19 June 2016

Prompt: 2

‘That summer…’ was new. I’d never worked anywhere, well, except in school, school and study had always been my summer work and I’d never worked in any theatre. I did not know what an apprentice was. I just knew an apprentice was exotic, my sisters lover Shev would be there and I did not know my brother would show up after he and his x-country traveling buddy discovered they didn’t like harvesting potatoes in an Idaho field.
It was all pretty improvisational and I was 16 and I didn’t have to worry about working for money. Money was nothing. My parents still funded me. I did have to work, that’s what a theatre apprentice did, for all I know still does, all for no pay, but instead for the thrill of being immersed and marinated in the stew of 1-week summer stock theatre, this just happening to be in the Catskill mountains of upstate New York in a village named Woodstock.
To say I was naïve, an ingénue, though, by definition, males are not ingénues, wow, that word's  archaic, understates my being. But chaos and libertinism were normal conditions and being so did not seem without boundaries and somehow seemed to add to our quasi-focused creativity. I think the purpose of theatre being at all, the control, now, for all of us, then, was to immerse ourselves into our stage part and purpose as profound grounding and relief from what existed off the stage and beyond the playhouse. I could not articulate any of this, at all, in 1967. I just was being for the first time outside of school, study, reading, exercise, and eating.


Birds call, trill, sing out, and thunder rumbles as like its own atonal base coda. Now I cannot name the birds that I hear, they just are and yet I am made real by their song.
I see green leaves and I see packed brown trail dirt, beaten down, and I see the oak with its vertical rutted grey bark. The oak feels solid, looks rooted, not a flimsy sensation within it from it, its own mountain unto itself yet could be without the bird trills and brown dirt.
The air now is thick; humidity blanketing green leaves the grey bark and the tramped trail dirt. The air tastes as a soup with too much starch, or too little broth, heavy and hot with wee breezes slicing through. The broth is too thick for a taste of any sort, of taste absent spice, tang, or sweet. A taste only heavy a cloying scarce taste with too over baked and dry even 80% dark cacao cannot pierce.
Only the bird song feels bright, light & happy, painted with a thunder underscoring it all.

17 June 2016


In this time of the me I know people can walk right up to me, though this has only begun to happen since strands of my hair have turned shades of whitish grey and have congregated in clumps at my temples and sprinkled within the rest of my still dark mane, never as a younger man, and I don’t appear to care, since I’m in the midst of some inner bumfuzzlement I am transfixed by or do not seem to grasp.
It’s as if my sensate wiring overloads my brain and I don’t quite sort
or identify
or categorize
or process
or rationalize
as rapidly as
I’m in a shock to my system.
Any sorts of beauty or sound are my usual culprits.