No artist is pleased. There is no satisfaction at anytime.
There is only a queer, divine dissatisfaction,
a blessed unrest keeps us marching and makes us more alive than others.
-- Martha Graham to Agnes De Mille
Was || Will Be || Past Moments || Now || Notes

2002-02-07 - 11:36 p.m.

Woad is me

I have not much to say tonight, but I wanted to get last night's randomness off the front page.

Tonight at rehearsal we tried our woad for the first time. For those of you not in the know, woad was a blue paint used by celtic warriors before going into battle. (Think Braveheart, even though the use of woad in that time is inaccurate.) So during the last scene of the play, I stand on stage and get painted up with blue finger paint. (Hey look, it's Bastard Smurf.)

That crap got everywhere. It got on my jeans. Pieces that I missed on my chest got on my shirt. I got a huge clump of it in my hair. Ugh. That crap is nasty. In a way it's even worse than fake blood.

Oh yeah, and we got to meet the cast of the other play in the theater tonight. They're doing Romeo and Juliet right next door and they share the dressing room. And there I am, sauntering through without a shirt with blue finger paint on my chest. Carrying a big-ass sword. And swearing at my helmet. (I hate that helmet.)

Tomorrow, I'm going skiing. Which means I must get up early. Which means I should go to bed.


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