…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 3rd.
I remember the date distinctly; I’d gone to bed on the
evening of the 2nd 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 3rd, 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 3rd; I let it sit a day; it got to Bob on the 5th..
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.