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/ november is a month of ghosts

a grey knive lurking on the corner of the bathroom counter, incongruously balanced on the edge - just about to fall - the light of day leaked into the room like dish detergent being squeezed gently out of a bottle, and over in the corner, rats rustled in a paper bag. he walked into the room to the sound of the ceiling fan slowly misunderstood. his left sneaker squeaked slightly. paper in his pocket crumpled up and a blue crayon behind one ear. a muddy cigarette in one hand and no lighter. his eyes are silently stained-glass windows inside a church with no congregation, waiting for the hollow bellpulls - the doorbell of the Almighty. he takes out a sharpie and marks an x on the wall. moments later a fly buzzes fatly in and lands on the ��������������������������������������������spot, preening and humming to itself. below, at the baseboard, an ant trundles in. he looks at the mirror. he looks away. outside, a bird hits the window, and all things still, in hushed������������������������������������������mourning. an ignorant cricket looses a selfish mating call and
2003-02-16, 4:54 a.m.

adjunct to Sleep

��������� �����night's creeping. vines. the book of ulysses sitting beside me. bitterly cold, and the ivies are brittle, wilting and curling up like elderly green fists. turret-cupola oxidised colours against the caliginious sky.

portland-stage, around 10pm, coming downstairs from a successful rehearsal-audition for "eggs over eric." waiting in the cold lobby with the oddly painted walls, that weird white colour that's somewhere between eggshell & cream - an older woman with makeup and copperwire coloured hair leaning against the defunct radiatour. "stand over here, where it's warmer," she says, mostly to herself. her companion is a slighter woman with dark straight hair. both wear pea-coats or some diversion thereof. they begin to discuss tom stoppard's "arcadia" which was the first show in portland stage's season this year.

at which point the slighter, younger woman leaves the building for a moment by way of the giant doors, to check for their ride, i assume. "you know," i begin, "arcadia really is a beautiful show. tom stoppard -- " and i go off on some tangent about the juxtaposition of the language and the time periods and the dancing, and how when it flows from era to era it's like a musical sonata, or something. the younger woman has since re-entered and she's listening attentively.

when i've finished, i look out the doors. a white van has pulled up and i can see mark's yellow jacket in the area of the driver's seat. they're talking, animatedly, now, about newton's principia mathematica, &/or whether to see copenhagen or fences, the last two shows of the season. they ask me. "which would you recommend?"

"copenhagen," i reply. "it's more contemporary. and michael frayn's a pretty amazing playwright -- that's my ride."

"ah, all right then .. good night!"

"yes .. stay warm!" because it's as bitter as the wind that screams around the tops of the highest buildings in portland, like a giddy child with the terrible twos.

that, and the two guys who i auditioned with tonight for "eggs over eric" were both not bad. in fact, they were pretty good. one was jon, one was howard called "tuck". tuck was the one i connected with more, but he was also a little more typecast for the part. blond, fairly well-built and a bit better with his inflections, as opposed to jon's slight lack of presence and dark-hair & glasses temperament. he could actually play my brother, if there were a role like that in the show. i'm rooting for tuck. i wouldn't mind having to be "close" with him, either. although i don't know how old he is. apparently he teaches middle-school special education ... somewhere.

eyes slowly going neon. fueled by insomnia. which means it's time to return to the pseudo-amniotic state called sleep.

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�SEH