Notes scribbled during a performance of Cineastas, expanded upon and turned into ten rules to live by

1.Two lives are more balanced than one. A double life is preferred, and keeps people guessing.

2. Objects reconstruct life. Look around a space, how everything is placed tells our story.

3. The juxtaposition of two things paves the way for a third idea. The superimposition of fiction upon a life creates a hybrid existence, clarified, rare, potentially immortal.

4. Everything that belongs to us will someday be part of someone else’s film set.  Take as a case in point, adultery.  A husband or a wife is as apt to show up in someone else’s drama as an ascot or a handbag.

5. There’s little time left.

6. “To Moscow we must go!” Ever since Chekhov wrote Three Sisters, this expression has exemplified a longing for poetry and art and culture and a desire to escape the low-brow and the mundane.  In Cineastas, the character goes on to ask, “What will I do once I get there?”

7. We see fictions.  We see our lives through fictional lenses.  Does art imitate life or is it vice versa?

8. In all stories, the inciting incident is what sets a character off upon a transformative journey.  In Cineastas, the filmmaker starts out to make his or her film.  It is the inciting incident which interrupts, transforming the experience of making the film into a harrowing, mind-boggling, revelatory act, which is the play within the play we take delight in.

9.  What changes? What lasts? How does the concept of erasure force us to see the things in life that are valuable and therefore fleeting? Or, is it the other way around: is our ghost life valuable because it is a slate soon to be wiped clean?

10. Fiction lasts longer than lives.  Identity is fluid.  We can identify with the Russian Steppes, we may perceive those hills containing measurable qualities that will sustain us.  In the end, what we have to live on is story-telling and imagination.

A subjective list: Margo’s top ten live performances of 2014

2014 has been a good year for me for witnessing live performance. Certainly, my view of what stood out is subjective; much of what makes a show memorable is the backstory – what I wore, who I went with or if I flew solo, what method of conveyance I used, how my mood was heightened/dampened by the spectacle and so on. I do not deny anyone who wishes to rate art objectively; my review will revel in subjectivity. And despite 2014 being a watershed year for me there are still many shows I missed out of personal ineptitude which may well have been deserving of a mention. Nonetheless, on we go – the top ten live performances I witnessed in 2014 (in no order of significance):

1. The Dina Martina Christmas Show, Re-bar, December 21, Winter Solstice 2014

Noteworthy to start with is the fact that I am desperate to get out of the house and seize upon the Dina show as a life ring. Writing about myself in the 3rd person, “she hefted up her healthy vagina and ran to the freeway where she hailed down a bus and ran riotous to the Re-bar hoping for relief in the form of belly laughs and bodily secretions.” In short, I am in need of a soul purge on the darkest night of the year and boy does Dina deliver. But first I have to find a seat. Like a Christmas miracle, after all ticket holders are accounted for, one perfect seat sits empty, beckoning – center, 3 rows from stage, on the aisle. I take it certain of my status as the chosen one.

Ms. Martina and her accompanist Mr. Jeffries are ideal counterparts. She does all the talking and gesticulating while he sits stoney faced as his fingers coax mellifluous sounds out of his keyboard. It is like being held in the maternal bosom of an aunt who means the world to you because of her wit and her style but also because she accomplishes thru humor what our Lord Jesus claims to: redeeming us from the agonies of the material world. And the effect lasts – 3 days later on Xmas Eve while shopping at Bartells when Taylor Swift came on the mix singing “last Christmas I gave you my heart, but the very next day you gave it away”, I am cheered remembering Dina’s so superior rendition of the song and her playful insertion of “this song, is so repetitive” into the lyrics. Dina’s gifts are the kind that keep giving!

I love seeing Dina up close. And when she calls out a Seahawks fan for checking scores on her phone, I am ready to pummel anyone who isn’t sufficiently adoring. Dina’s rendition of Laurie Anderson’s O Superman is nothing short of gobsmacking. Dina’s gift for knowing which of the original lyrics to keep (and changing the rest) is phenomenal. Her closing number brings me back to my 12 year old self, taking in lines like “then your wife seems to think your part of the furniture, oh, it’s peculiar, she used to be – so – nice/ take the long way home”, which finally makes sense to my jaded ears! But still I can’t place the artist that Dina, through her mastery, has resurrected and, even more miraculously, redeemed for me. Two days later, the ear worm finally delivers the correct answer (I knew it would eventually worm it way out, so I didn’t google it) – Supertramp!!! Glory be to God!

2. Peggy Piacenza, Touch me here, Washington Hall, November 21, 2014


I think that live performance is vital. And I encourage everyone to do whatever is necessary to get oneself out to see it. Sometimes the obstacles seem unsurmountable. That said, I am still ashamed of what I am about to write. When I get to Washington Hall (penniless) and the sign says Cash Only, I respond by glancing about and, seeing that the path is clear, I scramble upstairs to the balcony where I take out my bound notebook and write: “I am a mouse/I slip in undetected/inside Washington Hall/ where the darkness/ reassures me”. Please don’t hate me.

Peggy’s show begins with her crawling towards the audience ass backwards in red shoes. I am riveted. I am interested in what her character will say. There is a dialogue about intimacy – “touch me here”. With her back to the audience she asks “what moments should I talk about?” and “will the truths I express thru the vehicle of this body be transformed into moments of grace?” The story worth telling is inside her body and is teased out with the help of props – “I’ve been with this scarf for 25 years” – she says wringing more lives out of a bandana then Vishnu. Another prop well used is a bell which she rings with a fervor that takes her art out of the personal into the universal. Although Piacenza is an amazing physical performer, it is the audio, designed by Julian Martlew, that really floors me. At times Peggy speaks into a mike, at other times she speaks sans amplification. There is the voice of her mother on the phone prerecorded. Then after Mom puts down the receiver there is a mind-boggling looping sequence where the mental residue from the conversation spills out in a heap, piled up like so many interlacing strands or cluster of stars in a vortex. And for the climax of the piece, like a swimmer hauling her body out of the pool, Piacenza clambers up the lip of the stage and amid spotlight and smoke stands and sings her centerpiece song. At this moment she is a stand-in for the quintessential female deity of chaos and passion, bringing to mind Diamonda Galas in her fierceness, Patti Smith in her willingness to take risks, even, for an instance, Doris Humphrey, with her stark profile and dedication to her craft unfurled for all.

3. Germinal, On The Boards, September 27, 2014

Germinal. Defoort_Goerger_photobyAlain Rico_5

I surprise myself by going to this show which I know nothing about and bringing a date. The performers are French and their premise is no less than people at the brink of civilization. For us in the audience it is like watching cells in a petri dish divide or time lapse photography of mankind’s self-actualization. At one point a woman uses a pick axe to break the stage. From the bowels she then retrieves a microphone which begins the race to find ways to communicate; first one actor at a time speaks, then dialogue is established, and finally, the group falls into 4 part vocal harmony. This is a play for geeks, for those who ponder the neural pathways of the brain, and dream in Venn diagrams. There is a scene in which the actors divide everything on stage into 2 broad categories – things that go “poc-poc” when tapped (the microphone, the wall), and things that don’t (the drapes, people). For the climax, the four pioneers decide to call a 1-800 number in order to learn the ropes of setting up a new society. But the proper English female voice on the other end takes away freedoms and offers strict and unappetizing guidelines so they hang up the phone, choosing to go it alone. I guess they couldn’t possibly make more of a mess then our tribe did.

This is a good show to bring a first date since a relationship is like a civilization, it starts on a shaky premise and gradually builds an edifice out of bits of language and ritual.

4. Waiting for Godot, ACT Theatre, September 10, 2014


Beckett’s language is as poignant as ever and this is a great performance of the classic play.  In fact, I go twice! How it is that the story of two doomed guys on a postage stamp of grass with a spindly tree makes for sublime poetry I do not know, that is the magic of theater! We go to feed our souls and be redeemed.

5. The Suit, REP Theater, March 19, 2014


This is my first encounter with Peter Brooks and his superb directing.  The set is spare, and the actors make more of the simple props than humanly possible. It’s brilliant, no one is encumbered by the need to build a lavish set or change it frequently, like a shop window!  And yet the world of the play is vibrant, teeming.  When the main female character gets out of bed and sings the Nina Simone song It’s a New Day acapello, it’s spine-tingling! The addition of song and dance enhances the realism of the play – taking it to an emotionally charged place of heartbreaking passion and foreboding.

6. Joseph Arthur, Columbia City Theater, June 4, 2014


Let me say that I love this poster the very first moment I set my eyes on it, in the window of the bar where they host an open mike I sometimes attend. I know it’s cliche, the fallen angel holding his wings, his disheveled hair framed by a swirling vortex of trees. But I love it! And the show, which my friend Ann and I go to, is stellar as well. The club is small, and Ann and I manage to push our way up close to the stage. The CD tour is for a collection of Lou Reed covers. And yet Joseph Arthur injects the set with his own brilliance and pathos. Hearing him wind his way through the song Heroin (with the aid of loopers for his guitar) is a complex pleasure and a fitting tribute to Lou’s dark soul. This sounds pretentious but another highlight for me is when Joseph attacks a blank canvas with paint vials and before our eyes builds a stunning composition. His process of overlapping pigments is like the way he builds sonic layers through loops. What charisma! He is joined at some point by a band but I hardly notice.

After the show, Ann and I wait in line to buy a CD and chat with Joseph. Ironically, once home, I listen to his CD no more than twice, decidedly unimpressed by it. There’s your incentive to go out and witness live performance! It simply can’t be replicated.

7. The Man who can forget anything, On the Boards, October 9, 2014


This show is special because my son and I go together; actually I ride my bicycle and he takes the #8 bus. The show has so many references to my son and I’s creative lives, like intertwining vines, or the way dance is passed on thru generations. The show itself is a reflection on the many layers involved in art and creativity and family – and coincidentally I have a connection with every person on stage. This reminds me of Sarah Ruhl’s essay on the value of community theater, or rather, the value of watching art created by people one knows. It also uplifts things to feel that one can give back: this show marks my debut as a performance blogger.
Naturally, my “review” is subjective as hell.

8. Lorde, WaMu Theater, March 24, 2014

I buy my ticket at the last minute, and race inside the sports’ hall just as Lorde is taking to the stage. That’s a good thing, because the ambience is less than ideal in this barn.  Lorde’s set is short (she only has one album, ten songs) but riveting.  While the teens take videos, I type notes into my phone.  I am intrigued how she manages to be an arresting performer without all the choreography and folderol.  For starters, she writes damn good songs and has the backline to play the sounds, including backing vocals, from the record.  And then she has a few tricks which I eagerly record like a librarian checking out her fellow bookworms’ requests.  My list:

  • Talk. Between songs  (She doesn’t say much but it’s enough.)
  • Show video in mirror frame
  • Video on choruses
  • Drum machine
  • Chandelier or candlelight
  • Sampling and looping
  • Lights, strobes
  • Same lyrics only up
  • Telling stories
  • Red velvet
  • Different voices (Laurie Anderson)
  • Costume change
  • Oohs, no words
  • Humble.  “It is incredible that you are here.”
  • “I write songs to make myself less agitated.”

I notice that while she keeps the banter in between songs to a minimum, she does a big spoken word piece into the song Ribs which is surprisingly intimate.  She tells how she and her friend hosted a party at her parent’s house and in the wee hours of the party’s detritus she had a realization about how it was never going to be like this again and that growing up was inevitable and frightening so she wrote this song.  It’s an amazing story and universal.  The miracle is that she used that moment of anxiety as a springboard to get herself here, to this, as she put it, “box nestled between two stadiums”, to deliver her songs to the mass of teenagers (and me!) gathered here for the experience.

9. Bryan Ferry, Can’t Let Go Tour, McCaw Hall, April 7, 2014

Exactly two weeks after the Lorde concert, I find myself at the Opera House, seeing my long-standing idol Bryan Ferry, playing his oldest hits from the early Roxy Music catalog.  It’s incredible!  His band takes up the breadth of the regal stage, and Ferry is a dynamic front man, out front with the mike for the upbeat songs, and playing keys for the crooners.   I’m out of my seat, dancing my butt off and laughing, I never thought I’d hear these songs live!  They even pull out In Every Dreamhome a Heartache which is the trippiest, darkest song ever written! And of course, they play Love is a Drug, Re-make/Re-model, If There is Something, Virginia Plain, and so on. I feel sorry for the guy who brushes past me on his way to the bar, then returns twenty minutes later, annoyed and a potential buzzkill to the crazy fun time his girlfriend and I and the others in our balcony aisle are having.  But nothing can spoil my mood.  I go home happy, wondering if anyone else can claim to have seen the young goth Lorde and the glam-rocker Ferry in a fortnight, and to have done it solo!

10. The Story of Max, The Learning Tree Preschool,  August 19, 2014

A World Premiere is always a treat but a new musical unleashed on a playground with a wooden stage and a metal climber with parents and grandparents and siblings as spectators is a wonder to behold. I’ve had the privilege of writing songs for the kids at the school where I teach and this show is particularly special because it brings to life one of my favorite books, Where the Wild Things Are, by Maurice Sendak. I love it that art can transpire in both lowly and high sites, and whether in the Opera House, in a box between sports’ arenas, or in a backyard playground, art lifts us up and takes us somewhere between heaven and earth where the magic happens.

On Procrastination and Discovery



Despite the luxury of twofold renewal (totaling a span of 9 weeks!), today I found these two books unmistakably due. With no reprieve in sight I did what any laggard bookworm would do – I opened them!

Priscilla Long’s The Writer’s Portable Mentor, A Guide to Art, Craft, and the Writing Life, is a practical gem. In Part I, she urges aspiring writers to write every day without fail for 15 minutes; the value of staying in touch with one’s writerly obsessions is priceless. One can use daily exercise to work on sense observation, or to start on a draft. I liked her tips such as labeling journal entries for future gleanings, and making a point to type out a handwritten draft right away for potential revision. How often do superb first-takes languish between the pages of a journal until some impossibly late date? She also champions a healthy balance between free writing and writing into a specific structure to create a finished piece. She promises that in the course of her book, she will help the aspiring writer develop a strategy to find structures for his or her work.

In my other neglected tome, The Theater of Maria Irene Fornes, edited by Marc Robinson, the first essay opens with a story of Irene and her roommate Susan. The girls are at a cafe in Greenwich Village in Spring of 1961. They plan to hang around and see if anyone invites them to a party. Then Susan discloses that she is bummed because she hasn’t been able to start on the book she wants to write. Irene says, you just need to sit down and start writing! Then, determined to encourage her friend, she turns down a party invitation and insists they go back to their apartment and commence writing. The procrastinating writer is no other than Susan Sontag and her helpful friend, Maria Irene Fornes, changes course that afternoon from painting to playwriting. “I might never have even thought of writing if I hadn’t pretended I was going to show Susan how easy it was.”

Even if I don’t make it past the first essay in either of these books, my take-away is huge. The secret of becoming and remaining a writer is spelled out as clear as day. Write! I wonder what else lies in wait for me to discover in the final moments as my time for exploration runs out?

Spotlight: White Girls by Hilton Als


Whenever I read excellently penned memoirs, I entertain the idea that my own life could be written in a similarly hypnotic vein. Then I remember, being more mouse than girl, that I shy away from trend-setters and starlets; on the whole I have avoided more often than collided with life. But then Hilton Als, in his essay, Tristes Tropiques, describes himself as “half living life so I can get down to really living it by writing it”, and I think aha! just watch me!

My raison d’être is to be where no one notices me like in a bookstore on a saturday night just before closing. Which is where I was when I saw White Girls with its capitalized title, defiant and oddly familiar. Not being able to pinpoint the arc of his story – messy, contradictory, and addled with cultural references – I was drawn to it.

From Tristes Tropiques, “what is grace but the desire to forget one’s body, or share it with others?” Als describes a need, a craving for love which transcends ownership, or even, at times, touch; our search for a “we” or a “I” that acts like a mirror, reflecting back our double, or twin.

He describes a white girl (one of many in the book) he calls Mrs. Vreeland because “she was stylish, and everything she wore was unfussy and the opposite of fashion and what did the first Mrs. Vreeland say about style? ‘It helps you get down the stairs’.”

These days, I yearn for the time to write the essays, poems, plays whose bits rattle about in my brain. When I was young and had the time and money I worked grunt jobs instead of pursuing my craft; I felt that I had no right to write, I had to live first.

Now, I try to imagine what this new ideal would look like. If I wrote all day, would I dress up my limbs and paint my face to go out to the bars and cafes at night?

Because writing often flits between subjective and objective desire. We are so much in our own heads, we have to feel the world’s eyes on us in return, to feel desirable, and to make the isolation of the work worthwhile. When Hilton Al’s muse says, “what readers crave most, what fills them up, is the story of love, and how it ends,” she speaks for all of us who are watching our lives and loves take root and unravel, while simultaneously putting it all down on paper.

Flashdance: what a feeling!

November 11, 2014 is significant for me. Today marks my acceptance into the NW institute of literary arts residency program (quite a mouthful!). My first round of courses will include the study of short prose forms such as flash fiction, prose poems, and brief literary non-fiction, just the kind of thing I’ve been tinkering with this autumn on my blog, Heart Improvement.

I’m quite bowled over by this turn of events. It has been a few months since I started pushing the publish button to see what would happen, to find out how presenting my writing might change me, and therefore transform the world.

When I casually mentioned my blog to a friend who runs a performance venue, she insisted that I come to the shows and blog about them. It was thrilling, like I was on assignment! The first time, I stayed up until 4 am writing my piece, even though I had to wake at 6 for work. I felt that a suspension bridge had unfurled before me, providing the opportunity to connect my imagination with something of merit and weight in space and time.

On the subject of time, I have had the boldness lately to watch movies previously unseen. Thelma and Louise, viewed 23 years after its release, moved me, and filled in pieces of my back story. Like why I purchased for my first car, a turquoise 1963 four door Ford Falcon, and posed behind the driver’s wheel with blue eyeshadow and curlers. And savored the desolation of late night excursions through backwater haunts and train graveyards.

Why did I wait so long to watch a film so seminal and thematic to my generation? I don’t know; though, perhaps like a bottle, waiting brought out the complexities in the wine, and in me, and in our secret, overlapping histories. Why does it take many of us so long to pursue our dreams?

Last night I watched Flashdance, the movie. I had never seen it, though it came out when I was in high school and I was one of the trailblazers who took scissors to the neckline of her sweatshirts in response to it. That movie lodged itself inside of me, sight unseen. I knew it was about a dancer, that she lived in a warehouse, that she worked as a welder. I also may have heard that there was some sex, though I would have turned 17 shortly after it came out in 1983, so I could have seen it despite its R rating.

It is like me to choose the route in the dark where you just have to feel your way. It’s not as if Flashdance is a flawless work of art, but in some ways it was the manual for folk like me, who quit formal ballet and worked as a cook at the OK Hotel, then as an industrial tile baker, living in a warehouse above train yards and fruit trucks and horse carriages with a midwestern photographer, both of us supplementing our day jobs with nude modeling.

And the guy in the movie, he’s really a dud, though he does have the pivotal line, “When you give up your dream, you die.” I guess that’s reason enough for him to exist.

The movie’s climax is the try-out at the stodgy ballet school, when Alex goes berserk and delivers the performance of a life-time, the new-wave music blaring and the old farts’ feet tapping. In spite of the long-shot of achieving her dream (and why she would give up her bad-ass, decadent life-style for the prim world of the academy is beyond me and beyond the scope of the movie), she is going for it with every fiber of her hard body. “Take your passion and make it happen!” It’s a message worth revisiting, or, if you’re like me, it’s not too late to take it to heart.


Opposing Forces, a hip-hop fantasia

I think I’ve got the address wrong; I don’t know anyone at this party. I look at my invitation, it’s clearly stated that this party is my birthright.

The hostess is not present so I wander about. Each room houses a starling showcase of masculinity. Theatrical moves rule in the ballroom. At the top of the stairs a man, Houdini-like, attempts to escape a padded box, while in an adjacent chamber a muscle man rips off his clothing to reveal a beating heart. In the corridors, there are exquisite pas de deus where the partners keep shifting who is strong and who is weak, who is led and who is the initiator. The pantry has been transformed into a photography studio. In the garden, games of geometric tag are interrupted by flashes of lightening. And then, a masked troupe of commedia dell arte players approach amid heckler’s cries, graceful, and mesmerizing.

In the courtyard a young man builds himself from the ground up, showing us his shaky legs, his tremulous nerves, his arms outstretched to cradle the world. He perfects his craft until, in his words, it isn’t about how it looks, but how it feels. His transcendent form reminds me of a dancer from another century.


I leave sensing my place within this spectacle and how disparate elements – set, costumes, lighting, music, choreography – can come together perfectly in the service of human expression.

Spotlight: Sarah Ruhl’s 100 essays I don’t have time to write

I’m up before dawn, on a Sunday! The milk for my tea is hovering just this side of sour & it’s starting to clot before my bleary eyes. Nonetheless, I have to run to my desk, now, to write a review of Sarah Ruhl’s 100 essays I don’t have time to write on umbrellas and sword fights, parades and dogs, fire alarms, children and theater. Because I love this book! It contains so much that is of value! Sarah Ruhl reminds us that art comes from life – messy, imperfect life- and that we humans screw things up with our uber-seriousness. “Where are the jugglers? The fire-eaters?” she asks. Refusing to idealize or disparage motherhood, she aligns it with the primary urge to make theater, and claims that both require the DIY ability of turning junk into treasure.

Sarah Ruhl packs so much hilarity and profundity in her prose. In essay #35, just 25 words in to it she has restored our creative potential; stating what comes naturally to 5 year olds, and Shakespeare – “By speaking it [a palace, the woods, an evil tower], we make it so.”

Notwithstanding her playful tone, Sarah Ruhl touches upon various isms.

Sexism “A male artist following his whims is daring, manly, and original. A woman artist following her whims is womanly, capricious, and trivial.” #61
Racism“Color-blind casting; or, why are there so many white people on stage?” #41
Elitism“Do we all need a master’s degree to put up a play? Whatever happened to the garage, to the basement?” #38
Ageism“Botox has become our new version of the Greek mask.” #29
Celebrity worship “Everyone is famous in a parade.” #36
Technology fixation – “If waiting is lost, then will all the unconscious processes that take place during waiting get lost? And then might we see the death of the unconscious, and the death of culture?”

Her nuggets are the sort of pearls one scribbles on the back of a napkin (or, in my case, index cards); not precious, scooped from the chaos of life. For me, the message I treasure is to plunge more madly into the mess. “More failure! More demand for failure! More bad plays! Less perfection! More ugliness! More grace!” she belts in essay #56, as if she is competing with a jackhammer and a wired toddler (or both).

I still have 22 essays to go in the book, but I had to pen this review without delay! It couldn’t wait! I want to savor the remaining essays, and, besides, when I do finish, I’ll probably start it over at the beginning.

The Man Who Can Forget Anything, a response to a performance by the same name


I do not trust my mind to remember anything. Thus I incessantly scribble ideas down on whatever I have on hand. A passport. A handbill. A ticket stub even.

Lofty beginnings

They took a very small boy and put him on top of a high high ladder in the old Eagles Auditorium. That was my son. And he sung a song from up there. It was a very long time ago so I can’t remember exactly what song it was, although it was a song from the musical Suessical.

A brush with the divine

I was trying on a dress in the vintage shop Mike’s Old Clothes, in a version of Seattle no one remembers anymore. The dress had a peculiar sash which I found myself frankly at odds with. I emerged from the dressing room with the two ends akimbo. A man leapt out from the shadows and tied it with a flourish. I recognized him as the dancer Mark Morris. I was too timid to tell him it was I!-the girl-child he had dedicated his solo Jealousy to at Bagley Wright some 5 years earlier. I was aware of the irony of needing more time to pull myself together when it was my inchoate state he had found so refreshing in the first place.

Diminutive yet stong men

I saw Mikhail Baryshnikov not in Moscow but here, on this very stage, dancing to Ivor Cutler. From the front row where I gratefully sat, having procured a ticket from a stranger, he appeared quite small in stature though wonderfully expressive. His face above all was a superbly malleable instrument which crowned his divine proportions.

Waistcoat and angel wings


Outside of Seattle’s new opera house, I shot Kepler and Charlie in a candid pose before a performance of the ballet A Midsummer’s Night Dream. The balancing act, with children, is not being too strident in passing on one’s own predilections or occupations. Thus, the pitter patter of my heart when my son choose the donning of a costume free of my suggestion.


The dancers filing out of Cornish gathered around to watch my boy-child nimbly mold a snowman. The way their giggles rushed out of them, only to be squelched by the frosty air, reminded me that though young, they had little knowledge of, or time for, the pursuits of childhood.

Nothing but regrets dept.

I am remorseful that I failed to see the production of Three Sisters when it came recently despite reading glowing reviews. I am contrite.

More of the same

I would also like to express regret for failing to see Ezra’s site specific dance piece exploring mental health and mother – son relations. I sensed the value of his work with every pore and yet failed to get my sorry ass to the street where it unfolded. I am ashamed and unabashedly penitent.

In case anything should happen. . . . .

We ought to have the manuals for every obsolete technology we’ve ever used to articulate our ideas uploaded into a chip and inserted into our skull cavity, to be removed upon our demise.

Memory palace

One day my son came home and said that they had learned something extraordinary at school. They had been taught they could remember anything if they hid it away in a crevice born of imagination.

The Entr’acte

Silence. Foot steps. A scuffle. The world is created sound bite by bite, each stab or slap or stomp or shuffle or shove another layer of scaffolding, the culmination of which is the tinkling of a grand piano and a man in a hat saying enjoy the show.

Time passing

The train is pulling into the station. My son boards the train. From the viewing platform I see him moving about the dining car where as a minor he is required to exist. I am a voyeur, drinking in his autonomous form as it readies itself for the exhilaration of travel. I am also gazing into a time capsule, reliving my own rail adventures from my stationary post. “All aboard!” the lady cries deafeningly as time rattles on for us both.

My heart is like an expensive piano

Two words overlapping inscribe something new. Two distinct time frames interposed jolt the audience into accepting the murkiness of the time-space continuum. Sitting in Room #608 and watching the high jinxes of silent film unfold as the clatter of feet – at first faint – grows in volume until, at last! the characters from the film are made flesh and burst into the room with the audacity of time bandits!

Concluding comments by two Vladimirs

“Memory is repetition.” Those words were spoken by my character Vladimir in A Warehouse Dream. Beckett’s Vladimir said, “Habit is a great deadener.”


I apologize for having seemingly used the space here to write about my life, instead of reporting on the show as expected. In some sense, the performance was a blank canvas which I utilized for my own memories, some of which had much to do with the show, while others had less.


My son and I traveled the long route up Denny (unhampered by snow). Our fellow bus passengers (including a man carrying a dustpan and a pickaxe with bike locks hanging from his pockets) enhanced our understanding of our fellow man while the revolving floor tested my sense of gravity. We arrived home safe, greeted by the smell of apples, with the work through the night before us.