Theater of the mind.
She concluded her magic by ringing up a few quotes from Victor Hugo. Grinning to herself, she rehearsed an abbreviated reenactment of Fontine’s death. Still smiling at the mirrored audience, she shut out the light and exited stage front door. Indeed, she had possessed a bit of this character as a younger woman. The uncertainty of each day. The working really very hard through every single detailed accomplishment that some people take for granted. Toasting bread while getting the pin light to hit her cheek bone correctly. Brushing the bird’s teeth. Zipping up a wind-breaker. Now, she simply skipped to the ending of each life she portrayed. Trying on different finales to get an idea of what felt most natural...
She walked down and around to the corner on Main Street. As she handed a derelict loose change, his cell phone rang from deep within his tattered pocket...
A performance at a Bowery outdoor cafe theater of life in late fall. Coffee steaming into the chilly morning air. A tense tête-à-tête discussion about life on the edge and horrible deaths. The audience is hanging on every word.
Two mongrels tumble across the screen in front of the protagonist and prophet. The miniature terrier is ripping the hair out of the larger wolf, as he has a death grip on the smaller one’s neck. Engrossed in the importance of their own words, our two heroes never glance up at the riot of commotion.
The device obliterates the seriousness of the message. The importance of the words are knocked aside as if being effaced from a huge tablet in the sky.
...Inhabiting strange places reminds me of the winter Clint, Trax and myself were living in the costume shop of the church flipped Acoma Theater. We slept under the huge cutting table. I knew when the third act of Macbeth was about to begin because the swords fell on me, every time.
...A really great opera review might include, “...And as for the cast, none of them offended me greatly.”
...Opening a box, revealing an archival monkey mask of the thinnest open cell foam wrinkled and folded years ago by a perfectionist. The Image of the delicate mask turning to dust as it was being lifted out of it’s nest of wrappings, has never left my mind's eye.
“It dosen’t matter a rats ass if there’s not butts in the seats”
see June 27...