Smelling the metaphorical roses

It’s been a very uneventful Sunday to end a whirlwind workweek and a wonderful, if rainy, Saturday. A confluence of project deadlines made the early part of last week quite busy. On the plus side, the report that was the culmination of one major project is now complete. I feel as though a burden has been lifted. On the other hand, I never really feel all that great after having something completed: there’s always that empty space and time that needs to be filled, an awkward, reverberating void that persists in the mind. Maybe the next big project will come soon and I’ll regret these words. At least I hope the users will appreciate the project.

A lot has happened in the past few weeks, although perhaps not nearly enough. I’m glad that my roommate survived his kidney stone: it seemed like quite the battle. I’ve never seen him out in the hospital for more than one day before. If things look bad, at least I know I haven’t had to suffer through kidney stones. I sometimes say that life sucks, but it really could be a lot worse.

A lazy Sunday has got me thinking (a dangerous┬ápastime, I know). It’s strange how we think we need to fill every hour with activity to lead a satisfying life. I feel a little bit guilty about having “done nothing” for the entire day. But I was able to catch up on sleep and do a few errands. I think the main problem is that idleness is when the demons of doubt creep in.

Rehearsals have been going… well or not, I can’t say for sure. That our first show is in less than four weeks is kind of scary: I have most of the choreography down now, but absolutely none of the nuance. The reason I’m not in a full-scale panic is because I’m only onstage for approximately 90 seconds. This, at least, is the benefit of being by far the worst dancer who is performing. I’m actually really grateful for these opportunities because it forces me to get better and work on technique. Things always work out in the end, but imposing a deadline sure makes things work out a little faster.

Went to see SFB’s Romeo and Juliet last weekend. I was surprised that the show was basically sold out — it was a stroke of luck that I was able to secure two tickets. Now that I’ve realized that some SFB dancers somehow actually chanced upon visiting my blog (hi, Ms. Olson!), I’m a little frightened about writing anything that could be remotely interpreted as critical. All I’ll say is that VZ and DK were a pretty cute R and J.

The show reminded me of how Romeo and Juliet is like peanuts to me: I don’t like them, but I pretty much love everything about them. This probably requires a little bit of explanation. I don’t like peanuts as is, but I love peanut butter, peanut brittle, reese’s peanut butter cups, those trader joe’s chocolate-covered pretzels with peanut butter inside them, etc. There’s just something about plain peanuts, though, that kind of turns me off.

Same thing with Romeo and Juliet. The plot itself is a terrible, terrible love story. People complain to me how ridiculous and unrealistic Serendipity is, and I feel the same way about Romeo and Juliet — at least Serendipity had a happy ending. There’s so much death in R&J. Yet, I pretty much like every work derived from it: the Prokofiev and Tchaikovsky scores, the ballet, the Zeffirelli and Lurhmann movies, the Dire Straits song, even that crazy French song that we heard on European radio stations and Darren was able to re-discover 10 years later (“les rois du monde” is pretty damn catchy).

That’s how Romeo and Juliet is like peanuts.

I seem to always lose faith in myself at the last minute. She’s perfect, and perfect is scary.