Bash wrote his Blue Strings poem on the morning of Monday, June the twentieth, the day he planned to meet Percy at West Seventy6, inside the newly opened hotel down on the waterfront. If anyone had asked who it was written about, they would’ve gotten a shrug and nothing more because he’d long ago sworn […]
That first encounter with Percy happened near the beginning of the theatre’s fall season. Dozens of touring acts had come through town since then, and with each one, Bash improved his technique. He was still a rookie LD (lighting director) but his willingness to take instruction and inspiration from all available sources made him a […]
This would be another good spot to leverage the revision process by incorporating more running commentary on my authorial development into the context of my fast-failing health. If the reader remembers, near the end of chapter five there was mention of a slight cough and generalized fatigue. At that time, I implied those ailments would […]
Perhaps I’m at risk of turning this memoir into Mom’s hagiography, but previous to her cognitive decline, I can’t recall any instances of her words or actions burning, or even smouldering with the hatred of a single sun let alone a thousand. With that in mind, I’ll now explain the eavestrough metaphor mentioned in the […]
I was back at the lake with dad when I was about nine or ten, just me and him, nobody else around, and we were in Grandma’s cottage…
I’d often find myself staring at the tip of her nose while she talked, as it moved a little, in time with her lips…
I characterize reality as being a dodgy suitcase. Dodgy like the unattended suitcase left in a busy airport is dodgy…
tin hats 