6.17

There were mice, I think, in the props. Mice or chipmunks, certainly. They're not there now (I didn't find them). I found their evidence. This box of hats had a gobbet of excrement bound together by urine. This box of blankets was worked through in tunnels, small teeth marking paths through the stuffing. This bag of clothes has been torn open and the dresses leaking out.

I have help to spread every item of clothing out on the stage in the open air. There's a hope in me that the sunlight will disinfect the disgust from the cloth. It certainly hasn't destroyed the disgust in my heart. The clothes are out. The props are out. And when I come back? It rains.

Only a half inch, I think, but it's enough. Essentially every costume on the deck is damp. I was going to wash them either way, but now they're activated. The musty smell from this pile is overwhelming. The grime from that one sticks to my hands. I'm angry with myself for leaving them out. I'm angry with Oregon for not delivering on its desert promise. I'm angry with the washing machines for taking so unbelievably long.

Someday, all my new props will smell like human clothing again. Not today.