sacrificial lamb

it is the spectator, and not life, that art really mirrors
- Oscar Wilde

I'm not a particularly political person. I don't get energized by things the government does, by elections, by political rally, or by seeing talking heads in pressed suits exchange rehearsed ideas on C-SPAN. I have tried in the past to make my voice heard. It hasn't always been my voice, but the prescribed one given to those I was surrounded by - the assumed, popular position. But honestly it's simply not my bag. I'm glad for political uprisings over the years, giving votes to those who need now rock it, and the like, but politics are simply not my arena.

Though reasonably apolitical, I have a strong definition of ethics, boundaries, and principles. It comes as no surprise that there would be a literal sacrificial lamb in my current play. I think most people simply play politics. In the same way I work for a giant corporation (Radio $hack - so you don't have to scroll back through) who have been in existence in some fashion for ninety years, I am but a peon way the hell down the food chain. Some months ago they tossed out a survey about the overall conditions of the job for all employees to take, should they wish. Since we had to log in to the computers to take it, I can hardly guarantee the anonymity of the affair.


Since all of the upheaval at work, my friend is now running the store so I get the chance to look at all of the inner workings of the machine, like what happens once you've taken one of those personality assessments.

57. If you find that your manager has turned their back and left the safe open, do you
(a) take everything you can in the limited time before they look back
(b) do nothing - you are a lazy person
(c) don't even notice, because you're such a perfectly malleable piece of intellectual refuse that things going on around you only occur to you when someone points them out.

Each candidate's application recieves a write-up based on their answers and it seems clear to me that they are seeking ideal idiots. They want easy to train guinea pigs who won't become instantly dissatisfied with scoring poorly on the benefit side of cost-benefit upon doing a highly demanding, often stigmatized job. They want warm bodies that will sit still while they're being crapped on.

Following the close of my play this weekend, I have been invited to a champagne social. What are they calling it? Oh, yeah. A debriefing. The theatre's board is full of people wearing titles. There are lots of titles. There is a sorority's quantity of titles being given out, keeping everyone all inclusive, happy, and praying for another round of Kumbaya.
Everyone must be brimming with feelings of involvement and entitlement! I don't feel these things. I have felt like I am being ousted from a place I once belonged and was wanted.

Debriefing? I am expecting Men in Black wands and the equivalent of sit down chats with Mommy and Daddy. Everything I would have to share about my experience this season would injure egos and ruffle feathers. I am so much more professional than this theatre allows, and my expectations for collaborators must be simply too high. With a broken hand's count of people, whose blood, sweat, and cumin-scented vigor are painted all across the stage, we have conveyed a quality of work deserving of a different theatre.

There are only a small number of people who can take legitimate credit for this show and its artistic success. I loathe how much it's not what I intended, but filled with so much pragmatic Plan B. I never intended to take full rein over it all - not in that way. My directing gig has been up since the start of show. Even the actors don't want it left to our limited strength stage manager, who has been known to literally leave small piles of swept whatnot, because she was planning to sweep it tomorrow. I have taken a voyage with a ship of fools, and I would like to gather up some shreds of dignity and sanity to move on to whatever is next.