Deep blue scene

Over the holiday break, we were in a motorboat, on our way to snorkel, when we came upon a pod of dolphins.

The captain stopped the boat so that we could watch them.

A guidebook I’d read had said not to do that, because it terrorized the dolphins. But they didn’t seem terrorized. They stayed near the boat. Had they left, we wouldn’t have chased them.

Todd made fun of me because I said that I thought the dolphins actually liked having us around, that the ocean must be sort of boring for animals so smart.

Water water water water fish water fish water water eat water water.      

Any regular theatregoer knows an entire ecosystem of boredom.

There’s theatre-too-hot boredom and what-should-I-buy-for-her-birthday-boredom and hunger-boredom. There’s head-bob boredom: your chin touches your chest and you snap it back up (“Still awake! I’m still awake!”) There’s anxiety-boredom (“Why is there a weird bump on my tongue?”) and the always painful rictus-boredom: the boredom that requires you to smile because you’re one of twelve people in the audience of your friend’s bad play.

Cuticle cuticle cuticle cuticle entrance cuticle exit cuticle cuticle leave.

Not boring an audience is the absolute minimum we must strive for when putting on a play.

I’ve known two people—sensible, strong people, one man and one woman—who’ve told me that when they get really bored they start to cry.

Happy 2012.

As theatremakers, let’s make sure to stop the boat at least once an evening. Given the option to terrorize the dolphins or bore them to death, let’s err on the side of fear.