Tonight I went to see a performance of sound poetry. I did not like the advertising: the star sounded like a hubristic old ass. But downtown I went because the theatre belongs to my dear friend Elspeth.Elspeth's dream has been achieved at last. The theatre she built in her backyard hums with life and noise and art. As I sat in a comfortable salvaged cinema seat, I marvelled at how wonderful the space was. The stage was a soft grey tile with a huge white film screen against a black wall for backdrop. Black fabric lined the sides. A great white Hindu mask smiled down upon the readers.
The supporting cast sat in a row: a red-faced man with curly strawberry-blonde hair and a beard, a woman with a bunch of blonde curls obscuring one eye, and a tall youth with a bowl cut, a drooping moustache and slightly beetling brows. The men wore blue jeans; the woman cargo pants. Across from them stood the star, a skinny, whitehaired bearded old man in jeans, cheap blue tennis shoes, a stained mustard shirt and glasses. After he got worked up, he took off his shirt, revealing wiry arms and an old man's skinny chest.
The show was startling, but it couldn't repress my glee that Elspeth's dream had come true. She had a theatre; she was a real impresario. And how wonderful it is to see a dear friend's dream come true!
