queer courting and strange breeding

On Tuesday, I watched a silent movie, or drama rather. Out side the restaurant, standing on the corner were two young people, a man and woman, having an argument. By their poses and expressions, it seemed to be a lovers quarrel. More specifically, a break up. What made the exchange unique to me, was the fact that I knew that these two people were actors by trade. To be accurate, they were student-actors who attended the theater conservatory around the corner. I knew this because, while working at the restaurant, I had befriended a lady, who was an instructor at the conservatory.

The instructor was a regular for breakfast, coming in once or twice a week for a couple of years. She either order: a bowl of Raisin Brand with berries or one egg with toast. She hasn't been in for nearly six months, as I heard that her marriage had failed and she had returned to New York City where she is originally from. Sensing the distress in her personal life wasn't difficult as she was naturally a dramatic and emotional person. Once, upon seeing an example of my art work, she exclaimed, "This is f*!%ing beautiful!!". She did not use her indoor voice. She was merely looking at my business card, which has a portrait of myself on it; not exactly an ideal way to view a large painting. But she was none the less enthusiastic. I appreciated the emotional response to my work, however, in hindsight, I realize now that she could have just as easily been speaking about her bowl of Raisin Brand. This woman lived and breathed theater and was of a particular breed of creative-type who preferred her eggs poached, and slightly unstable.

In speaking with Madame Instructor one day, she became interested in the fact that I paint my portraits from photographs that I take myself. She asked if I would be interested in taking some pictures of her students as they rehearsed a series of 10 short plays written by Tennessee Williams. Ten by Ten was the title of the presentation, and over about two and a half hours, I watched the dress rehearsal of all 10 plays. It was great. I was one of only four other people in the audience and along with watching the dramas, I was privy to the direction and critiques of the performers by Madame Instructor as they worked. I shot about 24 pictures.

I think there were about a dozen actors, men and women, moving in and out of each drama. Two of the actors were now standing on the corner outside of my restaurant, in 20 degree weather, squared off against each other. To me, it looked like the girl was admitting she'd made a bad mistake and she was taking her medicine as the young man lectured at her. She would occasionally interject her point of view, but rarely made eye contact with the lad and simply nodded in agreement to her berater's accusations. This silent drama went on for at least 30 minutes, as I watched separated from their sound by the window glass. I wondered, had they had a tryst that the girl now regretted? Had this couple become intimate and now lusts flame had been doused? There was no doubt that the dispute involved a romantic cause. I watched their tragedy unfold, and was riveted. The two never moved from their spots and it didn't appear that they raised their voices. She kept her arms and hands still, either folded or clutching her bag. He was an inch or so shorter than her and was a bit more animated. I think I was observed spying by each of them, but they paid me no mind. Both times they looked my direction, I retreated, embarrassed. Then I'd find another location to peep from. I think I found this scene so interesting because I saw two people who were learning to make their living by making believe the very situation they now found themselves in, for real.

I soon found myself behind the bar and picked up the paper and began reading. I could both read and peek over the top of the paper and check the status of the silent struggle. I don't remember what article I was reading, but I glanced down at the paper for just a second. When I looked up, the girl was walking away and the boy was wiping his nose, looking at this hand, wiping his nose, looking at his hand, watching the girl walk away. I think he had just received a punch to the nose and he was checking to see if he was bleeding. Wiping his nose, looking at this hand...the young man watched for a moment in the direction of her departure, and walked the opposite way.


I'd missed the climax of my drama! It was sort of like watching Star Wars and deciding to walk to the kitchen to get myself a beer just before Luke blows up the Death Star! I'd been building up in my mind how it might end. Perhaps a sword fight! They were actors after all. Maybe a When Harry met Sally ending with tears, love, and a proposal. But here, it ended with a pop to the nose. Maybe just before she smacked him, everything went black and white and the film speed increased just enough to be comical. The smack caused the young man to fall down on his bottom and the beautiful young lady spoke one last insult to his manhood and turned with a jerk to leave him sitting in the snow, legs splayed, hair mussed and his dignity lying about him. I'm sure that's how it happened, I think, I didn't exactly see it. Dang.

It serves me right. Peeking through a keyhole to watch someone else's misery can't be justified. Still.... Here are some of the pictures I took last summer of the angry ex-lovers during my visit to the Williams' plays.













A thing that might make you go....

Long time Colorado resident Hunter S. Thompson, deceased as of February 2005, self-inflicted via .45 caliber, has apparently left behind a bit of himself. In a recent interview, Thompson's wife, Anita Thompson, reported that her late husband had left behind an undisclosed amount of his sperm for her to use in any child bearing she might wish to partake in. "Hunter, you always remembered the little things."

Ms. Thompson has, of yet, not decided whether to use the Gonzo sperm. I imagine, not before she answers the ethical and moral question of reincarnating another possible Traveler for the Lords of Karma.

.....Hmmm.

Every child is an artist. The problem is how to remain an artist once he or she grows up. Very true, Pablo. Go create something.


Have a good weekend everyone, and Godspeed, John Glenn,


Dave