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I need solitude and rest so borrow mafriend’s cabin in the woods to stay there a long head scratching month with plans to write and get away from those kids breaking into my house expecting me to drink and drunk and yahoo. All that stuff sez those crazy kids reading my book.
“yass, yass, yass“
Adjust and accept and become comfortable and only then enjoy – the reading pattern I took with Big Sur. Not long after publishing his classic and inspirational book “On The Road,” the over-the-top fan attention Jack Kerouac received was too much. He needed a place to hide and collect thoughts. That place is Big Sur on the central California coast. His time at Big Sur is described in a book of the same name.
A discomfort settled through the first chapters. Lightly structured and unexpected rhythms and cadence. The word combination clashes then links and then elevates, but returns down forcefully breaking mangled over jagged rock. Aaaarrgghh!!! Felt like a transcription of live events. Something like unfiltered closed captions.
“–“ (Long long hyphens)
Constantly drunk he borrows a friend’s cabin in the woods. Stumbling and groping at night he finally reaches the cabin and there onward it’s a mess of people and back and forth to and from the cabin to San Francisco or to a friend or back at the cabin, but he doesn’t want to be there anymore at the cabin and again and again. A. gain.
“dont“ (without apostrophe)
Encouraging for the slow reader some chapters are no more than two pages.
And the end is a blur of nonsensical raw thoughts crisscrossing. Illusions, hallucinations, paranoia. Severely drunk. His friends with him at the cabin want to harm him. Billie the sweet girl he met in San Francisco just wants to marry him. It’s her last chance at a real man. The precipice of delusion and paranoia end suddenly and quickly. Everything is alright. Jack is alright. His friends are alright. The world is good again.
Small stage. Staggered seating bleachers on three sides. Dark and snowing. Concentrated like a stream of water whose droplets float twisting eventually to land on the shoulder or forehead or strains of hair.
No special effects or computer graphics. Just ingenious staging and costumes and choreography the story to the forefront it brought. Very imaginative. The intimate stage with audience is emotional. A chance to touch stars; the actors.
What is a Rime anyway? The same company that produced The Sparrow performs Rose and the Rime – The House Theatre of Chicago. This being my second attendance of up close theater and I’m quite impressed though not that I carry any official artistic pedigree to judge.
The whole town is lost to a memory that few remember. Many simply follow the crowd and no one understands the origin of their living. Cyclical. Repetitive. There’s always an evil witch and this witch stole a magic ring or rock. It was something small. The elder and most sensible towns person, Rose’s uncle, recounts stories about life before the witch’s spell cast forever cold cold days over the town. Evidently, the witch killed her parents or just one perhaps.
Predictable for the young, optimistic, and slightly naïve, Rose determined to find the witch ventures at night, experiences a storm a rime and ultimately kills with the witch. Now why would she leave at night? A heroine Rose is the town’s toast. Fighting the witch wasn’t easy, but the light or ring or rock or whatever it was that gave the witch’s power is now with by Rose. The season changes and summer enters. The trapped town in 1950s America what with the bathing suits. A boy she meets, but the boy’s brother appears. Two brothers one Rose. Feeling chided the boy takes revenge on his brother soon. Poor Rose, she’s pregnant by the boy’s brother. Happily they live and everything goes their way. And since happiness is envious the boy riles up the town’s folk into a jealous riot. The ring or rock must be shared because everyone wants to as happy as Rose and the boy’s brother.
Let’s make this quick. So the town rebels. This has happened before as the uncle knows. Try the uncle does to separate Rose from the town groping for the ring. The bad boy gives the uncle a Mike Tyson punch and red square chunks of confetti burst and swing. He’s dead. The boy’s brother, Rose’s baby daddy. Dead. How? I don’t remember. And boy does Rose get angry mad. She goes berserk and becomes the best looking witch I’d every want to see. Angry evil witches and bubble butts apparently are a wonderful combination. (I only say this because the actress playing Rose had a fabulous derriere and I desperately tried not to stare and ruin the experience. But I did and that’s how I know about Rose’s butt.) The baby, found in the oven of Rose’s home, is save.
A open-armed ‘HELLO’ I said to Vancouver at the end of April during my first visit. Three thousand plus miles and an easy 13 hour travel from Fort Lauderdale to Houston to San Francisco to (finally!) Vancouver. The time difference helped, but still arrived in the late afternoon. A combination of mountains, ocean, and influences from native peoples, British and French make Vancouver unique and nearly downright cozy. The drive from the airport was largely on one single road traversing everything reaching downtown. Too vain and afraid to look like the first time Vancouver visitor that I truly was the occult video is all I could manage. Observe the bridge the approaching tallness of the city. HELLO Vancouver.
The Fairmont Hotel Vancouver. Very nice. Complaints were made by a few people in the group I joined. I witnessed the complaints and luckily couldn’t join; my room was fantastic. Loved every minute of being the room. The details were everywhere. More than once out loud I’d say “I could live here.” and many more times I silently thought the same. Sure, the room had old world charm what with the wood flooring, the large windows, the heavy wooden doors with brass doorknobs, the very high ceilings, top and bottom moldings – everything just fit nicely and cleaning – a symphony of decor. Room 1209 with a view of the Vancouver Art Gallery. Perfect.
Sadly, the visit to Vancouver was work related, but desperately snuck off like a night bandit for a bit of exploring. Yes, I politely ditched some co-workers. The nearest museum is a must explore. Read somewhere, I don’t remember where or when, that the museum is a barometer of the city. This law of travel has never proven wrong. And a wonderful and grand museum the Vancouver Art Gallery is. Just look at the building’s architecture! What a crowd outside on the steps and in the outdoor cafe and in the admission line. On a Tuesday!? A promising sign even if admission was by donations only. A $15 donation can make anyone feel like a real benefactor of the arts especially compared to the $1 donation of other chaps. On exhibition: Myfanwy Macleod Or There and Back Again.
Yes, the inside just as impressive. A pleasurable layout and environment. You just want to be there. All. Day. Four floors. From the first floor enter and up the stone stairs of the rotunda. Take the escalator up to floors three and four. But aaahhh, no photography except for in the rotunda. They don’t seem confident. Let’s ask someone else. “Excuse me. Is photography allowed?” “No, sir.” A blank look. Turn and walk away. But I like taking pictures in museums. It was for the best that I not. Old habits triumphed with a cinematography-esque clip.
With a dinner promise to co-workers weighing on me, I left after a much too brief 90 minutes of therapy. Approximately mid-50s and clear skies made the walk to a restaurant called simply “C” on the water’s edge bliss. And boy did arrive quickly as the video can attest to my quick step walking pace.
And some de rigueur pictures of the flight. In San Francisco en route to Vancouver.