this is the place I make

We can’t leave this Winter. We have things to do.

I wander down steps in an old hotel. It’s night, the snow is deep. Tita Bella isn’t coming back to the apartment. I have a show to put on. Crunching snow. I look back. It’s a dilapidated three story Victorian of faded red and white trim. Is it like my old place on Rowley? No driveway. Three trees that started as shrubbery now tall. They’ve outgrown the place.

A frantic run to the theater. Stuff happens. The show isn’t working. It falls to pieces. I ask Christine to run it without me. I have to go. Elaine takes the boys. My dad is with me. “Can you drive my car?”

He says, :I don’t have a license.” Takes a beat, and nods yes. We’re running backstage. Glimpses of snippets of performance through curtains. I wake up feeling I haven’t gone anywhere and there is some place I need to be.

Making no meaning. Trying to capture the attic mind.

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