What is a good colleague?

Schwarzwaldmädel PM

What makes the job I do so terribly difficult? Why is it possible to have a good day followed by a terrible day, depending on the mood of your colleagues? Why are artists so fickle; one day they are your friend, the next day, they seem that, if it were up to them, they would gladly put you on the next train to Auschwitz, were it possible? Why is it so difficult to have a real friend in the men’s chorus of Stadtheater Pforzheim, a friend that you know will not bad talk you behind your back, a friend that will defend you when times get rough, i.e., what I call ‘a friend.’

I know that a lot of the problems that I experience are my own. That only makes sense. If I were cool headed and logical enough, I would be able to see my work environment for what it is, a scene from Dangerous Liaisons, where every lowly court member is tripping over himself giving the others in his echelon bad press in order to further his rise in the social hierarchy. To have the philosophy, that, if I do a good job, someone will notice that good work in the asylum of the theater is turning out to be a really silly one. It appears that one only advances in the theater through seniority, talking yourself up to those who make decisions, and ripping apart your colleagues/competition. I am not good at any of those things.

Theater people suck, that’s all I have to say. And, the ones who are complete hacks are the worst—they know that the only way they will advance is by selling their shitty, snake oil at the top of their lungs while simultaneously stabbing everyone around them in the back. Unfortunately, theater people are no worse than anyone else, though. It just reminds me of what I wanted to be when I was young: a hermit. I have always felt alienated by my fellow man.

Codependency

Love is such an improbable, unpredictable thing. I know that before I found someone, people in love constantly surrounded me. My friends were always going through some relationship crisis of some kind, and I was always there to help...to play psychologist. And, I must say, I didn’t do a half-bad job of it. I could usually tell when people should be together or not, and would encourage them accordingly. I would always call a spade a spade, though, and be alert and logical, even forthcoming about the wrongs of either side in any relationship conflict. Anyway, in a roundabout way, I am trying to say that I gave a lot of advice in those first 30 years, and it was always well intentioned. People can call me a lot of things, they can say that I am too sarcastic, that I am manipulative, that I am not psychologically sound, etc., etc., and just for good measure, etc. But, one thing that I know in my heart is that, when giving advice to other people on their relationships, I always tried to do the right thing.

One thing that I always despised in other relationships, especially those that lasted for years and years was codependency—when one part of the couple seemed unable to exist without the other. Even on the minutest level, one-half of these relationships could not seem to function without its other 50 percent. No decision could be made without approval from the other person; no interest could be pursued unless the other person also had that interest. These are the sorts of people that only speak in “wes”. We can’t come, because we are busy (and they don’t even mean the royal we.) These are the kind of people that break off a friendship if their boyfriend or girlfriend does not get along with you. Sickening. My philosophy in these sorts of situations was always the same, that the individual spirit and identity must be maintained. That, when one is in a relationship for a long time, that one cannot lose one’s own identity, interests, or friends only because there is a new person in one’s life.

But, now that Chris and I have been together for a year and a half, I am beginning, for the first time to understand. I wouldn’t say that, before, I was heard-hearted to the effects of a long relationship. That is to say, co-dependency, it seemed, after a while, was a natural byproduct of two people being together. I just thought it should be avoided at all costs.

That being said, the past couple of days, Chris has needed to be at job interviews, etc. So, I have had a couple of moments to reflect on him being gone. And, I am happy to say, I really missed him in those moments. Perhaps it is true, if I were to analyze myself from another viewpoint that I am beginning to feel codependent with Chris. And, even though this is true, the message that I get when I sit for just a moment or two and miss him, is that I love him more than I have ever loved another human being. I am sure that what I have for him is special in that it seems to grow and intensify with time, that now, more than ever I know that he is the one with whom I want to spend all of my days. I love him, and, codependency or not, I know that I am so blessed to be living these last one and a half years with him. So, yes, maybe it is codependency when I miss at little moments during the day, but it is also love. And the love is so much more important.

Birthday Kitsch

Chris’ Birthday
Chorus Free Day

It’s rainy today. Maybe that means I shouldn’t write something. (My sister, yesterday, after having read my blog, said that I should only write about happy things and that some of it sounded like it had been written on a rainy day.)

Today is Chris’ birthday. He will be 30. He is having a party with what he likes to call a “50’s Buffet.” This means most of the stuff on the buffet is either made from boiled eggs, mayonnaise, or combinations of things from a can. I guess, after the 40’s, and the war, the 50’s were considered a time of plenty here, and people thought that the most decadent kind of party would be one featuring all kinds of fat and processed food. They, after having had to eat only things from the ground for so long, were attracted to things in cans and bottles made in big factories. Ok.... Sharp contrast to today, I guess. In any case, the food featured on our table today is stuff like hollowed out eggs with tomato slices on top, in the shape of mushrooms, meat salad from a container, in a hollowed out cucumber, and a big punch made of white wine, raspberries and champagne. Something tells me that Chris, a graphic designer by trade, picked which pictures in his little book looked the best, not really considering whether they taste good or not. Not my styles, but, hey, not my party (but I’ll cry if I want to?)

Yesterday, a colleague, goofing around on stage, pulled the back of my suspenders while we were on stage, causing the buttons to pop off and fly into the pit. Because, though, I have lost about 25 pounds since the opening of the production, my pants were several inches too big, and the suspenders were the only thing holding them up. So, I had to discreetly, unbutton the front of the suspenders, and throw them off stage. The problem was that we were are on stage for the whole second act of Mahagonny, and we dance a good bit of the time (requiring both of my hands.) Let’s just say, I was extremely annoyed at having to always have a hand on my waist in order to not “drop trow” in front of the entire audience.

Schrebergarten

Mahagonny Matinee

Sometimes I think the world of so full of creativity and ease that I want to bust from it all. Other times, I think there really aren’t that many interesting things going on. I am seldom bored, really, but, when I am, I realize that it is really mild depression. I mean, how could anyone possibly be bored in this life? It is so full of things to learn. But, when I am bored nothing interests me. All of the things that I, at one time or another, have found interesting are, at that moment, dull. When someone is bored, it’s really because they themselves are being boring.

It’s a beautifully mild day today. My friend Amie and I have been searching for a Schrebergarten for about 2 and a half months now. Thank God, we finally found one. (Schrebergartens are those little gardens outside of town that a lot of Germans have: a little plot of their own to plant vegetables in, to build a hut on, and to spend time in during holidays, etc. Piled directly next to each other, almost always on what either once was or still is the rural areas bordering a town, the Schrebergarten plots of Germany look like little shanty towns outside of Soweto or something. Americans actually think, sometimes, that they are German ghettos when they are coming into Germany for the first time. Germany doesn’t have any ghettos, at least not by my standards, but, hey, I used to live in Cleveland. I guess that’s why German rap sounds so silly to me...) Anyway, we have a little garden now, and we have to renovate the little Schrebergarten house and start preparing the earth for after the last frost. Then we get to plant. My colleagues at the opera actually make fun of me for having one of these little gardens. They say that I have become more German than the Germans, because there is nothing more German than having a Schrebergarten. Most people who have them are very old, and have built up their Schrebergartens to be all that they could be (in the army.) They usually have everything they need to spend the entire day there: coffee machines, stoves, toilets, running water, beds or hammocks to take a nap in, even televisions. We just found out from our neighbor there that we are not supposed to work on Sundays in our garden. That is out of respect for our neighbors there who want to come out to the country and rest before the beginning of the week. Besides, my neighbor said, it says in the Bible to rest on the 7th day. (Tell that to my boss...)

Fleeting, crisp ballet

Fleeting, crisp ballet
on round, lillypad stage
crickets and fairies
intermingle, chat.

The moon in tie and cap
The Great Oak in sheath and crown
Ponder, as silent cruises of ants meander,
Donned in the excitement of fireflies.

Grasshoppers flit in twos
Cicadas hurrah in drone
And Nightingale descants
inviting all in Fest.

And I, enchanted,
Lean to for my first,
stolen kiss.

Superstition

André Chenier staging rehearsal AM
Csardàsfürstin performance PM

After having a string of bad days, I was seriously looking forward to a good one. A holdover from my youth, I sometimes pick rather random signs of superstition to determine whether or not it is going to be a good day. Generally, if it is before 9AM and several bad things have happened, then I assume that it is just going to be a crappy day—out of my hands.
This morning, I was on my way to the opera and decided that if I had any copper coins in my pocket, it was going to be a bad day. Well, I didn’t have any in my pocket. And, now that the day is over, it has been a good day. Yay, superstition.

I can honestly say, though, that this might be one of the most bizarre, and, frankly, borderline psychotic things that I do. Thankfully, I only let the Fates determine my day once in a blue moon.

Forever hiatus

Forever hiatus

as ruin bursting from mire
pierces grand hurls about
the sun, adjacent and mute is unallowed, silenced
it eclipses god, boy, man and all envisions dissolve

a joyed, merry Yearling is agog
huzzahs abound him for millennia
all his days neophyte, meaningless, and piquant
a kid’s helm ever-abounding

just as me, little


heaven’s far hosts jubilate
sequenced Hosanna called to all: bliss!

my day now low, endangered
hastens with now-suffering
excepting the announcing of god’s day eternal