I had my eyes dilated a few days ago and I still feel effed up. Of course it was a blindingly sunny day–a rarity really–and I road the bus home wearing my glasses and a goofy sun visor insert. I don’t think I’ve ever endured dilation before. The following day I had a roaring headache and the glasses–which were once a fun, cute novelty–went back on. I decided to spring for the anti-reflective coating and had a set of new frames ordered. Call me an inexperienced eyeglass wearer, but the reflection drives me crazy.
I’m starting a new theatersports class which studies the Harold. In the improv world the Harold is considered a “long form” game of improv. The fancy term on the website compares the “Harold to a jazz like form incorporating scenes, games, and monologues to create an improvised collage inspired by a single word.” This word essentially structures the Harold; a word like “water” could suggest fluid movement, long scenes, and graceful characters. After the first class I had fantastic dreams, each one an individual scene onstage, floating in and out. Of course every class has its own “loose cannons,” improvers who dive in, floundering, drowning onstage, splashing about in embarrassingly long narratives. A couple of weeks ago a dear young improviser bitch slapped someone on-stage in a blinding, emotional, performance-driven frenzy. Backstage, I cringed over such blatant improvised violence.
Recently I was given one of the best personal observations an instructor has ever given me (including college): “Mara is an embodied improviser. She is more in touch with her body than anyone else in the room. ” He further embellished on this idea by claiming that most actors are completely inside their heads the entire time they’re on-stage, trying to be witty, trying to be present and accurate…very rarely can an improviser abandon their brain and allow their body to lead and react to offers given by other actors. Publicly, I chalked it up to the dance training, but secretly I really cherish this new bit of information.