staggering through

Porcupines examine a truck.

Mia has a conversation with a gull.

Mary and Jessica take five

Carol and Alison watch.

Backhoe with background.

Alison gathers the troops for the stagger-through.

Maybe I'd better explain. A stagger-through (and I've only ever heard Alison use the term) is like a run-through, only not quite so smooth. A run-through of a show, ideally, starts with the opening scene and goes until the end, without stopping. Right. Except there's almost always a reason to stop--people forget their lines, the blocking isn't working, people are standing where there's no light, or where there's a dead spot on the stage, and no one can hear them.

So, Saturday was to be a stagger through. There were only a couple of gliches. One of them has to do with the time-space continuum. Lately there have been, not one, but two programs on BBC America having to do with time travel (make that three, if you add Primeval, in which prehistoric and from-the-futures monsters come through a whole in time into the 21st century)--Dr. Who and Torchwood. In each case, time is slightly askew. A run-through is a little like that.

Us bird-watchers (in the theatrical sense) know pretty much what we are doing. What we don't know is WHERE or WHEN. Of, for that matter, just what preceeds and follows what we do. Or where we go when we are done.

Oh, you say, of course you know. Let me remind you, a quarry is not like a proscenium stage. There are a zillion possible entrances and exits. And Q2: Habitat, a spectacle with seagulls, trucks, giant porcupines and steel-drum (pan) band isn't exactly Giselle. It isn't even Swan Lake, despite the presence of feathered dancers. In fact, it isn't like anything else.

We go to our temporary spots and discover that the music doesn't last long enough. Alison, Mia and Nigel fix that. We change spots and find out that we have become invisible--our clothes have merged into the background. We think through our wardrobes at home--what else could we wear? And some of us discover that the music is hard to distinguish. When, exactly, do we begin? And how long do we hold that? The answer is a tough one--practice.

We try again (so much for staggering through). This time it is better--at least for us. And so it goes.

Remember the blind men and the elephant? Being a performer is a little like that--at the beginning you focus on what you are doing, and the rest is peripheral.

Saturday, it began to make sense. We got to see the why of the seagulls and the porcupiines. I don't think I'll tell you that bit--you can find out for yourself. Meanwhile, I'm practicing looking for the confusing fall warblers, which ought to be around any week now. See you in the quarry. This weekend.