It was theater night, and I took on the spoofy, horror musical Prom Night at Dog Story Theater. It's strange about theater at these small venues. I don't feel overwhelmed by the freight of production values and all that acting and institutional excellence. So to speak. I feel no freight at the Shakespeare Festival in Stratford either, although the production values and excellence is palpable, tangible, friable. I feel the freight at times when confronting many presentations offered by theater groups in between. And that freight makes it hard to emotionally respond to the performance. I attend theater and good film because I wish to raise memories and emotions in my soul and look at them hard, throw them into different lights and perspectives. I am trying to shoot the bird of thought on the wing and theater flushes out the quail, partridges, pheasants, mallards. My actions makes values arise like partridges, an idea I steal from Sartre. And I would like to tag them not obliterate them, not slay them, with the buckshot of language. I would like to trace them with the buckshot of words before they glide down down down on extended wings. And that's an image I ripoff from Wallace Stevens. This describes exactly how my thinking goes these days. I have a half hour and a half pint of coffee to drink. I am glad I came here instead of visiting The Bitter End, where students beat their books bitterly for knowledge, at times.
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