Past
Before fb & twitter & blogging is what it is now i wrote many a post like this.
... Herbert Blau ... knew of him only through his writings. The Impossible Theatre: A Manifesto came at the right time and i continued to read much of what he wrote. His theories attracted me at the start of my studies into theatre in the late sixties ... feel indebted to him & his passing causes me to pause & reflect on all those theatre workers who have shaped my path ...
... the first dandelions came this week ... a true celebration of spring ... await their arrival with patient anticipation ... my grandfather (now repeating myself though should write about Isadore Montalbetti) made dandelion wine & i love their sunny colour & their strength ... they have their season seeming to disappear in the heat of summer ... still each year they bring memories and smiles ...
I stopped.
The joy & discipline of writing/linking/searching/surfing waned. The purpose was never to be read. If another were to read or even comment there was a flushed excitment.
The enchantment at the beginning was to carve out a presence in this mysterious web which gave an illusion of being, despite a largeness, actually quite small. It felt like language could remember & writing "what was" held a little of what was falling away. The posts stood outside of the disappearing ... even traceable. So what? So what does the present hold? Always there was the question of memory. Often the timing was all wrong.
I am in & between leaving with & against inevitably.
I love watching son Stefan stage manage.
:: Note :: ... reading lamants, accusations & elegies ...
... Herbert Blau ... knew of him only through his writings. The Impossible Theatre: A Manifesto came at the right time and i continued to read much of what he wrote. His theories attracted me at the start of my studies into theatre in the late sixties ... feel indebted to him & his passing causes me to pause & reflect on all those theatre workers who have shaped my path ...
... the first dandelions came this week ... a true celebration of spring ... await their arrival with patient anticipation ... my grandfather (now repeating myself though should write about Isadore Montalbetti) made dandelion wine & i love their sunny colour & their strength ... they have their season seeming to disappear in the heat of summer ... still each year they bring memories and smiles ...
I stopped.
The joy & discipline of writing/linking/searching/surfing waned. The purpose was never to be read. If another were to read or even comment there was a flushed excitment.
The enchantment at the beginning was to carve out a presence in this mysterious web which gave an illusion of being, despite a largeness, actually quite small. It felt like language could remember & writing "what was" held a little of what was falling away. The posts stood outside of the disappearing ... even traceable. So what? So what does the present hold? Always there was the question of memory. Often the timing was all wrong.
I am in & between leaving with & against inevitably.
I love watching son Stefan stage manage.
:: Note :: ... reading lamants, accusations & elegies ...
