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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
2003-10-28, 10:27 a.m.

il parto

��������� �����wake up.

the sun is pouring in, liquidlike, from the windows, and for some reason, my eyes are opened the widest they have been since school began.

reading other people's online journals, away messages - macbeth is over. tonight, after dinner, i will return to this room, sit here, and stare at the computer screen, wondering why i'm not in the booth, half-crouched over a script in the blue-gel darkness, staring out at my friends on the stage.

or maybe i'll get up and go out. it all was very abrupt. the show wound through the five acts, each one feeling somewhat more distant than the last - and then, ariel's triumphant last words ... "who we invite to see us crowned at Scone." she raises her hands, smiling, and then the lights go down, fading slowly as the sound of evanescence's "haunted" rolls upwards. the special over the throne - the bows ... the dark. then strike, and the cast is turned into a violent, murky tornado of destruction. wood splinters fly, screws clink to the floor; walls are torn down, revealing the ugliness beneath.

i stand at the back of the room for a minute and marvel at the flatness of the room - the black curtains hung up again. it looks like an empty warehouse. a car-wash. the energy has been sucked out of it, a shell - i glance back at the people leaving. a steady current of goodbyes, of poster-signing. mike's not really anywhere to be found. unless he's outside, succumbing to a cigarette & some post-show depression. it's raining, and the pavement is slick with wavering lights reflected beneath, like spirits trapped beneath a layer of thick ice.

there's not much i can say about the process of a show. you form bonds that can never quite be described -

and now the work accumulates. papers upon scenes upon writing upon other things. i've thrown myself into sound designing the one-acts, and rehearsals for romeo & juliet begin in a few weeks. my car has returned from the garage, and it hums with new - if stunted - life. winter hasn't yet descended, and fall clings tenaciously to the trees. bright yellow fists of anger, clinging to the skinny branches.

soon, the roses & the carnations will go stale in the sunlight, and the programs & posters will be tucked away into pockets of nostalgia. but sparks of remembrance, like stars in the night sky, will flare in the eyes of the cast and crew for a long time to come.

there was history crafted these past months, a strong weft of passion for the work that we are here, in this school, to do - and it won't be lightly forgotten.

so goodbye, macbeth. more is thy due than more than all can pay.

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�SEH