the head of the chicken

It's day five - or is it six? - of the Ottawa Fringe, and I must say, I feel a little bit like Joe Mal (Rachelle Elie's clown in her Fringe show JOE: The Perfect Man) when he collapses in a middle of a Macbeth audition, cowering from the imagined ghost of a chicken that he once accidentally killed. I believe that I feel a similar mix of adrenaline, fear, anticipation, and confusion about the things that my mind throws at me. And oddly, though I should say I feel also like a chicken with its head cut off - I think I feel like the head, watching my body run around blindly from Fringe show to Fringe show and perhaps just thinking "...chill."

I've seen some farmtastic shows: "Boat Load" (from Jayson McDonald of "Giant Invisible Robot" fame), "Circumference" by Amy Salloway, new shows from TJ Dawe, Keir Cutler and Gemma Wilcox, and a moving monologue about mother-son relationships ("The Girl in the Picture Tries to Hang Up the Phone") from writer-performer Hume Baugh. And I've spent the last bunch of nights chatting with performers in the beer tent - which might sound to an outsider like weird recursive conversations of Fringe talking to Fringe about Fringe - but is really balm for the soul. I've missed these people. The great thing about being a touring Fringe artist is that these people - even the Fringe-famous ones above - are my friends.

But I'm TIRED. I keep talking to Amy Salloway for far too long. We knew this would happen. There is just so much to talk about. Last night I declined to walk her the two blocks home to her billet's house, hoping to avoid the three-hour conversation that neither of us ever plan to have. Alison Williams (my director) walked her instead. And they talked for three hours.

As for "Old Growth" - we've had three shows, we've had some reviews... and now we are in the middle of a four-day-off period. Which is great. We're taking out a few minutes of text so that the show can breathe more - and I suspect this will work very well, and allow the show to reach more people.

Back to publicity for me! And a couple of hours of rehearsal - and going to shows - and talk and talk and talk...

OT and TO

We're four minutes over. No matter what. I shouldn't say that. But look, we were at 69, so we tightened - then we were at 65. Better. So we cut a 4-minute chunk of text. And then we were at 64. So we tightened. And then we were at 64.

Today, we tightened. Where will we be tomorrow? Will you still need me, will you still feed me?

The answer is, I don't care when I'm 64, because we should be 58, because, officially, Old Growth is 60.

These things matter. Oh, they matter! Nick, Aura's quite wonderfully supportive boyfriend who has already attended THREE runs of Old Growth (the last one while absolutely sopping wet), initially wondered whether actors shouldn't just be allowed to "feel it". Why should the Fringe restrain it-feeling?

But they do. Ottawa's probably the best place to start a show with a strange propensity to be slightly overtime. But in Toronto... the first time, it's a warning. The second time - the lights come up at precisely 60 minutes (or whatever your scheduled time is), and that's IT. The third time... oh, you don't want to know. But it's even more graphic than the actual real final four minutes of Old Growth. In Calgary, they feed you to the mountain lions - in Vancouver, to the residents of Port Moody.

And the truth is: Old Growth with the last 4 minutes chopped off is NOT a show you'd want to see. There would be no comedown from the het up. You'd actually die.

So we'd better get it right.

Oh, lots of new stuff up on the www.AlexEddington.com Old Growth pages. CHECK'TOUT!

mired

I'm completely covered in stuff. Little itty bitty props. I have no idea how many. Thousands.

I've been practicing the magic for Old Growth. There's not *that* much, really, the dense parts are only in a few of the "Envirologues", and they last only a couple of minutes each. But it's so dense - and so messy.

That's the aesthetic we want: pollution. By the end of the show, the front of our circular ground cloth (the foundation and bulk of our "set") is completely covered in gum, coins, receipt-confetti, wee yellow sponge balls, and the remains of an exploded box. And almost all of it comes out of ME and my costume!

Whereas last year's The Fugue Code was about Alex-management (where to put the leg when and what-a-ta do with the voice and how to juggle 11 roles) and crazy enough, Old Growth is about pocket management. And fine motor skills. And a constant doublethink. This is what it looks like I'm doing, but this is what I'm doing.

Alison and I blocked out what the "Envirologue" magic should *look* like... and now, with the aid of the largest mirror I have ever been reflected in outside of Versailles, I'm workin' the deets. How to what the what, and when. Whither the gum, whence the coin.

It's a lot of work. But I promise sparkle, when we open in a week-and-a-day-from-tomorrow.

Tomorrow! It's our first preview, for a stately audience of four. Then Sunday is the second one, then Wednesday we tech...and Thursday we open. And, if memory serves me, the weight lifts basically instantly.

No. Not until I know I can set all the wee props in our 15-minute preshow setup!

'till soonish

Alex

gehearsals and gublicity

We have just now come to the end of week FOUR of rehearsals, if you can believe that, and Old Growth opens in just under two weeks at the Ottawa Fringe. And as of yesterday, I feel like we have a show. As of the day before yesterday, we only had a stumble-through where we didn't quite know our lines, nor why we were saying them. Things change quickly. In just two evening sessions (last tonight and tonight), Aura and I sorted out ALL the music for the show.

It's the weirdest thing. By the way, my new hobby is going to be using common colourful expressions out of context. I especially look forward to saying "what are the odds!?", for instance, when someone mentions that they are from North Bay - or Spokane - regardless of whether I or anyone else present is from that place.

It's the weirdest thing. Back in Novemeber I wrote a few very short pieces for flute that fall into a collection called "Branchings". None of them contain more than 99 notes. So the fast ones are over in a flash. It was an exercise, I wanted to see if I could write "music that sounds like a tree". And did so in whatever way seemed appropriate in November, with the aid of some computery randomyness, because randomness sounds "natural" to me. I thought, hey, spruce trees are symmetrical and recursive in structure, so I'll write some music like that. Whatever it is. Like all mappings from the visual to the aural or whatever, it's actually totally arbitrary. It was an arbitrary little experiment.

But it works. It's spooky - it works NOW. I like the pieces on their own, but when we put them with the play... it's spooky. Aura keeps whippin' 'em out. We come to a part of the script where we want music, and I say, hey, I think it should be something that feels a bit like this, and suddenly a "Branching" is up on the stand. We're using all but one of them. And they fit. Like, to the word. It's really quite magnificent.

And I like acting with live music. It feels like wearing a mask - I can really give myself to it, I can really sparkle because I'm safe - I'm not alone up there.

So my life is busy. We rehearse weekdays 10-2, and then I've been doing either magic or music rehearsal in the evenings. Tomorrow is magic all day, Sunday is the day we personalize our costumes and props with the aid of paint and putty and wax and sewing. And on Wednesday, we have our first preview. And every time I come home, I send out publicity emails. Every, every time. The other night I had that nightmare where I wake up and wonder if I even have a show to advertise. There is a pile of five books on my dresser that I haven't even cracked.

I am keeping tabs on the ducklings at Dows Lake, though. They're independent. They know where mama is, but some of them are happy to be even 15 away on the grass. I wish I had that kind of self-confidence at age Three Weeks. I aspire to be a duckling. It's my calling.

Bed, or publicity? ...