July Improv Blog, Part Two

So... speaking of constructive criticism... let's talk about what you're wearing.

What I notice working best in individual attire is a certain flexibility of form. Not a neutral statement, nor a lack of personality, but a malleable quality. A chameleon skin. Elements that work together, not against each other, and never against your performance. I promise you, you don't have the audience's full attention if your pants are acid-green with polka dots. That sh*t hurts.

When considering a shirt with a printed logo, ask yourself how much time the audience will spend reading it or trying to figure it out. I'm not talking about troupe logos. I'm talking about the busy-looking event t-shirts, with tons of information on both sides. A band, fine, if it goes with your troupe's general feel. A cause, ditto. But nobody is going to relate to your company picnic. Save it in a hope chest, or save it for painting. It doesn't belong onstage.

T-shirts are often bad for another reason: they are not an ideal shape for a lot of people. You should wear clothes that are the most flattering to you. You're sabotaging yourself if you don't. The audience wants to want you.

Am I being too blunt?

It has nothing to do with size or shape. It's the poise and grace lent by good draping, good play of fabric. You can play a clumsy character in clothes that work with you, but a prima ballerina would be a schlemiel in the wrong design choices.

Your choice of shoe is the foundation of your performance. It affects your posture and your agility. Experiment with different styles. You might find that skater shoes like Chuck Taylors give you a sense of groundedness, or Italian dress shoes an extra bit of sexy. Caution: if you want to do a show in heels, even not-too-tall ones, rehearse in heels.

Crocs and flip-flops onstage make my heart die. One is ugly, and the other is an accident begging to happen.

Too blunt yet? Well, this isn't personally directed at you. You look fabulous, darling. I mean it, I do. Even... in... ohgodI'mgoingtohellforlettingyouwearthose.

As far as outfitting the ensemble, the stage picture is everything. Communicate, plan it out. Not down to the exact garment, just the overall feel. What is your troupe's character? Polished, punk, artsy, über-cute? What color range suits your needs? If the stage is surrounded by black drapes, all black might not be the way to go.

Incidentally, I got a new shirt I thought I'd wear for our show at the Roving Imp this month, and discovered that it's the same color as the back wall. Not what I meant by chameleon skin!

P.S. For those who might wish to perspire less conspicuously: http://www.drfranklins.com/index.php

Ouchie.

Nine hours of improv workshop, split over two days, starting at hours of the morning when I'd normally be asleep (not lazy, just nocturnal). Nine hours of movement. I didn't think I was doing anything strenuous, except maybe the brief scene where I held a pose straight out of Picasso.

Several hours and a long nap later, I feel like my body has been hit by a semi. It occurs to me that it's been a hell of a long time since I've made physical fitness a priority. Like since back in my days as a Ziegfeld girl.



And then I went to sleep again, before finishing and posting. Guess what: I still hurt.

I do a lot of compromising in my life. It seems at times like my personal mantra is "of course, whatever you need." So, I could always avoid physical pain by toning down my onstage movement. *SMACK* No. If there's one thing I've carried away from Tom's workshop, it's that compromise and negotiation weaken a scene.

Ultimatums, now... those are intriguing. Meaty. Forceful. I believe my body has given me an ultimatum: Jen, if you want to do improv, and move the way you did at half this age, you'd better do yoga more than once a year. Or else I'm going to keep hurting you. You don't want that, do you? No, body, I don't.

Barbie Torture

I'm making this post as a response to Keith's recent picture.

I took this a few years ago with my 35mm. At the time, my sister had a pictorial essay of her Barbie Townhouse on her website (it seems to be gone now). I scanned the print to have my Barbie send her Barbies a postcard. Mind you, this took place when we were 32 and 29.

Pleading Beethoven's Fifth

Pete's every-so-often mixtape project is on again. The current theme: Guilty Pleasures. Don't judge me. Your secrets are just as bad.

Eeeeewwwwwwww!

We cleaned the fish pond today and yesterday. I'm pretty sure it's the most disgusting thing I've ever done in my whole life. I had my heavy rubber cleaning gloves on, but I'd have been much happier in a full suit. Maybe even with one of those wrestler masks.

I was never the sort of kid to enjoy the squishiness of mud; then again, I was able to accept getting dirty if the occasion called for it. Did the whole Girl Scout camp thing, and got in a river or two. I think I'm getting OCD about it as I age, though. Twice this evening while bailing sludge (the same kind of sludge that's in the Death Star garbage-crushing room) out of a three-foot-deep PVC pit, I nearly burst into tears from the ickiness of it all. I just do not like the feeling of anything gooey and drippy on my skin... never mind thoughts on the material composition of said sludge!

Sneaky seems to be adjusting to the cleaner water (after a horrible day in a little plastic tank), but we didn't get the pond back together in time to save his two small compatriots, added only recently. Poor things. I think Sneaky enjoyed having them around:he swam a lot more. We'll get him a friend again soon.

It's midnight. Only twenty-one hours until my first time doing improv in front of an audience. Here are the things I have to remember:
Project my voice.
Stay out of my head.
Listen.
Follow my fear.
Don't close my eyes when we're doing sweep edits.
Rather than saying "We have a problem," say "The problem is..." and keep going.
Let my scene partner affect my character emotionally.
Scene-paint from downstage so the players know I'm there.
If I've wrapped my hand around the handle of an improv bullwhip, leave space for it in my hand, rather than clenching my fist.
The audience is downstage. Remember good blocking. Don't fall off the stage.
Rule 98.
Make discoveries.
Have a history.
Know my surroundings.
Use tools like tension, status, physicality. Don't be the same me-character every time. But still be a little bit me.
Be the bad guy now and then.
Want something.
Fall, and figure out what to do on the way down.
Have a secret.
Hold a strong belief.
Start with a strong emotion.
Edit on the high note.

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Grr. When I search Google Images for "falling bookshelf," I should see a picture of a fully loaded bookshelf falling on some poor sucker. Haven't any of those idiotic stunt shows done that? Has nobody posted a picture of this on the internet? That's simply unthinkable.

I needed a reference to draw the logo of my newly-launching bookstore, Aaaiiieee! Books. The name is inspired by a Patrick McManus book, Kid Camping from Aaaaiii! to Zip, which was not only a childhood favorite of mine, but an influence on my problem-solving skills. Anyway, the shop logo will be a cartoon of a loaded shelf falling on some poor sucker who's shouting in a bubble, "AAAIIIEEE!"

Now I just need a stupid teenage boy to push a shelf onto, and a video phone.

Incidentally, I saw some very elegant bookcases at http://freshome.com/2008/02/25/30-of-the-most-creative-bookshelves-designs/ Gorgeous stuff.

Speaking of Nomenclature...

I'm renaming my bookstore tonight.

The whole bookstore-working saga will be told here, from my lowly days as a B------* drone to my totally yucky experiences at the V------- to my odd little folly, A------- Books & Images. In installments. I promise. Just not tonight.

What remains of my bookselling career is suspended "on vacation" in an online sales site and stacked in a corner of the basement, in neatly numbered file boxes, the kind with lids. All I have to do is click... a... button... and I'm a bookseller again. The stacks in the basement will shrink, and I might even make some money - with which I'll buy, of course, more books.

Before I can click that button, though, I need to come up with a new name. I feel revulsion at the idea of doing business under the old one. It's not some kind of liability thing. It just feels wrong, like I was trying to be someone who wasn't me. Somewhat true, I suppose. He who had the money called the shots. You know, to that person, the money was nothing - both in quantity and significance. I put my time and energy into it, and my artistic energy... in short, everything that's mine to give. Equal partners, my ass.

Oh. I feel better now.

But I'm still changing the name before I click the button.

"It's a moral imperative." -- Real Genius




*Please forgive the seeming pretentiousness of this antiquated mechanism. I'm enamored of the style.

Improv Blog: Significance of a Troupe's Name

Hmm.

Hmm.

I suppose it depends on a lot of things, like the image you want to project and the audience you want to draw. Good names roll off the tongue, bad names look weird in print.

Name trends I like: shockingness, wit (and with it, brevity)
Name trends I don't like: numbers, phrases you have to explain*, the word "comedy"

I'm fond of the word "hypothetical," but I hate, hate, hate the word "hype." To me, it conjures up hucksters, snake oil salesmen, empty promises. Abbreviating is a natural tendency, though. It's going to happen whether I like it or not. A thing to consider: if you want to name your child Baudelaire, you have to accept that her classmates will call her Bo.

It's a lot easier to inherit a troupe name than make one from scratch, but at some point you might not be the same troupe. Inheriting the name doesn't necessarily mean inheriting the style, the overall character, or the fan base. Is there a legacy if there's no established philosophy, and a break in the continuity, as it were?

That's enough for now.

*"Der Monkenpickel," while certainly an unusual phrase, does not require explanation, though it has a perfectly good one.

Time Keeps on Slippin'...

It's been almost a month since my last post. How does this happen? I've been a little busy. In fact, there's very little point to my posting what I'm writing right now. But I will. Just because. Then in about a week, there will be a flood of words from me to you.

KC Improv Blog Ring, May Edition

"Warmups before shows: good, bad or indifferent?"

Good. I have to admit I'm a little surprised that this is even a question. I thought it was a given that a warmed-up instrument gives a better performance. I will read with great interest - and an open mind, naturally - if anyone thinks it's a bad idea to warm up, and justifies it.

Go outside in January, and start your car. You're just going down to the C-store for a pack of smokes. You can get there and back in six minutes, and how long does it take for the engine to get warm? Eff it, just go. Screech, cough, clunk, grind... that's exactly what your body and your voice do onstage if you jump out there cold. You move like Frankenstein's creature, and your words come out sounding misspelled, if they're audible at all. You aren't fun for the audience to watch, unless they came to make fun of how awkward you are. Congratulations, you win the Tor Johnson Award for "so terrible it's a cult classic" - and that's just the physical aspects of your performance.

Now, you can do body and vocal warmups on your own, even a little earlier in the day. Your brain might even perk up playing "Song Spot" in the car by yourself. But there's no way to engage the group mind until you get the group together - and it must be in an engaged state from the moment the lights go up, as must all individual brains. It's not a compliment when someone says about your show, "Once they got going, it was funny."

Your head is not full of spiritual ether. The connections you make, alone or en masse, are not magic. There are specific functions happening in your brain, on a physical, tangible and (with an MRI) visible level. Some ancient Greek actor might have made an offering to Dionysus, to be granted the power to give a pleasing performance - but inside his head, synapses fired and blood flowed to the areas that would amplify his perception and communication, and focus his energy. As a whole company of actors performed the same ritual, their beta waves tuned to the same frequency.

Okay, I need more information on neurology to get where I'm going with that. And maybe a few improvisers willing to wear electrodes. The point is, performance muscles do not have an instant-on switch. They are engaged through activity. And while any individual is capable of preparing alone, and some people are capable of being "on all the time," a performing group bears a responsibility to support each other by tuning in before setting foot onstage. If anyone's disconnected, the audience will be too, and it won't have been a worthwhile use of their time to come see your show, or a worthwhile use of yours to have done it.

Rate of Absorption

A couple weeks ago, I got to see my favorite baby person learn to stand. Her play-gym (think zig-zag, like a mini room divider) was on two sides of her, and her dad was lying on the floor blocking her into a small square. He coached her with simple, smiling sentences and let her pull herself up on his densely tattooed forearm. She'd find her balance as he held her sides lightly then took his hands just barely away. When she realized she was standing, she'd draw a surprised breath, her eyes widening, then start to bounce and shake her hands with excitement. Soon she'd fall forward - the interval increasing each time - and JP would catch her. She started to laugh each time at the discovery of this standing business, and again after the fall as JP stood her upright again. The first fall alarmed her, but as she realized her father was there to catch her every time, it became part of the game, a thrilling adrenal reward after balancing on her feet. She started to recognize when her balance was about to fail, and would stretch her arms out to JP, looking up at him on the way down.
~~~

So far, my favorite thing I've done in an improv scene that I remember: In a three-line scene about discoveries, Jess said to me in an evilly throaty voice, "Come with me if you want to live." I drew a breath, looking up in shock and said, "I do! I do want to live!" And with that joyous realization, I followed her offstage.

That might even be one of my favorite moments in my whole life.

Have I mentioned how much I'm enjoying doing improv? How much I love to play, not just sit on the sidelines (even though I'm still kind of afraid of skating away from the wall)? That was the insult-to-injury in stage-managing: not only was there the all-consumingness of the schedule (sleep-deprived much?) and taking the blame for everything while having control over nothing; I had to watch everyone else have fun. I had to shush them and correct them, and pretend I felt good about the whole situation.

Okay, the shushing is occasionally a little fun for me. It's really just that any given activity goes so much better for me when I can hear and focus.

I'm weird about age. It gives me anxiety attacks to be in classes with people half my age. When the teacher is ten or twelve years younger than me, it makes me wonder what the hell I've done with my life. I even switched dentists because when my old one retired, his practice was taken over by a guy who listened to the same music as me. While I don't expect it to make up for the lack of training and study thus far, I hope my advanced life experience speeds up my learning curve. Not that I think I ought to be in the same league as others in my demographic... I just know that life is short.
~~~

I've spent most of this week with Grandma. Monday she had an evaluation at one of the retirement homes she was considering. It did not go so hot. According to this particular facility, which I will not name (but if you need a non-recommendation, ask me privately), her inability to recreate a placemat design with fabric shapes has a direct correlation to the possibility that she'd wander away from the building. Yeah, they wanted to put her in a locked unit with people who are empty shells. Because that's a great way to keep someone interested in living.

Yes, she forgets names and mixes up dates, and it's hard at her age (86) to learn new tasks. She's recently started using a walker, and that's going well, but she's never gotten the hang of the cell phone my aunt got her. That's only to be expected. She's still a good conversationalist, and she still keeps her house, clothing and self clean.

Tuesday we visited The Atriums, and the contrast was remarkable. The owner herself, a kind and vibrant woman of seventy-something, talked with us and showed us around. Residents were having fun in the common areas - we managed to show up for the May Birthdays party (yay, cake!) - and several old friends of Grandma's came up to her asking when she was moving in, and telling her how much she'd love it. When we first got there, of course, Grandma was nervous and quiet, but by the time we left she couldn't wait to come back!

She's excited now about getting to move, and being around friends and having easy access to activities. It's sort of like the aging experience has picked up a college dorm phase, and she's still healthy enough to enjoy it. She doesn't feel an attachment to her house - she's only lived there three years, after quite a few in an apartment. She's lived alone since Grandpa died in 1984, and she sold the longtime family home in 1991. She'll still maintain some degree of solitude - she's that sort, as am I - but she won't be isolated. She'll visit for a week-long stay later this week, and if all goes well (knock wood), we'll plan the move after that. I'll continue to see her often... I just won't be as worried about her remembering to turn off the coffeepot!

You Can't Un-Blog

A Rabbi of old - don't ask me which, I don't know my Tarfun from my Akiba - once told a story of a Very Angry Boy. Soon enough, or probably not, the boy's father realized it was time to create a lesson that would get through to his belligerent son. So he filled a sack with iron nails, and hung it on the post of a wooden fence at the edge of his property. He took a hammer from his tools, and asked his son to walk with him to the fence.

When they reached the fence, the father gave the hammer to his son and told him, "Every time you are angry, come to this fence and drive a nail into it. Come to me when the bag is empty." And conveniently for this story, the boy obeyed. In subsequent weeks, he did not shove his siblings or kick the dog or even mouth off to his mother, but the nails filled a long row of slats. When there were no more nails, he told his father.

"Good," his father said. "Now, remove one nail every day, until the sack is full again, and the boards are clean." The boy did so. It took him half a year. With each nail he pulled from the fence - especially the earliest ones, which were more difficult after they rusted in the weather, and the boards threatened to split down their length - he saw the damage it created. He recalled the intensity of his anger, and he saw its temporary nature. He wondered if many of the events that sent him to drive another nail were really worth the consequence. Eventually he became a Thoughtful, Less Angry Boy. When the sack was full again, he brought it to his father.

"Here are all of your nails, Father, and here is your hammer," he said. "I don't think I need them anymore. But what of the fence? The boards are full of holes now. It could fall apart in the next storm." He expected his next task to be a long job of repair, but what his father said took him by surprise.

"No, we cannot fix the fence. The nails are gone, along with your anger, but the holes they created are permanent. There are some things you can never undo. So live your life as a Thoughtful, Less Angry Man, but always remember this fence."

Don't Talk About...

Argh. I'm dying to talk about Improv Fight Club. Not about what other people did, just my habitual navel-gazing. The summary of what I would say is this: I'm really glad I went.

And now, for things that have nothing to do with improv:

We've sold our old house! Hans has just left to sign the contract (my name wasn't on the title), and closing is scheduled for June 2. We took less than the county valuation, about 9% less, and 16% under the price at which we'd have probably listed it, had it gotten that far. Even so, we came out ahead. See, we were still painting and fixing things up so that it would be cute enough for our agent's standards, when we were approached by the landlord of the duplex next door. He's a decent guy, only has two or three houses, and tries to do a good job. We haven't known his tenants to have major complaints. He seems to have the intention of not becoming a slumlord. And he wanted the house as-is, saving us some $6K in applied cuteness, and a similar figure in agent commission. Luckily, we hadn't signed a contract with her yet to sell it.

I had hoped, in my liberal do-gooderness, to see it bought by a family who would live there and get a good start as homeowners. In fact, we made it available in March to a local organization that facilitates just such a transaction. But there's a point at which one must think of one's own needs, like not paying two mortgages every month while waiting for a buyer during a bad economy. And it's a little small for a family, unless said family moved from someplace crowded like New York or Tokyo, where 980 square feet is a palatial spread. A couple friends of mine, both single, were considering buying houses, and it would have been a good fit for either of them, but they both decided it wasn't the right time in their lives after all. No hard feelings there - I'm grateful for the delay their interest created. If we had placed it on the general market early, we could have been stuck for a long time. And honestly... I miss shopping.

So, remember where I mentioned that I'm easily distracted? At my therapist's suggestion, finally taken last week when we had a phone appointment because I forgot to go to Lawrence for my scheduled office appointment, I'm trying an ADD med. There's a chance it will not agree with my antidepressant. I apologize in advance if anything goes wrong. If all goes well over the month or so that it takes to build up to a therapeutic dosage, I expect to become über-efficient, and take over the world by the end of the year.

I'll spend today with Grandma Judy, like I usually do on Tuesdays and Fridays. This is a topic with an upcoming blog (at least one) all to itself: aging, mild-to-moderate Alzheimer's, not finding the right placement level in a retirement home, family dynamics... oy vey. I love her, and I can't begin to say how rewarding it is to spend time with her, but at the same time I'm glad I get to go to Hype 7 rehearsal at the end of the day.

Oh, and I got another tattoo. Photo coming soon!

For the Improv Blog Th(r)ing

This month's question: What makes a good improv troupe?

Commitment, from every single member. Emotional commitment in scenes. Commitment to responsibilities as a troupe member, including one's own continuing improvement as a performer. Commitment to putting on a good show, by whatever standards you as a group define it. If your personal standard is poop jokes and stereotypes, make that "commitment to the group's ever-so-slightly-higher standard." Commitment to show up at rehearsals, and commitment to communicate when the rest of your life is going to interfere for a while. Nobody's saying the Troupe owns Every Member's Soul, but criminy, give a heads-up. I don't think trust can exist when someone's commitment is faltering.

Lots of other things, including trust and talent and generally being able to get along with each other. But especially commitment.

Who Is This Jen-H7 Person?

It's been brought to my attention that few people in the improv community know I exist, and even fewer know anything about me. For most of my theatrical career, I've preferred it that way, but I guess it can make discussion participation a little awkward. So, here's my story.

I'm mostly a backstage person. I've been a stage manager, a set designer, a prop-builder, a costumer, a lighting tech on old-school boards... the only area I haven't done much with is sound, besides on-off. I've been Everyone's Bitch in a large arts organization, and I've produced small operas with my own hands, cash, and heart. If you happen to remember when there was a piano downstairs at the Westport Coffeehouse, they set that up for a show of mine. Er, sorry if it was in your way. I have most of a Theatre degree (blah blah blah) from KU, with a minor in modern dance, and I've tried directing plays, one of which I wrote. I also was half of the duo who gave birth to the magazine and website KC Stage one night at the old Chubby's diner. Eventually, I burned out on almost all theatrical activity, and decided I wanted to work for $6/hour (and a health plan!) at a bookstore.

My Hype 7 bio is pretty simple, and available on the website, but the reason I kept working with them is respect. They always made me feel like part of the troupe. Not once did I have that "why am I even here?" feeling. They also entertained me, and why should anyone work on boring shows? I mean, unless you're being paid well, but we've already established that even an AGMA-scale paycheck wasn't doing it for me.

Some people make improv look easy, but most people make improv look fun. Eventually I worked up the nerve to join in on troupe warmups. This year, after the drastic shift in H7's cast, I asked to start playing the games, just in rehearsal. I do this for a few reasons. For the troupe, I can give better feedback if I experience that which I observe. It also gives other troupe members a chance to observe my rookie mistakes and answer my rookie questions. Personally, it makes me feel more creative, and writing often flows easier after an improv session. I'm trying to combat a pathological shyness in most areas of my life. Eventually, it might even help me to stop dwelling on insignificant things for inappropriately long periods.

Although I can be a pretty organized person, and a stickler for detail, I have little patience for corporate culture. I am not the person you send to a meeting with the suits. I can fake it to a point, but sooner or later my facade is bound to crumble. I am easily distracted. What was that noise?

Reality Check

You aren't reading this, are you?

I Iz An Improviser?

A week ago I took my first improv class ever. Everything I knew prior to that was absorbed through observation and a few pointers, and a couple of books. My world feels a little different now. Communication with people is suddenly more interesting. I'm mentally recording the weight of the everyday objects I use, should I ever need one in a scene. I'm obsessed with the idea of a group mind, now that I've bordered on experiencing it (and maybe did for a few seconds). I wonder if government-mandated tai-chi breaks at work strengthen the group mind for an entire nation. Obviously the military creates its own group mind, which is more than a little scary. When I watched the Final Four games, I thought about the group mind and team bonding, and I almost understood competetive improv (still don't quite get it, sorry).

Maybe the difference is having done a little improv with complete strangers, rather than the people I already knew and trusted when I asked to start playing the games. It suddenly felt like something I'm able to do, and might become good at, not just something that gets me out of the house. It also helped that I didn't have to be funny. I can be funny in conversation sometimes, but I'm really bad under pressure (worse if it has to rhyme). Also, I like dramatic scenes. I usually prefer dramatic entertainment to so-called funny... a former H7 member once asked me the last funny movie I saw, then he specified made within my lifetime, and I couldn't name anything later than the 1980's. Except Reservoir Dogs, of course. That movie's f*ckin' hilarious. Anyway...

AAANNDD... it's tomorrow (not that I post every day, but I wrote that yesterday when I was away from the internet). I have now taken two improv classes, or technically both sections of one class. Not that I feel like an expert or anything. I feel more clueless than ever. And more than a little shredded, emotionally. We were definitely not going for "funny ha-ha" today. Nicole, Patricia and I screamed at each other and said horrible things and hugged each other and loved and hated each other. We had subtexts and not-so-sub-texts. Or, our characters did. Today's focus was character, and I was definitely having trouble staying out of my head. But time-jump as elephants (talking elephants, of course) was awesomely fun.

One of the best things about the class was that even though I'm old for a newbie, it didn't feel that way. I was afraid I'd be stuck with a bunch of nineteen-year-olds who think they know stuff. When I went back to college after doing some time in reality, that was the most annoying thing. When the subject of "What Improv Classes Would You Like To Take" comes up, I always come this close to saying "Improv for Grownups, please." I also don't have the goal of performing for an audience, so I thought maybe "How Improv Can Help You in Your Normie Job" would be more appropriate (even though I don't have one of those right now). Turns out, it wasn't so important or intimidating.

I don't remember everything. I wish I could reflect in detail, but most of it's gone. I got sort of lost on the way home, because I was looking for a shortcut without a map, and when I got home I fell asleep for several hours. I was supposed to go paint at the old house - we're almost finished, it's almost ready to put on the market (and then I'm sure the nightmares will really begin) - but I pretty much lost the whole late-afternoon and evening. So class was the only worthwhile thing I've done today. Well, the night's still kinda young. Maybe I'll get some filing done.

Meet Old Sneaky

The day we found the house, there were several inches of snow on the ground. By the time we visited it again, making a final decision about the offer, a few warm days had revealed a little round koi pond, full of shadowy water, algae and leaves. Flat rocks were piled on one side, hiding a pump apparatus that creates a little waterfall when plugged in. The day after we closed, we painted inside, and brought the dogs with us to play in their new backyard. At one point that afternoon, I discovered Dylan in the pool, submerged to her belly and enjoying a drink.

Getting a cover for the pond wasn't my highest priority among all the moving-in duties, nor was cleaning it and testing the pump. It was still cold-ish (good old Kansas), so Dylan didn't jump in too often, and the water didn't seem treated with anything, not with all that algae. She'll drink from lakes, creeks, pretty much anything wet and disgusting.

At this point I should mention that while I am not religious, I can be superstitious. I also think the concept of patron saints is kind of neat. Please excuse my blasphemy. So, the day that a friend of ours came to see the house, looked into the pond, and fished out the top half of a St. Francis statue, there was no question of whether to keep him, bisected or not. I found a spot for him among the rocks, looking into the water.

After another week, I got around to measuring for a cover. Or at least, I got outside with a tape measure. It was a clear afternoon, and the water, up close, was surprisingy clear as well. I could see the outlines of the leaves, the subtle movement of algae strands - and a flash of bright goldfish orange. My first thought was precisely that: "Orange?" My second thought was, "I hope it's plastic, because I do not want to pull a dead fish out of the pond." I found a long, dried stalk of one of the many plants I have yet to identify, stuck an end in the water and gingerly pulled a leaf away from the orangeness. The orangeness darted across the pond and disappeared into a new leaf-cave.

I gasped and jumped back, which is the conventional response to movement of a fish that one believes to be plastic or dead (even though it isn't floating). Then I stirred more leaves, trying to get a better look at the fish whose estate I'd acquired. Then Dylan jumped in, oblivious. When the fish swam in to inspect (smell? bite?) one of her legs, I could see that this was no little bowl-dweller, but a good six inches from mouth to tail. It had survived the winter under the ice: hibernating, whatever it is fish do. Possibly hiding in the missing half of the patron saint of animals.

Finding a deep sense of admiration for the Fish Who Lived, I decided to honor him, or perhaps her, with a reference to the large and evasive creatures of fishermens' myths. Old Sneaky is the uncatchable quarry in "Welcome to Eudora," by former Lawrence resident Mimi Thebo. If it's not a book I'll remember the rest of my life, there was a certain aptness to the name.

Well, look what the cat dragged in!

Guess who hasn't bothered to post her most intimate thoughts to the interwebs in over a month? My goodness, someone should be ashamed of herself!

I've moved to a considerably smaller town than any of my previous residences. Though it is minutes away, the separation is evident. I have a feeling I will be "other" here. I've already been asked once by a complete stranger if I've found a church yet, and the quilting shop is a front for missionaries. People are nice, nonetheless.

I've moved to a somewhat bigger house, with an enormous yard. I can play out there for hours, planting stuff and pulling dead growth and sketching trees and throwing sticks for the dogs. They never bring the sticks back, but they like the chasing part. Inside, there are actually spaces available to dedicate to specific hobbies. No more of of that sewing-machine-in-the-bedroom, circular-saw-in-the-kitchen crap. And somehow, and this is the best part, it's been really easy to keep it clean so far. I mean, I can generate a lot of clutter in a month - but the house isn't junked up yet. I've even been doing real cleaning, like with sprays and rags and mops. What the...? I used to hate cleaning!

The improv troupe had a show tonight, a little on the off side overall. Weird energy, quiet audience, everyone with some recent major thing like moving or work shakeups, rehearsals missed, members lost... but in a low-key show like this one, some amazing moments can be created, and some lessons can be learned. On which I do not feel like elaborating right now, but I probably will soon. Anyway, the show goes on.

Oh, and I love cooking on a gas stove. Fire good.