Today is day two working backstage for the national tour of The Wizard of Oz, and it’s currently dinner time. Yesterday evening I worked along with my supervisor painting the wicked witch’s castle and was absolutely rung out when we called it a night at 10:30. I had paint everywhere. Still, the cool thing about working on these pieces is finding out how all the smoke and mirrors work. For instance, despite the fact that the bottom or inside of the witch’s castle is hollow, they make it looks like she melts into the floor. Absolute magic!

Take a look at the almost-finished product. There’s just a little touch up to do.

This morning we unloaded the final semi truck, then hung the backdrops up. This is apparently called a Drop Party. (Drop it like it’s hot.) Here’s something fun–this show uses 6 to 8 painted drop cloths, which I was told can easily cost $10,000 a piece. Think about that the next time you think ticket prices are high. Entertainment this good doesn’t come cheap! Anyway, all the painted cloths are missing a section in one of their bottom corners, a part that’s been deliberately cut out. This is called a Boston Square, since the city of Boston requires that a section of all drop cloths be cut out, sent in, and verified as flame retardant.

This afternoon I worked repairing and touching up two giant trees that are used in Oz. This has been my favorite project so far, as it’s been a lot like repairing and touching up walls–patch the holes, sand them down, cover up the scuff marks. But in this case, since both trees are completely blue, it was just a matter of mixing darks and lights and “swirling” them together with my hands. Y’all, it was like finger painting. So fun. So pretty. That being said, my fingers are a complete mess. I guess the sticky foam I used to patch the holes and the super glue I used to put some of the chipped-off pieces back on also STICK TO HUMAN FLESH. (Mine). So now I look like I murdered a Smurf with my bare hands.

Here’s a picture of me and the tree trunks. The tree tops are currently hidden behind one of the side curtains (which are called “legs”). But I swear–they look gorgeous.

After I finished with the trees, I worked a little more on the witch’s castle, then returned to Dorothy’s house, which was one of my projects yesterday. Y’all, this house is the bane of my existence. One of the boards needed to be replaced, so my job has been to make the new board look like the others. This is almost impossible, since each board is a mixture of–I don’t know–half a dozen paints. And despite the fact that my supervisor keeps calling me an artist, I’m much more comfortable smearing paints with my fingers than I am using a brush to try to make a new board look like an old board. Anyway, I nearly started crying, as my inner perfectionist was really giving me shit about the whole affair. “This isn’t good enough,” he kept saying.

But then, like an angel, my supervisor said, “That looks AWESOME, Marcus. Be done!”

Sometimes we are our own worst critic. And by “sometimes,” I mean, “all the time.”

This last year I’ve blogged several times with my problem/obsession with body odor. The issue started after I’d been on antibiotics, and I’ve tried everything under the sun to clear it up. Well, I really thought I had it tackled. I haven’t noticed it in a solid month. But every time I’ve raised my arms today, I’ve thought, Dear God, is that me?! I don’t know–maybe it’s just normal “man smell” and not what I dealt with before. It’s been such a struggle and point of neurosis for me, I really can’t be objective about it. But it’s still been stressing me out. It’s one thing to be offensive to myself, but I don’t want to be offensive to anyone else. And whereas during this ENTIRE ordeal, no one has avoided me or said anything about it (even my friends with whom I dance), I keep imagining myself as Pig Pen from Charlie Brown, walking around with a cloud of stench about me.

This is me AFTER four years of therapy.

Not last night but the night before, I dreamed that an acquaintance of mine, whom I would describe as a kind, gentle man, was wearing a concealed pistol on his right shoulder. When I woke up, I thought, This has to do with the fact that I’m so defensive, always on guard. Like, I know my inner perfectionist is SUCH A HARD ASS because deep down, I’m really afraid of not being good enough. Perhaps more than that, I’m afraid of making someone mad or angry, even though I can’t remember the last time someone “went off” on me. And I think it’s appropriate that the pistol was on this guy’s right shoulder, as my right shoulder is where I carry A LOT of tension and is the cause–I think–of the headaches I get at least two or three times a week. They’re miserable–exhausting. Being constantly on guard is miserable–exhausting. So I’ve been telling myself I’ve got to get this gun off my shoulder. I can’t keep being so hard on myself. I have to let my defenses down.