I couldn't decide if these oily relics looked more like the evidence of jubilee or of torture, and eventually concluded that it probably depends on your perspective. They are, in fact, the greasy residue from the hands of several of about 40 Oregonian high school drama teachers (of all shapes and sizes, both literally and figuratively, as they would say), who convened here at Caldera for the past few days, interrupting my solitude with peppy getting-to-know-you games, gleeful group sing-alongs, wild Shakespearean shrieks from refresher acting classes, and countless stapled leaflets explaining the precise definitions of "iambic pentameter", "alliteration," and "antithetical phrasing". I was unmoved. Last night the drama teachers proved themselves capable of conducting their own interpersonal drama, as they regrouped around 9PM downstairs in the library and began to take tequila shots, as they bemoaned the distracting influence of technology on their students and regaled each other with tales of one-act plays gone terribly wrong. I am glad that this particular one-act play can now resume its quieter script, and that the marks on the windows will reclaim their usual avian demeanor.
