Enjoy.

Wselwulf, Stalwart Seat of Victorious Kings sat quietly in the corner contemplating his fate.  It had been a long time since the Stalwart Seat of Victorious Kings had thought such serious things, but there was little else he could do.

Thinking was hard.

Remembering was easier.

Wselwulf, Stalwart Seat of Victorious Kings had once been a tree. He did not remember his name then. It had been different, not of man, but of the Earth, for the earth gives names just as men do, but that was long ago.

He (if Trees have genders, it is not for us to say), had grown on a high hill overlooking a sunny valley where a small village had sprung up during the summer months. He was surrounded by his brothers and his roots were strong. He had seen many storms and many winters and stood straight and tall for a tree so young, his branches reaching towards the warming sky, moving in the breeze that came through the valley and up the hill to where his fallen leaves lay surrounding him.

While it may be true that trees cannot see, they can still smell, the memory of burning wood and hot iron engrained in the wooden parts that make the whole, feel the vibrations of the people and places they inhabit, the warmth of the sun and the cool of the rain on their backs, their memories in every scratch and scuff— I must say, trees are much like people.

One day, many, many years after he first remembered feeling the warmth of his first Sunlight and feeling the delicious itch of his first sprouts, he felt a strange pulse in his roots. He smelled smoke and fire and meat and blood and death and knew it to be men. Men had come.

He had heard the stories of the birds in his branches, of these “men” who took and killed without permission or offering, and now they were here, among his brothers.

Trees do not have much to fear. They are one with the Earth, with the storms, with the seasons, with all that Earth gives, with its creatures and its majesty, they receive for nothing, being of the Earth. If they fall, if their branches wither, when they grow too old to bear the weight of their own limbs–it is well, for the trees have a saying. “What will be of the Earth is of the Earth, and of the Earth is Earth”–so no tree ever feared demise in the age when what was of the Earth was of the Earth.

But now, the tree who would become Wselwulf, Stalwart Seat of Victorious Kings was frightened.

The men took four of his brothers that day. His brothers fell without sound, save for the songs of the men as they went about their work and their cheers when the mighty trees finally toppled.

They went away then, and stayed away for quite some time. Then they returned.

This time, they took him.

The tree that became Wselwulf, Stalwart Seat of Victorious Kings was unceremoniously ripped from the earth and taken down from his high hill to the valley and into a damp and musty warehouse. There he sat for many days, growing thirsty, forgetting that his roots were gone, then remembering, then forgetting again.

Finally, someone came for him. He was carried from the warehouse and into the sunlight, where he thanked the Earth for the warmth on his trunk and the feel of the breeze on the branches the men had left. He was placed in the water, and his broken stump gratefully drank what water he could without his roots.

He floated for a long time, down a river, through rapids and peaceful streams, until his trunk thudded against an unfamiliar bank. Men wrapped ropes around him and hoisted him from the water and brought him into some other place, again where the sun could not reach his limbs.

Unfamiliar smells reached his branches, strange vibrations shook his trunk. He felt himself being lifted again and he smelled iron nearby. Close. Too close. For the second time, the tree that would become Wselwulf, Stalwart Seat of Victorious Kings was frightened.

He remembered the feeling of being hewn, his limbs separated from his mighty trunk, his trunk split and shaped and split again until he was no longer one being, but many pieces.

Wselwulf, Stalwart Seat of Victorious Kings wondered what had happened to the pieces that had been left behind. Trees are not familiar with the concept of separation and division. Leaves fall and return to the earth. Dry branches crack and split and fall, but they are still always nearby. The wind may come and take leaves far away but they still land on the earth. Whole portions of him had been removed and taken away and he did not know where they had gone or what became of them.This worried him.

He remembered more.

He remembered being in pieces and feeling the warmth of fire near him, feeling the pieces of himself shaped and changed by the rough hands of a Man. Over time, he grew to know the Man by his smell. The Man smelled of iron and young saplings, but most importantly, he smelled of Earth. He grew to know the Man by his touch– rough, calloused hands that carved his pieces gently and with great care.

Wselwulf, Stalwart Seat of Victorious Kings did not care for men or their practices but he had liked that Man. The Man had changed him and changed his pieces and parts into something that men called “chair”.

And so, the tree became a chair.

Because trees cannot see, the tree that became a chair could not see how he had been transformed. And what a transformation had been wrought. The tree had felt the Man carving him, but he could not see the stories of men that had been carved along his branches that became legs. The tree had felt the Man brushing tiny strokes of something warm onto his new shape, but he could not see the gold and silver that now lined the wood that became arms. The tree had felt the man rest something soft along his branches that became a seat, but he could not see the rich embroidery of the brocade that made the cushion that Kings of Men would sit on.

And so, the tree that became a chair became a throne.

Wselwulf, Stalwart Seat of Victorious Kings remembered the strange feeling of the first of the many men that would sit on him. The man’s hands were rough and gripped his branches that were arms tightly. His weight was surprising, but not unpleasant.  The man did not shift in place as many of the men that had sat on him had done, nor did he swing his legs or lean back as the smaller men did.

Over time, the Wselwulf, Stalwart Seat of Victorious Kings became an excellent judge of the men who sat on his branches that became a seat. The ones with rough hands and a gentle touch seemed to sit the longest. The heavy men, the sweaty ones with soft hands and a tight grip never seemed to sit on him for very long. There were men who seemed to jump into his seat, those who always hesitated for just a moment before their full weight fell on him and those who barely seemed to sit at all, so ready were they to jump up again.

He had felt the warm blood of some of them spill down his legs and felt others grow cold on him as they returned to the earth. Once, he had felt the tiny movements of a tiny man placed on his seat by another type of man. This man smelled of sweet fruits and flowers. He was a different type of man, what men called “woman”. Wselwulf, Stalwart Seat of Victorious Kings often wished he could see this man, to see what differences separated him from the other men. This man’s touch was gentle and the man would often hold the tiny man in his arms, rocking him. Wselwulf, Stalwart Seat of Victorious Kings supposed this was so the tiny man could feel the wind in the branches that men called “hands”.

There were times when he had felt fire nearby, very close. Sometimes huge vibrations that would shake the ground he sat on would bring the smells of iron and blood and death. It was always the same. He would wait for the men to come, to lift him and then he would feel the vibrations of a long journey. Then he would feel himself put back on the Earth and he would feel the familiar weight of men on him again, until the next time the smells of blood and death reached him.

Over time, the gold chipped away, the carvings lost their detail to the smoothing of time, the brocade faded and tattered until his seat was bare, but he remained. The men always came for him.

Then, there was a time when men did not come for him. No one rested their weight on the branches that became his seat, no one rant heir hands over the branches that became him arms, and his wood grew dry and dusty without the attention of men. Wselwulf, Stalwart Seat of Victorious Kings sat in that condition for a long, long time.

Then men came again. They wiped the dust from his branches that had become him arms and legs and rubbed oil to relieve the dry condition of his wood. They replaced the soft cushion on the branches that became his seat and they took him to a place with bright light that was not the sun. But still, no men sat on him. He could feel them walking by him, around him, their vibrations always coming close enough to give him hope, but their weight never rested on him. Wselwulf, Stalwart Seat of Victorious Kings was lonely.

Then, again, he felt the huge vibrations that meant that men would come for him. He smelled the iron and blood and death and waited for men to come and lift him and take him on another journey. Then, suddenly, there was a great, crushing weight– but this was no man. It felt as though the Earth herself was falling onto him, all of him, not just his branches that became a seat. Wselwulf, Stalwart Seat of Victorious Kings, was worried for the second time.

Trees are patient, and so the tree that became a chair that became a throne waited with the crushing weight of the Earth on him. He waited there for many years.

Then, finally, the men came. They lifted the weight from him and dusted and oiled and cared for him before, and again they brought him to a place with bright light where the men did not rest their weight on him. They placed a rope across the branches that had become his seat and so men walked by, sometimes stopping, sometimes passing by without a pause.

The men would come once in awhile to dust and oil him, to adjust the cushion or to examine his carvings, but they never sat on him.

And so, Wselwulf, Stalwart Seat of Victorious Kings, sat, patiently waiting as trees are wont to do, wondering who the next man would be to rest his weight on him.

He didn’t have long to wait.

She surveyed her apartment. The place was a mess. Newspapers and coffee cups littered the counters and the growing stack of unopened mail by the front door loomed precariously over the the dying housplants lining the hallway. In the kitchenette, empty frozen dinner cartons rested on top of the mound of garbage already in the bin.  She breathed deeply. The place was starting to smell.

Samantha begrudgingly got off of the couch and zig-zagged through the dirty clothes and clutter to get to the kitchen. She began rummaging around the cabinets, looking for some semblance of cleaning supplies, but all she managed to find was a questionable sponge and a single unused garbage bag.

She began shoving trash and take-out containers into the bag as the microwave droned on. As she wandered the appartment cleaning wrappers and crumpled papers from the most visible areas, Samantha realized that she had never actually been taught how to clean. She looked around at the apartment again. A thick layer of dust covered the otherwise unoccupied areas. The walls were bare, save for the faint, sun-faded outlines of past decor, and the windows let in streaks of light through the build up of algae and dirt. Samantha looked closer– the dirt and algea were on the inside.

“Screw this”.  

Samantha dropped the garbage bag in the center of the room and stalked down the hallway to the bedroom, tripping over magazines and boxes along the way. She opened the closet and thumbed through the garments hanging on the rack.

“You, you, you…you…you”.

She threw the pile on the bed and rummaged through the cluttered contents of the bottom of the closet to retrieve her suitcase. She unceremoniously shoved her selections into the suitcase and zipped it shut. She flopped onto the bed and grabbed her cell phone from the opposite bedside stand and dialed.

She heard it ring twice, a faint click, and then his voicemail message picked up. Samantha rolled her eyes.

“You could just answer the phone for once. Listen. This isn’t working out. I’m moving on.  I’ll give you a call when I’ve settled in. I’m not sure where I’m going but I’ll let you know”. She paused. “And…I—I’ll see you soon”.

Samantha hung up, rolled off of the bed and stretched. She picked up her suitcase and headed down the hallway, her suitcase knocking over piles of clutter as she went. She reached into her back pocket and pulled out her phone and dialed again.

This time, there answer was almost immediate.

“Samantha?” The female voice on the other end sounded groggy.

Samantha glanced at the time and winced– it was almost 3AM. Oops. “Hey, Amy”. 

“…why are you calling so late?”

“Well, sis, I’m moving out.”

“Oh, Sammy, not again–you just got this one–”

“I know, babe, but it didn’t pan out.”

“They NEVER pan out, Sammy, you know that”.

Samantha rolled her eyes. 3AM and her sister was lecturing her already. It was going to be a good day. “Listen, sweetie, I’m over this one. I’m headed uptown tomorrow, want to find a new place. Do you want to come?”

Even on the phone, Samantha could feel Amy’s annoyance. “No, Samantha, I do not want to come. I’m happy here, I’m settled. I have a family, friends– I have kids, Samantha. I can’t just give that up because you’re—bored”.

“Okay, okay—look. I’m going to go, but I’ll give you a call when I’m settled in, okay?”

“Fine. And Samantha, please– be careful. I love you, even though you’re an irresponsible idiot. Promise me you’ll be safe”.

“I always am, baby sis, I always am. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go find someone to wear”.

She shoved her phone back into her pocket and stepped into the hallway, her suitcase rolling behind her. Wheels on a suitcase. Whoever thought of that should be sainted. Samantha pulled the cheap wooden door closed behind her and headed down the darkened hallway.

From behind the door, the microwave beeped.

The Beginning

Peter dropped the remainder of his shopping on the front door mat and dug around in his pocket for his keys. Once found, he shrugged the paper grocery sack back onto his shoulder and opened the lock and found himself greeted by a pirate pointing a  lethal-looking sword directly at his face.

“Avast!”

Peter sighed.

He walked around the pirate, ignoring his curses and dropped his groceries onto the kitchen counter and began unpacking. As the pirate swore, Peter carefully organized the contents of his freezer to accommodate another week’s worth of frozen dinners. Once everything was in its proper place, he returned to the living room, once again ignoring the pirate, ducking the parrot swooping around his ceiling fan.

Peter sighed again.

He crossed the living room and into his office, opening the heavy wooden pocket doors. The parrot took advantage of the new airspace and dove between the open doors. The parrot settled quietly onto Peter’s desk and began poking its beak through his files. Behind him, the pirate had settled onto the couch and was flipping through a copy of Time.

Peter crossed to a large shelf that took up the majority of space in his office. He glanced at the glass jars lining the shelves and sighed yet again. The maid must have bumped them again– this was the third time this month. Granted, he wasn’t complaining about the naked woman he’d found last week— she’d been far more pleasant than the giant squid on Tuesday.

Peter carefully snaked his hand around and through the army of jars to upright the three fallen comrades– marked “Adventure”, “Swash” and  ”Buckle”.  He carefully scraped up the spilled contents onto a spare file folder and blew them into the fire.

Behind him, the pirate disappeared in a burst of smoke. The parrot lingered for a moment longer, uttered a final, judgemental “SQUAWK” and disappeared in the same fashion.

He was really going to have to speak to the maid.

What I pictured was stepping out of the shower, pulling back the shower curtain and finding myself greeted by a pirate. I don’t know why that happened, or what about that amused me so much, but I was inspired to write something about it. So I sat down and I threw something down on my “emergency bathroom ideas notebook” (yes, I have one of those) and went to bed.

This morning I re-read what I’d written, and it actually wasn’t terrible. Normally, I wake up and immediately hate whatever it was that I wrote the night before, but I still like the convention. So.

What I’ve decided is that I need goals and challenges. So what I’ve decided is that every day, (starting tomorrow), I will write a little bit of the story here to both 1. give me something to do. 2. Force me to finish a story for once in my life.

I’ve never actually done that. For as much as I have been paid to write and gotten real life big kid writing jobs, I have never finished a story I have started writing on my own, with the exception of a story that I was forced to finish because I turned in the extant portion for a class once and then the teacher wanted to read the ending. I always get halfway through and then give up.

So, I’m going to finish this. It might be terrible. It might be awesome. It might be so amazing that Neil Gaiman himself calls and says “Catie, I’ve read your story and it is clear that you are the greatest writer of all time, therefore I have thrown away my computer and I want to buy you some pie”.

Who knows.

But yes. Look for those updates from here on out, I’ll try to make it worth your while, dear reader. I’ll try.

It started off as an innocently boring day. I was covering for the lady who normally runs the park gift shop, which is a pretty sweet gig because it’s just you and the conservatory flowers and a nice thunderstorm-y smell and all the Facebook you can stand and no judgement if you want to eat an entire bag of yogurt pretzels.

Earlier in the morning, one of the horticulturists, who is this incredibly endearing woman named Vickie, had stopped in and told me as an anecdote that some woman had called and complained that she had been witness to a DUCK ATTACK in the Village of East Davenport, and (this line of thought is surmised because I’m not an idiot) because we are a park where there are ducks, clearly we were the ones to call.

Vickie was really nice about it and explained to the woman that no, ducks are in mating season right now and unfortunate but true, duck mating is more like “violent duck rape”. The woman was furious and hung up with a cryptic “Fine, if you’re not going to do anything about this, I WILL”.

Fast-forward to a couple hours later, when Vickie comes to tell me that this same woman had just rolled up with a duck. In her car. Apparently, the woman had decided to “rescue” the duck she had seen being attacked, and basically took it from where she found it and brought it with her to VanderVeer because, you know, maybe only the rape ducks hang out in the Village.

So what OF COURSE winds up happening is that in a park with a predominately male duck population, a new female gets introduced and so all the ducks go apeshit BECAUSE IT’S MATING SEASON and she promptly gets duck-raped. Again.

So the woman comes into the office to complain that we aren’t doing anything about the violent duck molestation outside that is happening WHERE CHILDREN CAN SEE!

Again, it is explained to her that sorry, that’s just how ducks roll, there’s nothing we can really do about it.

The woman storms out and we think the story is done. We think.

It should be noted here that ducks, when they are mating, have a tendency to pull out feathers. It’s not pretty and there there is a little, tiny bit of blood, but it’s not really harmful and aside from looking shitty, it really doesn’t matter.

So of course, the duck the woman tried to rescue comes over now looking much more worse for the wear and is missing a big chunk of feathers on her neck.

The woman FREAKS THE HELL OUT and comes running into the office about how see, see, the ducks are MATING, they are just being mean and now this duck is going to die and WHY AREN’T WE DOING ANYTHING?

Vickie, being concerned about animals and nature in general, goes out to look at the duck to make sure it’s okay, and checks it out, realizes that it’s just missing a few feathers and assures the woman that look, this is just what happens with ducks. We’re sorry this is distasteful to you, but there is really nothing we can do, we’re parks employees, not animal control or vets.

Then is gets weird.
Well, weirder.

So this lady decides again, apparently, that if we aren’t going to do anything, as official president and secretary of the Duck Defenders, it’s her duty to save the duck.So she just picks up the duck and leaves.

Straight up ducknaps this poor bird who’s already been duck-raped twice and now has this idiot chasing her around. I feel bad for the duck.

Poor Vickie, who has been dealing with this all day, comes in to call the cops, because mallard ducks are protected by state law, so basically this woman just committed a felony and now we have to bring the cops in to it.

The cops get called, and it turns out the woman has been calling the COPS all day about the duck as well, so they were fed up with this woman as well. Unfortunately, we didn’t really have a good description of her car or anything so we thought she was just going to get away with it. So Vickie goes in the back to call the nature guy in the parks office to let him know what’s happening and I resume my post, and then–

“Excuse me, I’m sorry to bother you, but there is a bloody duck in the middle of the kid’s playground”.

Oh good.

We’re not exactly sure what happened, but somehow, the duck wound up on the playground. We think the woman probably got bit and gave up, but who knows.

I head out to the playground with the mom who came to tell us, and sure enough, there a rather sad and destitute looking duck surrounded by a circle of small, weeping children who are helping the situation by poking the duck with a stick.

Thanks, parents.

I tell the kids that the duck is hurt and that I’m an Animal Police Officer (thanks, four year olds’ lack of suspicion!) and that they have to help me on my Special Mission by all being really, really quiet and making a biiiiiiiiiiig line at the other end of the playground.

Once the kids were out of my hair, I take off my shirt (I had on a tank top, we’re not getting sexy in front of the kids) and use it to coax the duck off of the playground and into some tall grass by the pond.

Just as I’m congratulating myself on a job well done, the duck collapses. Just goes “qwnackughhh” and keels over. Great, now it’s my fault I killed the stupid duck and the conservation police are going to come arrest me. So I kind of awkwardly look around for witnesses and poke the duck (GENTLY. I poked it GENTLY). It kind of shuffles around but I can tell something’s off, so I decide to try and coax it closer to the pond. I grab my shirt again and have it spread out, but instead of going where I want it to, the duck basically jumps onto my shirt and sits there.

Stupid duck, go to the pond!

Nope. It became abundantly clear this duck was not going anywhere. Just as I am about to call it a day, I hear a very familiar voice in the distance say “See! That’s the duck I told you about”.

I look back and see Duck Defender surrounded by a group of moms and she’s yelling about how terrible we all are and how she’s going to just have to save the duck herself.

Now, normally I will let idiots be idiots, because really, they’re only hurting themselves. However, this poor duck has been through enough today, it might be actually injured at this point, who knows, and the last thing the poor animal needs is some crazy woman manhandling it some more and taking it to another park.

I decide to try and at least get the duck up and walking towards the pond so maybe it will swim away so Duck Defender can’t use any more of her Duck Justice, but the duck collapses again. I don’t know much about ducks and Jake wasn’t around, so I figured, well, this day has been stupid enough already, let’s make it interesting.

I carefully wrap the poor duck in my shirt and pick it up. The duck was docile and didn’t struggle or make to bite me, so I just kind of carried it to my office.

Forethought, right?

So I get back to my office and I realize…I’ve got a fucking duck in my office, what the hell do I do now?

I call Vickie and she comes out of the greenhouse to check out the duck, and we construct an impromptu duck bed out of a plastic bin and some paper, so the duck is just kind of chilling on my desk at this point.

I call Animal Control, and the officer on the phone asks me about how the bird is acting and what its injuries look like, and he tells me to just let the duck chill for awhile, and if it can walk on its own, it should be fine.

So I take some pictures of the duck, feed it some donuts, generally enjoy the hilarity of the situation, and when it seems like Amy DuckPond (official duck name) was feeling better, I carry the bin carefully to the door to set her down so she can be free, when:

“OHMYGODTHATISSOCOOLISTHATADUCKWHYDOYOUHAVEADUCK?”

Some well-meaning and easily excitable patron has just wandered into the gift shop and sees me with a duck, and her exclamation causes Amy DuckPond to FREAK OUT.

So now there’s a duck lose in the gift shop.

After about 5 minutes of me waving my arms around like an idiot trying to get this stupid duck out of the gift shop, I finally get it through the doors, out of the building, across the grass and into the pond.

Success.

There’s not really a punchline here. I’ve been trying to figure out if anything particularly hilarious happened afterwards to warrant a sweet punchline, but really all I’ve got is that 10 minutes into my drive home, the Duck Tales theme song shuffled on.

I know, Ipod, I know.

I don’t know what it was– maybe it was the shiny pictures or something, but I had this weird and sudden realization that I WANT this.

Obvious, right?

When I started looking at auditions, I think I went into it with the wrong idea. I had it in my head that to prove myself as an actor, I needed to get the phone call with the offer for the part, or I would be a failure.

What I’ve realized these last couple weeks in preparing, that it’s not about failing or succeeding. It’s in doing.

I sat down to update my resume and I was…impressed with myself. I don’t usually brag, (hell, I’ll sardonically underplay before I brag), but I realized…I might have a shot at this.

The company is looking for actors who have experience in teaching verse and theatre to kids. I knew before I sat down to write that portion of my resume that I had some experience, but until I sat down and looked at the sum total of what I have done in two years– I had no idea.

I have done…so much.

And I guess I just never thought about it. It is amazing how many things accrue to create what I think, at least, is a pretty awesome representation of my belief in sharing Shakespeare wig any poor bastard lucky enough to be in the room with me.

And it’s just something I do. One part of one thing I do. I think it was the realization of HOW much I’ve done, just in this past year, and that is a really cool feeling.

So I’m going to go in there in a little bit and try damn hard not to fuck up. But if I do, even if it all goes to hell and I’m “that girl who came to auditions and sucked majorly”, I’m still really proud of what I’ve done.

And I’m not looking at it like an audition from this point on. What’s the point? This is me, showing the people in that room how much I love Shakespeare, how its changed me and inspired me and basically, without a hint of irony, how Shakespeare has changed my life.

If I can do that, then I am a success.

(Stay tuned for The Duck Story, coming this Saturday).

Last night I had this strange and sudden revelation that I will have to memorize exactly no lines for Complete Works.

Which is awesome. –However, for some reason because of that thought, getting into the mindset of “holy crap, I’m directing this time” is eluding me.

Sure, I’ve been planning auditions and copying sides and forms and answering emails, but I still feel like at some point, some wise and older person is going to step in and say “That was really great, sweetie, but I think I’ll take it from here”.

Which is WEIRD, because I’ve directed before. I’ve directed HIGH SCHOOLERS before. Upwards of 45 of them at the same time. And I had that on lock.

This is a show with 3 grown men and maybe a 4th if someone really impresses me, so what’s the issue?

I figured it out, and I think that it’s because part of me feels like directing a play is like being a silent member of the cast that never gets to actually play. And I like to play! Playing is the fun part!

However, I suppose it’s a fair trade. I get to see my vision realized and then sit in the back and take a nap. Win. I’m already drunk with power. The power to make copies and make spreadsheets. (Directing is so glamorous, who knew?)

I’m excited for auditions as well. I’ve gotten a bunch of emails from people I don’t know inquiring about auditions, so that’s exciting. On top of that, I’m excited to see what takes the actors I already know bring to the roles.

With this show, it’s kind of tricky– actors playing themselves as actors– so casting is going to be really interesting. Auditions are Thursday, so we shall see.

Director Catie, out.

On top of that, another company announced auditions for THEIR season, and I really like both the shows and their dedication to education in schools, so I have decided to submit to both and see what happens.

Here’s the kicker: both companies are about, give or take, 20 hours away from here in opposite directions.

It shouldn’t be too hard of a process (the sides for the first company are from Titus–I have them mostly memorized anyway, and the second company’s audition is in a week, giving me more than enough time to prepare a 3-minunte monologue) but for some reason, I have this weird apprehension about it.

20 hours? I’d be a day away, in a different time zone, away from everyone and everything I love. No Whitey’s, no Blue Cat, and no Prenzies.

I know, fully and completely deep down, that if I were to submit my video/rock my audition and either company called me next month, I would pack up everything (with apologies to my Complete Works cast) and head out, hell, I’ve been looking up the closest hotels on Expedia for an hour now, but thinking about leaving everything behind to do something I really, really want to do is so weird.

Part of me feels like a traitor. Part of me feels like everything about the choice is right.

And it’s stupid, really, because this is contingent on about a thousand other things happening, none of them in my control.

One company is hiring 3 females, and that’s it– and while I have complete faith in my ability to rock my audition, there are probably more than 3 qualified females in a 4-state area vying for this job. And let’s face it– I’m not your traditional “ingenue”. My thought process is still tied so heavily to the idea of non-traditional/gender blind casting that it’s weird for me to have to turn that off and realize that I actually might have to look the part. Hell, no matter how awesome my audition is, it could come down to hair length or height (or,yes, weight) or any other combination of factors that have nothing to do with my ability to memorize a 3 minute monologue.

I don’t understand why I’m so freaked out. I lived in England, by myself (well, Abby was there, but I am confident that I could make at least ONE friend at either theatre) and it was an adventure the entire time. New things to do and see and try, and now, I’m basically faced with the same decision–for a much shorter period of time–and I’m still nervous.

Last night, it occured to me that I may have gotten comfortable. Being comfortable is grand and beautiful, but at the same time, I’ve spent the better part of my “grown up” life preaching about adventure and hope and everything exciting and beautiful about life, and here I am stressing because I might not see my friends for four months.

That’s dumb, Catie. That’s dumb.

I think it’s because I know how much I want it, to be able to say “I did this, I succeeded and now I am doing what I want to do”, but there is this huge part of me that knows that means putting everything I’ve worked for on the line, putting it in someone elses hands and saying “Judge me. Pick me. I’ve earned this”.

And in a way, I feel like maybe that’s what’s so hard.

Last night, I was working on one of my monologues in front of a mirror, and I had that dark, dark part of my most ugly and negative soul reared its ugly head and whispered “Wow, that’s what your face looks like when you act, and you’re going to go to a professional audition in Chicago and expect them to want to hire you? What are you, crazy?”

Well, maybe.

But I’m still going to go to the audition. I’m still going to try.

Maybe it will be an absolute disaster. Maybe it will be amazing. I have already accepted that the chances of actually getting a callback are really slim.

That’s okay.

But just going– doing it, showing up at an audition and having the confidence to present my work and myself to strangers who could potentially hire me, is something that I need to do for myself. I’ve spent so long telling myself that I’m not good enough– I don’t think that’s my place anymore. I’m not exactly objective. I have to live with my insecurities every day.

I think it’s time that I at least give myself the chance before I dismiss it.

And that, really, is the least I can do.

Whenever a playwright sits and puts his pen to paper, there is a specific vision in mind. Perhaps there  is an intent to inspire or to encourage, to inform or to challenge— each work that a playwright creates uses specific dialogue and language to convey these ideas and emotions. However, there are thousands of people across the globe who seek access to these same ideals, and often, there is an existing  language barrier that prevents these works from being accessible by all people. It is in this situation that the translator and/or editor steps in, with the hope of making these scripts more easily read by translating them into local dialect and editing them for ease of comprehension.
However, there is a fine line between a “translation” and a “re-write” and the nuances between an “edit” and a “complete re-working” of the source material are often not well defined.  G.M. Cookson, author of “On Translating Greek Tragedy” wrote that “the true aim of translation is to transport us back to the poet, not to bring him closer to ourselves”. A translator or editor often has the leeway to edit however they may see fit, but with this freedom comes the danger that the original playwright’s message and intent will be lost somewhere along the way. If a translator or editor has an agenda to pursue, there is a possibility that the script may be tailored to fit that mode of thinking. After all, there is only one letter’s difference between “Thou shall” and “Thou shalt not commit adultery”.  Additionally, care must be paid when translating from the original Greek. Many explanations of the cultural and symbolic references present in extent Greek literature have been lost, so extensive research must be done in order to faithfully preserve the original motive of the playwright.
Even beyond the intent of the text as a whole, a specific character’s motivations and intents can be shifted and changed by clever translation and editing. The character of King Oedipus is a complex and challenging role that has many different layers within the text, and the growth of these relationships can be either ignored or explored according to the whims of the translator. It is fascinating to look at many different scripts and see which authors chose to delve into these relationships and expound on them, and which let these interplays lapse with the intent of furthering the story.
It is with this knowledge in mind that this paper has been written. There are over 25 extent translations of Sophocles’ “Oedipus Rex”, each with a different editor and translator, and it is the intent of this author to explore and identify major changes, discrepancies and voices in several of these scripts, in the hopes of illustrating the potential each translator holds in changing the tone and intent behind the words. The three scripts used are those of F. Storr, originally published in 1912, of Fitts and Fitzgerald, originally published in 1939, and a relatively new script, published in 2007 by Ian Johnson.
A thorough investigation of each script is an impracticality within these pages, so, instead, two of the major passages were chosen for examination. In each script, the first pivotal passage is the scene in which Oedipus declares his fateful curse on the perpetrators of the murder of Laius. This was used to explore the methodology behind translation and the differences in Oedipus’ character.
1.    “This proclamation I address to all:–If any knows the man by whom Laius, son of Labdacus, was slain, I summon him to make clean shrift to me. And if he shrinks, let him reflect that thus confessing he shall ‘scape the capital charge; For the worst penalty that shall befall him is banishment–unscathed he shall depart. But if an alien from a foreign land be known to any as the murderer, Let him who knows speak out, and he shall have due recompense from me and thanks to boot. But if ye still keep silence, if through fear for self or friends ye disregard my hest, Hear what I then resolve; I lay my ban on the assassin whosoe’er he be. Let no man in this land, whereof I hold the sovereign rule, harbor or speak to him; Give him no part in prayer or sacrifice or lustral rites, but hound him from your homes. For this is our defilement, so the god hath lately shown to me by oracles. Thus as their champion I maintain the cause both of the god and of the murdered King. And on the murderer this curse I lay (On him and all the partners in his guilt):– Wretch, may he pine in utter wretchedness!  And for myself, if with my privity he gain admittance to my hearth, I pray the curse I laid on others fall on me.”–F. Storr  (Orig. translated 1912)
2.    But now, Friends, as one who became a citizen after the murder, I make this proclamation to all of Thebans: If any man knows by whose hand Laios, son of Labdakos met his death, I direct that man to tell me everything, no matter what he fears from having so long withheld it. Let it stand as promised that no further trouble will come to him, but he may leave the land in safety. Moreover, if anyone knows the murderer to be foreign, let him not keep silent: he shall have his reward from me. However, if he does conceal it, if any man, fearing for his friend or for himself disobeys the edict, hear what I propose to do: I solemnly forbid the people of this country, where power and throne are mine, to ever receive that man or speak to him, no matter where he is, or let him join in sacrifice, lustration or prayer. I decree that he be driven from every house…” Fitts/Fitzgerald ( Orig translated 1939)
3.    I now proclaim the following to all of you Cadmeians: Whoever among you knows the man it was who murdered Laius, son of Labdacus, I order him to reveal it all to me. And if the murderer’s afraid, I tell him to avoid the danger of the major charge by speaking out against himself. If so, he will be sent out from this land unhurt—and undergo no further punishment. If someone knows the killer is a stranger, from some other state, let him not stay mute. As well as a reward, he’ll earn my thanks. But if he remains quiet, if anyone,through fear, hides himself or a friend of his against my orders, here’s what I shall do—so listen to my words. For I decree that no one in this land, in which I rule as your own king, shall give that killer shelter or talk to him, whoever he may be, or act in concert with him during prayers, or sacrifice, or sharing lustral water. Ban him from your homes, every one of you, for he is our pollution, as the Pythian god has just revealed to me. In doing this, I’m acting as an ally of the god and of dead Laius, too. And I pray whoever the man is who did this crime, one unknown person acting on his own  or with companions, the worst of agonies will wear out his wretched life. I pray, too,that, if he should become a honoured guest in my own home and with my knowledge,I may suffer all those things I’ve just called down upon the killers. –Ian Johnston (Orig. Translated 2007)
At first glance, it would seem that the slight variations in these texts are merely stylistic choices and have no real bearing on the original texts. However, upon closer examination it becomes easier to see the differences in approach and methodology each writer took in working with the challenging character of Oedipus. From in the opening sentences, there is a vast difference in all three texts. For example, there is an inherent examination o f Oedipus’ opinion of his position of power over his subjects that takes three separate positions.
In the Storr translation, the people are not given a title, instead, Oedipus proclaims his speech “to all”. This abandonment of personal connection is intensified within the next lines, as Oedipus identifies himself as holding the sovereign rule, but withholds any message of commiseration or empathy towards his subjects. There is an interesting juxtaposition present in the Fitts/ Fitzgerald translation in that it is only in this version that Oedipus transfers any sort of relationship upon the people of Thebes, calling them “friends”. However, immediately after wards, he reminds the people that he is not a true citizen of Thebes and only became one after the murder of Laius. However, later in this same passage, Oedipus declares that  he “takes the side of the murdered king”, implying that he is loyal to his adopted city. In the Johnston version of the script, there is a feeling of ultimate separation and power– he calls his subjects “you Cadmeians” and adds his loyalty to Laius only as an addendum to his loyalty to the gods.
The treatment of the Theban people is unique in each translation- In Johnston’s version, Oedipus commands them, “every one of you”, to enact his decree, whereas in the Fitts/ Fitzgerald translation, they are addressed as “the people”, becoming a unit rather than a group of individuals. This removal of personal identity is an interesting position taken by the translators— if Oedipus does not recognize the people of Thebes as people, and rather as simply an entity that must be appeased, it raises an interesting question about Oedipus’ position on their humanity; whether or not their suffering is recognized as cause for genuine concern or merely as a means to appear as a great savior to a plagued mass.
It is interesting, however, that in each version of the text, Oedipus’ declaration that the curse will fall upon his own head should he find himself harboring the criminal is unanimously a brief, toss away line.  In the Fitts/ Fitzgerald version, Oedipus declares “As for me, this curse applies no less, if it should turn out that the culprit is my guest here, sharing my hearth”, and then immediately moves on to instructing the people to carry out his will. There is little acknowledgment that he may hold some burden of guilt in the matter, and the possibility of him being the actual criminal is completely ignored. (Ironically, of course, he is  in fact the perpetrator of the crime).
There is additionally an element of hubris that is usually associated with the character of Oedipus, and it is through specific choices made by the translators that this fatal flaw is revealed. In the Storr translation, he out-rightly calls himself “the champion” of Thebes, in Johnston’s version, he reminds the Theban people that he is, in fact, king and goes on to call himself a “ally” of the gods even before his loyalty and duty to the old king (and therefore, reveals his priorities and primary concerns: easing the gods before solving the mystery).
However, Oedipus’ fatal hubris is none so evident as it is later in the script, when Jocasta begs Oedipus to stop questioning his lineage and he still insists on delving deeper into his past.
1.    Let the storm burst, my fixed resolve still holds, to learn my lineage, be it ne’er so low.  It may be she with all a woman’s pride thinks scorn of my base parentage. But I who rank myself as Fortune’s favorite child, the giver of good gifts, shall not be shamed.  She is my mother and the changing moons my brethren, and with them I wax and wane.  Thus sprung why should I fear to trace my birth? Nothing can make me other than I am. (F. Storr)

2.    Then let it break, whatever it is. As for myself, no matter how base born my family, I wish to know the seed from where I came. Perhaps my queen is now ashamed of me and of my insignificant origin—she likes to play the noble lady. But I will never feel myself dishonoured. I see myself as a child of fortune—and she is generous, that mother of mine from whom I spring, and the months, my siblings, have seen me by turns both small and great. That’s how I was born. I cannot change to someone else, nor can I ever cease from seeking out the facts of my own birth. (Johnston)
It is with great frustration that many readers encounter this passage. It is clear that Oedipus has not yet grasped his true lineage, and thereby has no understanding of his fate, but there is a feeling of helplessness that occurs when reading theses lines, no matter which author has penned them. The steel of Oedipus’ resolve does not falter in any author’s telling, but the Storr translation is particularly  interesting in that Oedipus still holds onto his pride, ranking himself as the “favorite” child of fortune.
The Johnston translation is unique in that, thanks to a simple word choice, there is a window into the private life and mind of Oedipus. In this section, he identifies his origin has “insignificant” (a break from his constant reminders of his kingly status) and also insults Jocasta,stating that she likes to“play the noble lady”– implying that she is not as queenly as she might seem.
While these textual choices may seem slight to some, these are huge revelations in terms of the overarching plot and carry important implications into  subsequent character interactions.
“Shamed” , “Dishonoured” Both authors use these synonyms to describe Oedipus’ feelings on discovering his low birthright, but the placement of these words in context belies yet more about Oedipus’ character. In the Johnston adaptation, Oedipus’ insistence that he will not be dishonored comes before the reference to fate, implying, perhaps, that Oedipus is using his view of “mother fate” as justification for his feelings, whereas in the Storr translation, it comes after, enforcing the hubristic qualities of Oedipus and his affirmation of himself as Fortune’s “favorite” child. This sentiment is echoed in the previous sections as well, when Oedipus declares in Johnston’s translation that “In doing this, I’m acting as an ally of the god and of dead Laius, too.”. Here, there is no need to justify his actions, but yet he feels the need to reassert why he is choosing this course of action.
The qualities of new discoveries within this specific character are incredibly important to each adaption and serve as best proof of their individualism. In Storr’s translation, we are presented with an Oedipus who is proud and formal, determined to maintain propriety and is stalwart in his belief in his utter royalty. In the Fitts/ Fitzgerald version, we see a slightly warmer Oedipus who is concerned for his people —however, it would seem to this Oedipus that appearances are, perhaps, equally important. The sense of nobility in his speech is plain, but there is an interesting undercurrent of unease. In Johnston’s adaptation, he presents a separatist Oedipus who is all business, but Johnston chooses to explore an Oedipus who is, perhaps, slightly insecure and seeks approval from the people he rules.

All of these separate and specific examples become part of a greater whole when utilized in
conjunction with an understanding of the importance of viewing each script as a separate entity, in
which each author has merged his own unique voice with the original intent of Sophocles.
An average audience member may not have the time or interest to delve so deeply into the text, but as an exploratory reader, it is vital to search for new answers and new possibilities.  In fact, much of the motivation behind all new adaptations and translations is this constant quest to better understand these texts. If, as Johnston alludes, Jocasta only “plays” the noble lady, is she an ineffective ruler or wife? Is Oedipus content in this relationship? What then, is the greater implication of Jocasta’s suicide and maternal relationship to Oedipus? The purpose of translating and adapting texts is not to destroy the original author’s intent, but rather, to perhaps utilize a new method of thought in order to provide a new generation with a relevant script. It is (admittedly) easy to view Greek tragedies as stuffy and boring, but this is part of the challenge that modern playwrights take on when formulating new versions of Greek texts: bringing these timeless tales into a modern light. Perhaps Cookson said it best: “It must be  said of the translator, as it it said of the inspired teacher, that the mind of the master dwells within him, that he has received the word— he is not the mere pool that reflects a star, its splendor penetrates him, and is regendered, with a lesser glow, but in the heat of his soul.”

When I started looking for ways/solutions on what to do, I was kind of surprised at the lack of tutorials online. We even went so far as to call a couple of special effects companies to see if they knew of anywhere that we could buy something to use and they were stumped. HA. I emailed a couple Shakespeare theatres that had done Titus before, and most of them said that they just sort of wrapped Lavinia’s hands in bandages and called it a day.

That solution obviously worked well for their productions, but because we made the decision that Lavinia’s stumps had probably been cauterized, it presented a whole other set of problems regarding the look, feel (and yes, smell), of the stumps.

Basically, it came down to “I guess we’re just going to have to come up with something”…and this is what I came up with one night at 1AM.

So here, presented for your enjoyment and gratification, is

“So You Need Bloody Stumps”
A Guide To Doing It for 20 Dollars or Less
(Depending On What You Have Around the House)

Step One: Procure the following: Knee-high nylon stockings. masking tape, plain, basic Gelatine (you can get this in any grocery store by the Jello) . I forgot to take a picture of red and black food coloring, but you need that, too.  You can get it either at the grocery store OR your local craft store like Hobby Lobby or Michael’s Crafts. Just ask them where the Wilson Baking Section is.  Oh, and you’ll need scissors.

Step 2: Figure out how you want your hand to sit in the “stumps”. If you make a fist, make sure your thumb is on the OUTSIDE otherwise your hand will fall asleep halfway through the show and it’s uncomfortable. One of the biggest challenges to doing this (for me) is that I have GIANT HANDS, so it took some experimenting to figure out what the best “fist position” was. Once you’ve got the basic idea, put a nylon stocking over your fist.

Step 3: Start tearing off strips of masking tape and put them over your hand. You’re basically building a masking-tape “cast” that will cover up your hand, so use the tape liberally. Make sure you wrap it tight enough around your wrist that you can’t bend them.

Step 4: Once you’ve got your tape all wrapped, it should look something like this. To make the stumps more comfortable, I advise hot-gluing some gauze or cotton around the edges.

Step 5: Carefully, and I mean it, CAREFULLY, cut through the tape  and the nylon stocking vertically to create the opening that you will slide your fist into (heh). I found the best place to cut to is the middle line of your palm when you make a fist.

Step 6: Once you’ve got the tape cast off of you, take some time to fix up any edges and to hot glue material on parts that may rub your skin later on. I also added a layer of gauze on top to give the gelatine something to hold on to and the final product more texture. I recommend doing this on the top at least, but if you have time, glue a layer of gauze or cotton to the top of the tape– I found out the hard way that food coloring never really dries on masking tape, so if you cover the tape, the food coloring will have something to adhere to and also dry on, instead of rubbing off on your hands.

Step 7: The Fun Part.

Start by finding something to stick your stumps on so they are facing “stump up”. I used pint glasses, and that worked really well. Start by giving the gauze a healthy coat of red food coloring. You can do with with a paint brush or even damp rag– I used an old barbecue brush and it worked fine. All you want to do is put enough color on the white that it won’t show through underneath.

Then make the gelatine according to the directions on the box. I didn’t document this. If you can’t figure out how to make  gelatine, consider not doing Shakespeare.

Once the gelatine is ready, mix in a healthy amount of black food coloring and start spreading the gelatine onto the top of your “stump”.  As the gelatine dries, you will be able to make a more textured, grody burned look to it. (If you want your stumps more bloody than burned, then simply opt for red food coloring in the gelatine instead of black).

Step 8: Once you’ve got your stumps the appropriate amount of bloody/burned to your liking, sit them down and let them dry for awhile. Above are the first proto-stumps that I made for the show.

Step 9: Lastly, get some ACE bandage (or even just strips of fabric) and hot glue an edge as close to the split you cut earlier as you can. When you wrap the bandages around your stumps to put them on, make sure you pull them tight enough that the split closes. That way, your wrists should be immobilized and they will look more “legit”. If you’re still having trouble not bending your wrists, grab a couple of popsicle sticks and stick them in there before you wrap the bandages.

Remember to paint/dye/stage blood-up your bandages to make them match the stumps.

Step 10: Lavinia Out.