And that’s all she wrote, folks. It’s been a great ride. Many thanks to the good people of the Chenango River Theatre, director Chris Clavelli and of course the fantastic cast (Jen Burry, Jack Harris and Paul Kelly). Check out our production photos here.

And speaking of photos, of course the photoblog experiment has come to an end! It was harder than I thought (as expressed on Day 9) but a useful challenge… and fun to boot. What did you think?

Lotsa exciting things a-brewing, so stay tuned for what’s next! In the meantime, join me on Wednesday in Times Square for a mini concert as part of Sing For Hope’s Pop-Up Pianos 2011.

“We shall not cease from exploration / And the end of all our exploring / Will be to arrive where we started / And know the place for the first time.” –T.S. Eliot, Four Quartets

In a paradoxical way it seems that as the run goes on I know the play less and less. I prepare, I go through my pre-show rituals, I get myself whatever I need to Be Here Now. And then I start to wonder if I have any idea how to play this scene. And then I walk out and do it anyway.

Of course, I should be so lucky as to perform every scene from Beginner’s Mind. But it’s actually a really freeing concept… it can never be Right; there is no such thing as Right. There’s just honest. And who among us really knows what we’re doing at Life, either?

Last night at intermission I was too a-twitter with watching the New York State marriage equality bill vote (and by “watching” I mean feverishly refreshing my facebook feed to read the live updates) to take a picture of Rhonda. So here’s one of the first ones I took way back when.

I’m so proud to be a New Yorker right now, elated for my friends and all those people who have been granted the same rights as their fellow citizens in this great state – and ready for two more shows about the crazy-simple-complicated, universal nature of love.

Week 4 begins with 3/5 of a show and a whole lot of water.

Last night’s audience – one of the best yet – was treated to flooded roads on the way in, some compensating-ly loud scenes (did the stage get transplanted to Niagara Falls?) and a power outage at the top of Act 2 for good measure. We waited, but that was that. Rhonda never saw the light of day. Or any light, for that matter.

We got dressed by flashlight and made our way out to the kitchen, incomplete and anti-climaxed. It’s a testament to the playwriting that although each scene is in itself a fully told play-let, the show as a whole still takes us all on a ride. No fun getting off in the middle.

I’m tired after this weekend.

I suppose it’s all starting to wear on me: the living two half-lives, country mouse and city mouse combined, with no chance to fully sink into either one; the back and forth without a full day off in over a month; the fact that I made an ass of myself at the company bowling outing. One spare in two games, from a Milwaukee native? Embarrassing.

But when it comes down to it, how can you complain about the actor’s life? (Actors – don’t answer that.) But really, working – doing what I love – two hours a day (three if you count showering, setting props and getting dressed) and having the rest of the time to relax, kayak, create… it’s the beginning of a dream come true. I’m just going to appreciate it right now from the comfort of a nap.

I re-read yesterday’s post and thought, good grief, now I’m misrepresenting myself, making it sound like I didn’t do my homework until three weeks into the run. Which of course isn’t true. But there’s a different sort of subtlety, ease, playfulness that’s coming in as I’m no longer cramming for opening night or clarifying what the eff I’m doing or rehearsing that prop exchange for the umpteenth time. There’s upkeep, sure. But it’s a never-ending process. The show will grow until we close next week, and then we’ll put it away, but not because there was nothing left to explore.

It’s like painters say, right? The masterpiece is never finished; you just stop working on it.

All right I’ll say it: this project has been more difficult than I anticipated. Not only the photography part, which I’m remarkably unqualified for (thank goodness for camera+), but what to tell you every day! Short of waxing poetic about our lovely audiences or remembering the quirks of each night [likely meaningless to all except my boyfriend, who saw the show three nights in a row last week], I’m not used to finding myself that consistently interesting…

I’ve started playing around in the lulls of the show, making up stories and imagining the rest of these characters’ lives, where did they buy this shirt, was it the first thing in the drawer or did she pick it out special, does she love her job, what does she listen to on the commute? The questions are endless, the danger is forgetting to walk back onstage. But it’s funny to me how long it’s taken (three weeks into the run!) for me to do it as often, as much as I do now — how much permission is necessary when we become adults just to sit and make believe. Kids can transfer seamlessly between our reality and any one they choose to make up at a moment’s notice, and don’t they seem the happier for it? Whoever decided that growing up and “facing facts” was the way to get on in life?