Lillian by Tom Minter

…though it is a little foggy at present, I am ‘caffeinating’, sitting at the desk in “Mr. Pope’s room” at The Wainwright Inn, smiling as the sun works to nibble through and brighten my room..

I am back in Great Barrington; all is well with the world.

Well.. all is well in this wonderful weekend –all is expectation and celebration; the Berkshire Playwrights Lab continues to bring talent, and unexpected voices to platform; writers, actors, and everyone who facilitate this company, are in high gear, and eager to bring their best into the process and procedures of production.

I wanted to as well, but things don’t always turn out as you envision..

I mean –who would consciously envision being at the initial ‘company dinner’, in the warm home of gracious hosts, enjoying a delicious glass of red wine –only to maladroitly make emphasis with an unwise hand, and drop the contents into a Rorschach pattern of red wet on the kitchen floor..?

I mean, you don’t really think of that kind of brilliance, causing you to balk and blather and insist that your shirt was made for a 60’s tie-die expression of fermentation..

..no, not really..

..but, isn’t that the way of things?

And in all honesty: in the way of engaging ‘a moment’ –an instant, that can be turned to reflect the agitation and excitement –the desire and unease –the ‘far too many’ inexplicable twitches that construe appearance.. irrespective of real intent..

Lillian is like that; you’ll meet her at the Gala.

You’ll see her; more accurately, you’ll observe her, as she goes about, doing things that might seem.. well, a little peculiar; a little .. maladroit.. a little mad..

Much like the wine that leapt from my grip –unexpected: the image of Lillian leapt into my mind in the deep quiet, just before waking, on May 3^rd.

I remember the date distinctly; I’d gone to bed on the evening of the 2^nd with the niggling suspicion that Joe, Bob, Matt and Jim were somewhere in the process of looking over pieces for this year’s Gala, and wouldn’t it be nice if I could…

Lillian.

And she is a nightmare; mesmerizing..

That morning, May 3^rd, following the last fluttering look of her, I beat dawn to my desk, and wrote it out; I’d like to be able to say it came in one convulsive scatter of my fingers across the computer..

Well.. I’d like to say that; in any event, it came, in whole, on the 3^rd; I let it sit a day; it got to Bob on the 5^th..

The rest..

the rest you’ll see this Saturday.

But I must say, being willing to follow the unexpected convulsions of any happenstance, maladroit or exquisite, gives opportunity to take a story to details both embarrassing..

and significant.

Ask Lillian.