did you just call me ‘baby’, mister bloom?

A drunken devil shaking ass in my face, people made of masks that are taken apart and fed to fish, someone downing a mason jar full of bodily fluids, and Pestilence complaining that his Avian Flu has turned into the Avian Rash. Everything new, self mocking beautiful.

Theater Under the Gun, Theater of Fear. Tuesday a graceful priest shall admit how he used his parish as vessels for empty lust. Wednesday, the actors will be ignored for the coats they carry, the characters they create from their hands. Michael will be there from Calgary. Something to do with nudity and buckets of water. It’s always precious and insane. It’s true. Triumphant. It swallowed me the way I prayed it would, the way I wanted it to. When it spat me out this morning, my bones had been replaced by lead. Today should be recovery, a due time taken out and away, but instead I feel like I’m going to die. I need to sleep, I need to remember to eat, not go swimming with crazy englishmen before breakfast. Too late.

Getting home at six:thirty, falling into bed at seven. Dawn approaching, hours ticking by, and we’re not noticing. We’re stretching out, our feet under the coffee table, playing I Never. Somehow at the after party, the birthday of one of the directors. She reminds me of Karen. She reminds me of sitting on the roof of the Cultch, crawling out the tiny cupola and leaning against the harsh black angle of the shingle. The smile I gave my life, seeing the city like that for the very first time, the karaoke inside that not even actors would sing. BBQ’s and crying backstage. The Felix Culpa Red Cross fundraiser, the show that for the first time called me on stage for a bow.

I should have kissed that man. His tawny coat, his tawny hair. The only time I would have left my life then.

She and I were standing on a picnic table on the roof, a pool to our left, a drop of fifteen stories to our right. Starry night, orange lights, the red ember of her cigarette. If I had leapt, I could have cleared the edge. Elegance in casual movement, flicking the flame to burn. She admires my sacrifice she say, my bravery at leaving when I needed to. It’s been so nice to see you again. The same drifting from conversation to conversation, It’s Been So Nice To See You, It’s Been So Long. Are You Working Again? and I’m considering it. I’m not sure how to break back in, except for this, except for here. Barcley street. Picasso scrawl on the palm of my hand. This is where I wanted to be, this is where I’m glad. Changing the conversation from young little admissions about sex to the political shift encapsulated by the internet, by raves, by sex meaning death to the newer generations. Thinking that one of these days, I have to learn how to get drunk. It felt really good not to be recognized by Kevin Conway. Score the only point for my new hair.

I thought I had a long walk ahead, a slender goodbye slipping into a taxi behind me, but instead I stayed up with DK’s scratchy sweater, no way to return it to him except for his address. Apartment 301. Crows, Dali posters, paintings that look familiar. A private rooftop deck. I answered the phone barely lucid enough to cancel my gamelan rehearsal. I dreamed of actors this morning, I woke with lines of dialogue wrapped around my hands and tongue, the image of an upside-down church, my pillows being books and a ferret, a pile of crushed velvet clothes. I almost fell asleep in the hot tub, leaning on Stephen’s shoulder. I almost thought about canceling tonight.

Titus tonight, by the way. Titus Andronicus at the Jericho Arts Center, 1675 Discovery, at 8pm. Admission by donation.

holy hells is good theater inscestuous

The Vancouver Art Gallery has switched cheap day from Thursdays to Tuesdays. This week, luckily, that’s the day the Ad Mare Wind Quintet premiere music written especially for the rotunda’s unique, reverberant acoustic qualities. They’ll be playing new pieces by three local composers, Jennifer Butler, James Beckwith Maxwell, and Jordan Nobles.

AD MARE
7:00 pm
Tuesday, March 7

Rotunda of the Vancouver Art Gallery
750 Hornby Street, Vancouver

Admission by Donation
Information: 604-730-9449

I haven’t seen the current exhibition, though I’ve been wanting to, (Brian Jungun being snazzy and all), so I think this will be a perfect opportunity. It’s always a treat to have someone provide sonic landscapes to compliment the gallery’s exhibits. Wandering the vast rooms in silence just isn’t as kind.

Also, and more personally important, Theater Under The Gun is this week. What happens is that 10 to 12 theatre companies and/or ensembles are given an inspiration package that contains an image, a prop, a sound bite, and a line of text, all of which must be used in the final performance. They have 48 hours. When I worked in theater, this was one of the most twisted, intensely fun things I ever took part in. (I will carry the mental scars of John Murphy, (he of The Heretic), fucking a plant on stage to the end of my days.)

This is splendid news, because as far as I was aware, Theater Under the Gun had died this year. Chris McGregor and Trever Found, the two folk I used to know who ran it, hadn’t been able to find time for it. Apparently, though, it’s been taken over by two fairly-strangers-to-me, Heather Lindsay and France Perras, and they’ve stuck it into the new Show-Off Festival, Here Be Monsters, (here’s a flyer), which is being run by Monster Theater, a group who work occasionally with my Calgary friends, One Yellow Rabbit.

Tickets are $12, unless you’re interested in checking out a few shows, then a pass is $25. I’m planning on getting a pass and letting the festival take over my life for days at a time. Anyone care to join me? It starts tomorrow at Performance Works at 8pm. You’ll miss the Low concert, but that’s forgivable. I promise.