The title of this post is a quote said by Ralph in Lord of the Flies. He says this after he and some of his classmates end up plane-wrecked on an island that, after a few days, starts to become "uncivilized."

Every year I have my students write a paper about the improvisation of every day life: we never know what the next day will bring, and yet, how is it that time passes without us even realizing it sometimes? Most of the time we go through the actions of our life with few surprises. Things may happen to us in a given year or month that shake us and turn us upside down, but rarely do we step outside our comfortable routines and make a memorable change on purpose. Rarely do we try to reinvent ourselves: "tweaking" is the safe version of change we use. This is the only possible explanation for why entire months--and even years--of my life are blurred or simply missing from my memory. I mean, there are thousands of days and hundreds of weeks that I know I lived but clearly was not present because I can find nothing of them.

The last 18 weeks of my life will be difficult to forget--in a really good way. I decided my daily improvisations, be them in front of a class of teenagers or taking a new dance class or running a new race somewhere, were still just copies of former improvisations. Allow me to use this metaphor to explain what I mean by copies of improvisations: As a teacher I have handouts that I use every year but can no longer find the original master copies...and I do not have them typed out on the computer. So, when I want to use one, I have to take one of the copies I made from the previous year and make duplicates of that duplicate. You know how when you make a copy of a copy it's never as good? And if you make a copy of that copy, it's even worse? Well, if you keep making copies of those copies you will eventually end up with a paper containing shadows and half-words that don't do anything but make the paper look dirty. That is how life can be sometimes. Copies of copies of things we've been doing for years. (I'm getting deep today, yes I am).

I won't go into detail about all the (aforementioned) things I attempted to "copy" this year from a younger me, but my attempt to create a master copy in my life recently involved learning improv at National Comedy Theater. It was something entirely new and at times f&*$ing scary. And now that the classes are over, and I've had time to think back on the last 18 weeks, I'm sad I won't see my funny friends each week and sad that I won't have something to be nervous about every Saturday afternoon. But I'm also glad that I have something in my memory that will set the year 2011 apart from previous years.

I will probably do the class again, even though it might seem, or might feel, like a "copy." However, the great thing about performance improv is that there is no such thing as a copy. There is no way to anticipate the scene you're about to walk into... one just has to follow one's own feet. I think we runners get that concept more easily than some... we've all had that long run or that race where it came down to simply trusting that your feet know what to do. Like Ralph who "found himself understanding the wearisomeness of this life, where every path was an improvisation and a considerable part of one's waking life was spent watching one's feet."

Thanks to all the wonderful, fu