The sporadic ramblings of Emily C. A. Snyder - devoted to God, theatre, writing, and much randominity.

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Location: New York, New York, United States

Artistic Director and Co-Founder of TURN TO FLESH PRODUCTIONS. | Author of "Nachtstürm Castle," "Niamh and the Hermit." | Playwright: "Cupid and Psyche," "Math for Actors." | Classical director and educator.

Friday, April 22, 2005

Regard me, I expire

(Actually, I think I used that already. Hrm.)

I am at one hour and one minute and some odd seconds. Fred has just said, "And I am exceedingly clever" and stormed off. Lucy Herding is up next - on tomorrow's agenda. And my eyes are going crossed (seeing trees sans the forest). It's odd when one knows every single expression from five different angles over three different nights. Where are my reaction shots?

Had a thought re: post-wedding/honeymoon pre: second Brosche/Fred to cover scene change. What do you call it when only a month and a bit after a show one's already starting to rerevise it? "Special." (Forest for trees...forest for trees!)

Anywho. Good lessons today. More tomorrow. Return on Monday - how terribly odd and how surprisingly wonderful. Trip went well - thank God. Aunt Clarisse was very ill and paper-thin - distressing to see, although she still played the hostess! Read to her Sunday's gospel (although she fell asleep during it). I should amend, tried not to weep whilst reading Sunday's gospel to her - it was "in My Father's house are many rooms...I have prepared a place for you." Wuh.

Met a Sister Sylvia who has worked for several years with the AIDS patients in eastern African countries - fascinating woman. A convert from the Baptist church at the age of eleven! She said that the main reason for the spread of AIDS over there is that the culture is still dominated by voodoo and witchcraft - so if a man feels that he's unclean somehow (sin, illness, who knows), they believe that only having sex with a virgin will make him clean - so there's a LOT of rape, incest, etc. It's a cultural thing - ugh. It's something that our culture of death can't cure - but embracing the teachings of the Church would. It makes more sense, now, why the Catholic African countries have dramatically lower AIDS rates than non. Apparently, too, many of the children get AIDS from bad blood transfusions - nicht so gut. Dear God, bless them and Sr. Sylvia!

Went for a longish rambling drive around the backroads this evening with Jules. Discussed her impending road trip and - what else - theatre and sang some songs and enjoyed the wandering roads and hidden countryside of our little corner of MA. Am about to go to sleep (oh the shock!) at - for me, this week - a reasonable hour.

It's odd - I can see that I accomplished a lot this week, but I still feel as though there's some great lumbering, lingering thing hanging over me that I'm completely failing to see. God, what is it? Or is it a mere chimaera? The residual sensation of a long-lost limb. Not the elephant in the room, but the sudden pachydermal loss?

Anywho - I digress. (From what, one wonders? Well, if Herodotus can digress from a digression of a digression from a digression and call it seminal history, so can I. However, I should not overlook the possibility that a toga and a bath might lend me more credence.)

Off to sleep. There are no more miles to go, tonight. And I must find those woods between the trees - they say they're lovely, dark and deep - but I keep running into brambles!

Mood: Much desirious of two hours in a tub
Music: None at the moment.
Goodness is: Sean Forrest's "Father's Song" - It's all right.


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