic schedule -- while I scamper off on a retreat in Saskatchewan. In some respects, it's a ridiculous time to disappear. In pretty much the exact same respects, it's perfect and necessary.

I promised some photos, but I can't upload them to LiveJournal without a hassle, and I'm too tired. Trust me, it's a great home.

See you in a couple of weeks!

Buying a house was hard enough in one small town.  Now I'm back in Edmonton, Puffin is in Bristol, and we're trying to sort through all the next steps while dealing with the experts in Sydney.  If I don't get mortgage, insurance, and inspection settled by Wednesday, I'll have to add another city: Saskatoon, or rather a cabin somewhere south of it, which is where I'm "retreating" for the first half of July.

At this distance, I'm having difficulty figuring out what information requires decision-making, and what simply needs to be rubber-stamped.  The costs are thoroughly blurred together by now.  I knew confidently from my face-to-face meeting with Zombie Lawyer Guy that we weren't compatible; now, when presented with abstract rates and totals via email and the phone, I lose that confidence, and find myself grasping at straws in all directions at once.  And I don't even need any straws.  I just need a house.

Friday. Woke up marvelling: we just bought a house. No time to dwell on it, though; 9am appointment at CBU to do faculty orientation (lots of mind-numbing talk about pension investment options; I daydreamed about floorplans instead), then back into Sydney for a 11am mortgage meeting. This was one of the meetings I was really dreading, but it went smoothly: the banker was pleasant and patient with us, and having done a dry run with a different bank in Edmonton, I knew what questions to expect. We haven't been approved yet, but I'm not concerned; the only uncertainty is whether we'll be able to get the interest rate I was quoted before.

After lunch, we hit our last appointment of the day just down the street: the real estate lawyer. Up 'til that moment, it felt like the fates had been blessing us with capable, compassionate, engaged professionals -- people who not only knew their jobs, but who were eager to help make the home buying process as smooth as possible. That trend came to a screeching halt the moment we walked into the offices of (we'll call him) Morty the Zombie Lawyer.

When I booked the appointment last week, I was told that Morty wouldn't be available to meet with us, but Mellie his paralegal could talk us through the process. Not a good sign, according to my Dummies guide, but I was prepared to let it slide because -- well, quite honestly because I'm more comfortable working with women than men.  But Mellie didn't seem interested in meeting with us; instead, she sat at her dusty mahogany desk and alternated between typing and arguing loudly with a pudgy lawyer across the room. Nobody offered us coffee. Another client entered, was shown into an office, and left again before anyone acknowledged us at all.  Finally a tired-eyed escapee from Glengarry Glen Ross shuffled out of his office, stared at us for about 30 seconds with a slightly senile smirk, and then gestured as if to say, "You can enter now."

"Are you Morty?" I asked.

"That's right." He said. He didn't ask my name, or Puffin's, but we offered them anyway.

Once in his office, his continued disinterest in us made things increasingly difficult.  I explained that we'd signed an agreement on the house and just applied with a mortgage, but he launched into a list of tips on what we should ask the banker when we meet with her.  I told him we'd chosen a closed, fixed 5-year term; he said he didn't think that was a very good idea, even though he didn't know the interest rate (or the principal, or our down payment) yet.  Then I asked him if he could explicate his fee structure for us -- this is, according to the Dummies guide, an acid test for lawyers, because if they can't clarify their own fees for you, how are they going to be able to explain the rest of the process?

Morty made some illegible scratches on a yellow legal pad, then said, "Um...well...that's probably something Mellie could explain better than me."  So in came the paralegal, who stood beside Morty's desk and listened to our whole scenario again, then tried to explain fees while Morty occasionally broke in with obfuscating tangents.

I think the deal was broken right from the start, but for me, the final straw was when Morty finally figured out that only one of us (Puffin) was going to be in Cape Breton for our closing day (I'm in Edmonton for another month afterwards). He frowned and tugged at his wrinkled tie: "That's going to be a big problem, since you both have to sign to take possession."

After a silent beat, Puffin asked if he had any suggestions to deal with the problem. "Could the documents be couriered to Edmonton in advance, and signed in the presence of another lawyer?" (She's a smart one, Puffin is.)

Morty sighed heavily. "I guess so...but that's going to be a lot more work for us."

That was it. We tolerated another 10 minutes of yammer about Morty's kids, and then excused ourselves, saying we'd be in touch. We were lying, and probably not very well, but it doesn't matter; I don't think Morty remembers that we even exist.

Panic followed. There was no way we were going to employ this dinosaur's services, but this was the last business day we'd be in town before Puffin returned for closing on August 4 (in hindsight, I'll admit, we didn't plan this very well). We frantically called our realtor and our friends to get the names of as many lawyers as we could, and then called them all, pleading, "Could you possibly see us, like, right now?" Amazingly, this paid off, and by 4pm we were sitting in another law office (a much less dusty one), explaining our situation yet again.

It worked out. The paralegal was much more conscious of our needs, and the lawyer actually perked up when I asked, "How do you feel about a challenge." He solved the closing day conundrum in a heartbeat by drawing up a power of attorney document which would allow Puffin to sign on my behalf. He clarified his fee structure way better than Morty. Despite it being the end of a long, hot week, he was prepared to give us his full attention, and even seemed pleased to learn that we were moving here.

"Cape Breton needs more good people," He said.

"Oh, I think you've got a lot of good people here," I replied, meaning it. Then mentally adding: what you really need are a few less zombie lawyers. But maybe that's true everywhere.

Anyway, we had supper with Puffin's boss, then saw an improv show at CBU (nice theatre space -- can't wait to play in it). Saturday was a long, long travel day, but it ended with me back in Edmonton -- at least for a few days, as I am off on a writing retreat on Wednesday.

We were up early, and met our cheerful, unstoppable realtor for the third day in a row.  Revisited the three houses on our short list – first Park St. in Sydney, which didn’t scream “us” the second time around.  Its uncertain age and fairly long list of problems outmatched its charms, and we crossed it off our list fairly quickly.

10 minute drive to Glace Bay, where we looked at Currie St. a second time.  Or rather, we sort of inhabited it, because there really wasn’t that much we needed to look at.  Compared to all the other houses we viewed, this one is so new, so spartan, it really didn’t need a lot of scrutiny.  Puffin did a tarot reading to get the house’s vibe, while I discussed with Leijsa various options to personalize the house – including, if I couldn’t find a workable office space, erecting an insulated, heated out-building for $3 or $4K.  Leijsa left us to go do other realtor stuff, and we briefly met the old couple who are selling the house, and asked them about the fruit trees.

Later, we learned that they had the house built as their retirement dream home, but couldn’t stay because the husband’s legs were getting too stiff to climb the split-level stairs.  I could imagine how hard it would be for them to sell it – but it also gave me some hope that they would be willing to let it go to a young couple making a fresh start in Cape Breton.  Either that, or they’d fight tooth and nail for every red cent.

We had one more house to revisit, but not until late afternoon.  We spent a few hours walking in Glace Bay, getting a feel for both neighbourhoods (Currie = mostly families, varied incomes, lots of nice walking & sitting spots; May = more gentrified, with one lovely view but otherwise a lot of roads).  Ate lunch, saw the ocean, got sunburnt.  Met up with Leijsa and toured May St. again.  Saw some things we missed the first time through.  Tough call – this house is old, but has had a lot of work put into it, and yet the work feels cosmetic, not caring.  Lots of things to like about it, and even a few things to love; but just enough cons to place it underneath the Currie St. house, which is cheaper.

So we made an offer on Currie St.  Listed at $144K, and Leijsa had let slip that a previous offer of $138K had been countered at $141K (then dropped when funding fell through).  We went in at $140K, but included a lengthy list of chattels: fridge, stove, dishwasher, washer, dryer, freezer, BBQ, a big flatscreen TV, and a leather couch/chair set.  Those last two may sound frivolous, but I reasoned that a couple of outrageous frills might distract the sellers a bit from the price.  If they’d come back firm at $144K, I would have moaned a lot, but we would probably have accepted.  I’m not much of a negotiator; when I want something, I’ll generally pay whatever asked.

While we waited for the counter-offer (L. said it should only be an hour or two), we hunkered down at Laird and Gayle’s – new GB friends, very supportive and understanding, having just bought a house themselves.  After an anxious supper and some tarot readings, the counter-offer arrived: no to the TV and sofa set (not a surprise), and $141K.  That’s merely $3,000 lower than the asking price, but we decided to go for it.

That’s right. We bought a house. In Glace Bay, Cape Breton, Nova Scotia.  Closing Day is August 5, when Puffin returns from England again.  I’ll move in about a month later.

I’ll post lots of photos when I get “home” on Sunday.

We saw, what, nine houses today?  Well -- 8 plus a B&B.  We're not buying the B&B.

I think we've narrowed it down to three.  Two are older houses; of those two, one has had substantial renovations (and a price to match).  The third is brand new -- the sort of home we didn't expect to find in Cape Breton, but maybe it's the home we need to start out.  Here's the dirt...

FIRST, there's an older house in Sydney that doesn't have an MLS listing yet.  The elderly resident has gone into assisted living, and the daughter is trying to sell it from Ottawa. She doesn't know much about the condition of the house, but it's easy to see that work needs to be done, starting with the roof, and possibly ending with a new furnace.  Some things are in good shape, particularly the double garage.  The backyard has a huge, gorgeous Japanese maple tree.  Its layout is also very nice, especially the dragon-chi runaround on the main floor, and the island kitchen.  Of the three bedrooms, none of them screamed "office" to me, but any would be serviceable.  Basement games room and moth-proof cedar closet.  They're asking $144,900, but Leijsa thinks they'll go down by at least $10,000 -- or even agree to terms including a new roof.

SECOND, Glace Bay's snazziest 75-year-old house.  The main floor is a big, open-concept sprawl with shiny hardwood floors; big kitchen; entertainment room, and two staircases up.  The upstairs is a little blockier, but it has 3 nice sized bedrooms, a reading nook, and a laundry room -- yes, washer and dryer right across the hall from the master bedroom.  Why didn't I think of that?  The backyard is nice (a cherry tree, among others), and the wraparound deck leaves plenty of room for a hot tub.  The garage is really more of a shop building than a car hole.  Drawbacks?  Well, the low-ceilinged basement betrays the age of the house.  Although it's not nearly as scary as some other basements we saw, it certainly isn't a place I'd want to spend much time.  But I guess the old coal backup furnace might be a plus, if we get snowed in and the power all goes out... $149,900.

FINALLY, an 11-year-old split level open concept in Glace Bay.  It looks like somebody took a nice condo and sort of stretched it.  The kitchen is huge...everything's huge.  But open -- the only partitions in the house are the bathroom and master bedroom doors.  Fun for a couple who don't need to hide from each other.  It also has a nice garage, a garden with fruit trees, and the back fence overlooks a tiny creek.  $143,000.

Tomorrow, we'll try to inspect at least the first two a bit more closely.  And then...an offer? I welcome feedback in the meantime!

Met our realtor and viewed four houses, all in the same area of Sydney (between downtown and the Shipyards). Leijsa is great.  The houses varied from meh to mhm?

Number One: 98 years old, and looks it.  It's huge, with a funky attic space, but the layout seemed problematic. The second storey, in particular, has a lot of unusable space. And it's a good thing that there had been torrential rain earlier in the day, because it revealed what will, I suspect, be a common problem in CB: the basement was flooded. Moving on...

Number Two: Smaller, although the living room was large with a lovely high ceiling. Bathroom and closet space was also ample, and even the staircase felt spacious.  The biggest problems with this house are the electrical system, which clearly hasn't been improved since the house was built, and the basement -- once again, a sump pump working overtime to drain the veritable stream of water. Has this province never heard of weeping tile?

Number Three: Now we're getting somewhere. Did Leijsa deliberately show us this one third, so it would look better by comparison?  Lots of renovations inside and out, and a nice, open layout which accommodates feng shui.  There's also a big (two car garage) and a new, two-tiered deck.  What's the catch?  The basement is unfinished, in the same sense that a limestone cavern is unfinished.  You have to limbo down the stairs, and then it's a crawlspace nightmare of concrete and gravel. But it wasn't flooded like the first two, and I really don't envision much need to go down there at all, except to check on the furnace or the oil tank once or twice a year...

Number Four: An unusual charmer -- probably not the house for us, but enough intriguing bits to give us pause.  Like the first one, there's a creative attic layout; two bedrooms are on the main floor, with a jet-tub bathroom in between them; and there are lots of strategically placed (albeit weird) doors that can be used to trap heat in various parts of the house (it's a forced air system, so the heat spreads out).  But the kitchen is too wee for our needs.  After living with a galley kitchen for several years, we agree that it's time for plenty of counter space, so we can work as a team at mealtime. When the Puffin started speculating about which walls we could knock down, I knew it was time to go.

So, three nays and an expensive maybe.  I guess that's not a bad start.  Tomorrow we're scheduled to see nearly a dozen houses in Glace Bay -- could be overwhelming, but we'll try to keep our wits about us.  And I'll report as soon as can be.

Am in Sydney, Cape Breton, Nova Scotia.  It is wet.  Puffin is snuggly.

I made it here without incident -- just tired and sore from the red eye -- but my two big suitcases didn't get out of Halifax.  Hopefully they'll arrive tomorrow.  In the meantime, we've viewed 4 houses.  Will post about them later tonight -- now it's time for supper.  Or lunch?  I'm in a timewarp.

Stress upon stress today, as I plan my mad dash from one responsibility (teaching the last class of spring term) to the next (catching the red eye to Sydney, to begin the house-hunting process).  I can't convince myself that I've managed to get everything done for class, AND everything prepared for Sydney.  Something must have fallen through the cracks, and it's probably the pin to a hand grenade.

Am I ready to buy a house?  Does it help to ask rhetorical questions?  I have all the money for the down payment secured in my account (except the RRSP portion, which apparently can't come out until an offer has been made...and then takes 72 hours to clear...), I have appointments with a realtor, a broker, and a lawyer all lined up, and I've done my best to digest the Dummies' guide to house buying.  But it feels a bit like training to become a pilot by looking at photos of aircraft.  I'm going to get into the cockpit and...freeze.

Meanwhile, the Puffin is already in Sydney, sending me mixed messages via email.  I can't help calm her nerves from this distance, especially not when my own are so jangled.  All I can do is get on the plane (the real one, I mean, not the analogy one) and hope that the place I ultimately land will feel like home.

UPDATE (3:30pm): The ornery cat escaped from the patio enclosure. After 20 minutes of hunting around the neighbourhood, I found her hiding on the neighbour's patio (stalking the bird feeder).  Nearly got my hand bit off trying to retrieve her.

UPDATE (4:15pm): Cats ensconced, had a cigarette on the patio, felt better about life. I'm going to struggle or strive; what difference does it make, in the long run, if it happens here or in CB? Hmm...maybe sometimes rhetorical questions do help.

Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday: trying to wrap up the spring class.  Too much marking; it's a stupid class to offer accelerated.  Students are freaking out left and right.  One followed me around for 10 minutes after class, trying to convince me that her entire life of hardships, set-backs, deficiencies and pressures somehow culminated in the grade for this one course.  After I talked her down, she said, "You should be a shrink."  You think I get paid enough to be a shrink?

Speaking of not being rich, the Canada Council turned down our application for Berlin Blues.  No huge shock, it felt like a longshot, but now we're scrimping and saving, like always.  It would have been nice to do one show with an ample budget before I left.  Ah, well...good little Buddhists free themselves from attachments and desire...

I feel like I need to hide from the world for a day or two, but that's not going to happen until I get back from Sydney.

Ah, Sydney...sun-dappled land of blueberry houses...

June 12. Slept poorly. Checked emails before shower -- bad idea. Show detritus from Berlin Blues ate up the first few hours of scheduled marking time. Two coffees, sandwich and Simpsons over lunch. Met a weak marking quota, then drove to Second Cup to read about mortgages for an hour. Barista was an ex-student (forgot name, got shy). Saw a bunny on the drive over. Grabbed 5 minutes of tranquility in Churchill Square, watching Pride Week volunteers set up the fences (2009 theme: The Age of Aqueereous). Bad supper in a noisy downtown bar (Game Seven! Game Seven!), during which Burning Blood was pitched to the Citadel's New Play Development officer. Gratitude to bonemot , who pitched it with twice my vigour.  Hurried drive to Avenue Theatre for Rubaboo, two-day Native Arts gala. Hand out programs, clap and cheer. Then duck out at intermission because I'm beat, I'm beat, I'm beat.

Felt guilty about missing Act 2; resolved to go back tomorrow night, when my Berlin Blues actors are performing. Forgetting other plans.

June 13. Slept worse. Drove to Yellowhead Tribal College early, to rehearse the Berlin scene. Both actors off-book, funny as hell. Eat a doughnut; speed to Sam & Liz's pack-up-our-UHaul celebration. Hot day, hot work. Many hands (and smartasses); done packing in 3 hrs. Drink, then go to Pride Central in Churchill Square, where rainbows and skin are flaunted. Supper at Blue Plate (only a salad, but nothing else appealed). Zoom to Rubaboo Part Two. Long evening, but loads of talent. Scene went well and got videotaped, for promo later on. No handbills though?

Late night chat reminded me that I don't need to feel responsible for everyone's happiness, even when they all want a piece of me. Double-scheduling caused no ill will from anyone. Also: time out is equally important.

June 14. Had an ativan. Slept better. Church in am: flower communion. Bittersweet, mostly sweet. Home briefly, then out to Louise McKinney Park for picnic lunch and local showcase concert. Guilt-free leisure time. Hot day. Up the hill to drink margaritas. Soak up sun at community gardens. Next up: supper at Vietnamese place.

Work. Hot. Sleep. Gratitude. Tranquility. Moments. Monosyllables.

Those are my two watchwords for the summer.  It's proving more difficult than I thought to implement them, especially when they become mutually exclusive.

Tuesday night K. took me to a Buddhist meditation near her house.  I'd never been to one before, but I need to start cultivating some new options because there is no Unitarian church in Cape Breton.  I liked it; it's the only worship session I've ever attended in which the spiritual leader asked, "Does anyone have any questions?"  In the short term, it had the opposite effect from what I'd expected: instead of promoting tranquility, it unlocked all my deep-seated anxieties, not unlike a therapy session.  But by the end of the next day, I did feel calmer.  I'd like to go back, but K. says she doesn't want to stay for chai tea and chat with the Buddhists afterwards.  I can relate -- socialization takes effort -- but I'm used to having a dose of community with my spirituality.  Who knows if we'll even have time?

Wednesday morning I did Shadow Theatre's "Play in a Day" workshop for elementary school kids.  The grade four students arrived with their script already memorized and more or less blocked, so as a director, I had a pretty easy time of it.  The goal was not to make art, but to give the urchins an idea of how theatre works -- hence the costume, set, lights, sound, and publicity rooms.  I wonder if any of the ankle-biters got bit by the bug.  Mostly, it didn't even seem like they were in the same room as me.

Taught again last night.  Three evening classes left, plus one final exam, and then I'm done at Grant MacEwan.  I don't hate spring session as much as I thought I might, but it still feels like a rude imposition on my time -- especially the marking, which I'm supposed to be doing as I write this.  At least it's a well-paying imposition.

I did get a designer for Berlin Blues.  Things actually seem to be coming together.  I'm a bit surprised.  Waiting for a shoe to drop?

Twelve days until I fly to Sydney, to find a house, I hope.

So, right.  Tranquility and gratitude?  I should get marking...

Looks like we might have a set designer for Berlin Blues... [crossing fingers] I'd really like to start thinking about this play as a director, and the only way to do that is to have a team in place.  With a designer on board, I have someone I can turn to when I start to puzzle things out.  "Can I get so-and-so into a buffalo costume fast enough to re-enter later in this scene?"  That sort of thing.  Without a designer, I end up asking those sorts of questions to a team of artists, and I either get 10 different answers or none at all.  OR, I just ask myself, and shrug and plan as if it's all going to work the way I see it in my head, which I know from 17 years of directing experience is NEVER how it works out.

So, yeah, Stay tuned!

Thanks to those who made it out to the second reading of Burning Blood.  We were working with a time slot that was too short for our play, and I'd planned on just reading Act One, but pressure from the cast compelled me to turn on my charm (ie. ability to manipulate a chaotic situation to my own advantage), and we managed to squeeze in the whole play.  Most feedback was positive.  I was pleased.

For me, the script's biggest challenge remains Riel.  I chose a deliberately complicated way of presenting him onstage, and my concept is getting gradually more complex without necessarily getting better.  I want Riel's appearances to be guided by a theatrical device that make sense to an audience immediately and instinctively, yet simultaneously sends their expectations spinning up to a new level.  It's probably one of the components that can't be conveyed clearly at a reading, but the problem wasn't the reading, it's me: I need to be able to picture it precisely in my own head before I can start explaining it (or writing a draft around it).

So, while many aspects of the script are in sweet shape, it's back to fundamentals for the play's mysterious, mystical, absent centre: who is Louis Riel? How much of him is defined by how others see him? How can I show both a man and all the things he represents? 

I seem to have some time...or rather, I have nothing urgent at this exact moment.  I know there's another vortex of responsibilities crouching just around the corner, ready to pounce (vorteces can crouch and pounce, you know).  I know my summer is going to end up being just as hectic and stressful as my spring.  A lot of that stress will, ironically, come from socialization.  I watched this happen last year, with the Puffin: the closer she got to leaving town, the more desperate her friends became to see her, and yet the more conflicted and anguished their time together was.  She lucked out, in a way, by holding her farewell party on the hottest weekend of the summer.  Everybody showed up, but they were too sweaty and dopey to get fretful about her departure.  It was like holding a dinner party for all your close friends, and then drugging the punch.

I don't know quite how it's going to work in my case; I have no plans for a farewell party, but I am doing a farewell show of sorts.  Maybe I can invite everyone to see it, and then duck out the stage door when the curtain goes down.

Anyway, here are some out-of-date sci-fi reviews, mostly here just to get them out of my brain.

( Spoilers lurk here... )

This big event crept up on me while I was moving this week.  Suddenly it's Sunday night and I'm back in Batoche.  And this time I brought friends!

The first (of two) public readings at Walterdale was on tonight.  Attendance was sparse; the time was not ideal, and the festival that's hosting us has been having poor attendance overall (fix this Livejournal. I COMMAND IT).  It's also bad luck to come after another, more elaborately staged reading, and then to run two hours yourself. But the actors belted it out like you wouldn't believe, and were all rewarded with enthusiastic applause. Some slack jaws, too; I get the impression that this, like Winter, is not an easy play to process.

Opening up the play for an audience showed me all sorts of cracks in its foundation. Readings are painful that way; even if the audience doesn't notice, the playwright sits there grimacing at all the things that still need to be fixed.  Act Two feels especially rough to me, now, although it may partly be a more physical act, and thus less conducive to music stand reading.

Lots to think about, at any rate. It's weird to think about the future of this play, since I'm about to move to a part of the country for whom Riel might mean nothing. This might be the last full-cast reading opportunity I have for awhile.

I am 98% moved out of my apartment (only my phone and answering machine are still there).  Some of my stuff went into "deep storage" earlier this year with the in-laws in Lethbridge; another hefty stack of junk is diligently packed into identical Rubbermaid boxes and stacked in my Mom's storage room, awaiting transportation arrangements.  The rest -- mostly clothes, notebooks, a laptop and some D&D books -- is in Mom's guest room.  Technically, that's my home for the next three months, although I have a backup bed in the city if I need it.

As spread out as I am, I feel surprisingly centred.  It may be the serotonin release that comes from having survived this round of moving, or it might be the sunny weather, but there's something bliss-inducing about this weird, interstitial period of my life.  I still have responsibilities aplenty, but the transition out of my apartment has made me feel untethered in the best possible way.  The me of five years ago would have been waxing neurotic about the fact that I am essentially homeless, reliant upon the generosity of friends and family until September, when I settle down for good in a town I've never even visited before.  But the me of right now lets the change move through me like a tide.

Thanks to all those who have helped with this step in the journey. I wish you could come with me the whole way.  I guess this blog is one way of ensuring that you can.

Glowing monkeys 'to aid research'

I have to say that my life never truly had meaning until I knew that I shared the world with bioluminescent monkeys.

I also have to say that "transgenic marmosets" would make an awesome name for a band.

I just got Telus to waive the fee that they were going to charge me for half a month of service that I wasn't going to use. TELUS. The Evil Empire of Telecommunications. Having recently succeeded in talking my landlord/corporation into waiving a meaningless $200 fee, I now realize that I'm developing a track record for convincing faceless, soulless corporations to give me a break.  It's a bit remarkable, considering they usually have all the power.

How does it work? I think I'm at the point where I can articulate a method.  By following these rules, you should be able to avoid getting screwed over financially by the fine print.

( Click for rules )

Burning Blood:
Read-through and tech run are done. Public readings next Sunday night and the Saturday after that. I'm happy with the script as it stands; I think the reading could have been made punchier if we'd had more time to tech, or to discuss characters or lines with the actors...but nearly everyone involved with the project is as busy as I am, so it can't really afford to be a priority.  But I already got what I wanted out of the process, so the readings are just extra gravy.

Berlin Blues:
A production meeting yesterday, to remind me that I'm not doing this show all by myself.  Lots of great ideas about publicity and design (although we still need a designer...yup, we sure do).  I'm almost at the point where I can think creatively about this show.  Maybe after...

The Short Move:
At the end of this week, into my Mom's guest room; and then, of course, to Nova Scotia in three months.  The short move actually feels way more stressful than the long one, but maybe that's just because it's coming up a lot sooner.  I've always stressed unnecessarily about moving, and this year has been no exception.  I need a very short-term anti-anxiety drug with no withdrawl symptoms, to dose myself for this sort of unpleasantry.

The Long Move:
I've initiated contact with a realtor in Cape Breton (recommended by nightingayle , who just bought a house in Glace Bay).  I will also be setting up meetings with a mortgage banker and a lawyer while I'm visiting at the end of June.  I know the common wisdom is not to rush into buying, but I have a feeling that three days of house viewing will pretty much show us everything on the market in our price range. If there's nothing that we like in that batch, then we're either being too picky, or else we're screwed.

The Tangle of Life:
Yet again, I have unconsciously inserted a metaphor for my life into my work.  This time it's Jaxon, who spends his final days moving boxes of papers from one side of the street to the other -- sorting, stacking, rearranging, and trying to defend them against people and the elements.  In his senescence, Jaxon believes that the boxes of papers are actually the people of Batoche, and he must protect them and keep them together.  That images works for me on two levels: first, I do have an awful lot of boxes around me right now, and I'm going somewhat crazy trying to figure out which ones need to be kept and where they all need to go.

But my friends are also precious, and soon many of them are going "away" -- some literally moving to Calgary or Vancouver, but most of them receding in my rear view mirror as I drive east to some unfathomable island destiny.  And I want to take care of them, too, especially those who seem to teeter dangerously on my mountaintop.  I want some sort of assurance that my departure won't be the jenga-jolt that sends the whole tower crashing down...but the universe isn't big on assurances, because I'm not the centre of it.  Which should be reassuring, in itself, since it means there is no mountain, except inside my head.

Wow, that was just about the worst mash of metaphor I've ever produced.

The Untangle of Life:
My friend Rebecca had a baby this week.  She named it Gilbert.

Start Wearing Purple: