After the usual madness that goes with opening a play, things have calmed down a bit. I’m still missing my Moofy Heart. But I fancy, in his new spiritual condition, he still pads around the house getting into all kinds of mischief, I can’t see. Silly I know, but he was such a lovely creature and it’s important to appreciate all the lovely creatures that touch our lives, weather they’re fluffy with soft paws or mostly bald with just a tuft a stringy hair on their head.
My mother has gone off to find mischief of her own and things are going well for her. Short for time, she was unable to stay for opening night and instead watched our first full-dress rehearsal. Given the fact we were still lacking in props and some other finishing touches, she more or less saw our poor play only half dressed. Cyrano in his underpants, as it were. And much to my deeply profound shock, she absolutely loved it.
Having the typical, critical mother-plucking-daughter relationship, I was hardly prepared for such adulation. In dramatic contrast, she’s of the opinion that I was born to play Cyrano de Bergerac. Maybe it’s just the nose talking. Despite its awkward appearance, it can have the occasional intoxicating effect on people. No, really! Yeah, I don’t buy that either. But hopefully, I’ll run into some startling evidence that’ll prove otherwise.
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