Where could a play be?
Back here at home where everything is just a little dry in the fall. The glass door of the burrito place on pine street is cool and dry, and feels full of tradition somehow. I hold it open from behind and we walk out and up and back to the house, to eat burritos and watch TV. After the episode I retreat to a computer to make a photo book for an upcoming birthday and write for 5 minutes, another page for the basement of YI.P. what might be on the stage. It is all full of florescent work-light and the dull sheen of black Marley. I remember meeting Mike’s dad in Brussels at a greek restaurant where we both got exceedingly drunk and he told me that what I then needed to do was make a revolutionary piece of art, like THEM is a revolutionary piece of art. It was pouring rain, and my newest intoxicated father ran down the street to his townhouse, and I went to find a train. Or is the floor wooden and the mezzanine an overflow of curving, painted wood, posing from the back of the house toward the stage? Is there a piano there, and does the 50 years teacher of the New England Conservatory shuffle on to play us all some Beethoven?

or, feel free to go back to \|i|>