"I always think ... "

It's been two months since I've published a post here at the Perverse Lutheran. A long time. I've had thoughts and ideas, but they've evaporated quickly, helped along by the glare of self-criticism. 

So I'm trying "Random on a Tuesday" this morning and making a commitment (well, about 85 percent) to hitting publish, no matter what. (Please, dear reader, accept my apologies.)

1. It's almost 10 a.m. I've been awake since 6. I had my morning coffee but it did not prevent me from dozing off while reading, around 8:30 a.m. Such a pleasant feeling, floating from sleep to wakeful and back again, on a morning in May, in a patio chair under a hazy blue sky, birds chipping and chirping in the bushes, cradled by green, lilac-y fragrance.

2. This is the problem with blogging lately. Item #1 was the one single thought I had as I started this post, and it was worth only two sentences. 

3. I've been very busy directing a junior high musical production of "The Music Man Jr." It's my third time directing this in one version or another. One of my favorite moments comes near the end of the show, when Harold Hill, confronted by a boy who needed to believe in him, must tell the truth and confess to being a liar and a crook. But he tells the kid he's a great kid and that's why he wanted him in the band. 

"What band?" says Winthrop. 

Liar? Crook? Hill reveals something more about himself: "I always think there's a band, kid." 

He can't quite make it come to pass, but still he has a dream. Every time, he believes. 

4. "I always think there's a play, kid." That's where I find myself. Conjuring kids' school plays into existence, I feel seven years old again, or ten, with a grand vision of something I'm trying to turn into reality, usually against all practicality. A child’s dream. Will they believe with me? Rehearsals look like I'm in command. I'm organized. I plan. I have a spreadsheet. I tell my cast to count off by seven and move them around in groups following the circles and arrows in my notes. And I wonder if anyone can see what I see. And why would they?  

5. In plays we play together. We agree to do this and we hope to bring the audience along. Read a novel and you enter a world constructed in one author's head, its own reality. I just finished reading a novel called "Users" whose main character is a designer of virtual reality experiences that evolve and call on users to contribute content which is then shared in other users' experiences. (Think Twitter or Facebook as VR.) The protagonist is selfish. He doesn't just interact with people. He plans how to get what he needs from his wife and daughters and co-worker. His relationships are superficial and a mess. Near the end comes a reminder that we can't ever really know what it's like to be someone else. His teenage daughter's reaction: well, duh. 

6. But I’m always interested in what it’s like to be someone else, or to be inside their experience. Or interested in what they say about it. If I breathe just the right way, can I duplicate their experience in my body and brain?

7. Which reminds me to write something more about being present on this fine May day. Morning has turned to early afternoon and now to late afternoon. There's an electrician running a grounding line in the basement for the solar panels on the roof. Electricity went out in the bathroom for a while. And I just picked up three more novels from the library. 

8. What I was reading when I dozed off earlier this morning was a new translation of the writings of Julian of Norwich. Time to pick it up again.