An Observation: La Traviata

The Museum of Michael’s Mind

An Observation: La Traviata

We just have arrived home from a dress rehearsal of the opera which is the opener of the 2007/2008 season at the Lyric Opera of Chicago. “La Traviata.” By Giuseppe Verdi. An opera in three acts with two intermissions. Three hours in total. A war-horse as they are called, part of the seasons over and over again. First performed at Teatro La Fenice, Venice on March 6, 1853, over one hundred and fifty years ago. The music is beautiful. The voices are superb. The acting is believable. The story ... NOT! In fact, the story demonstrates one of my pet peeves. 

An aside: Gregory and I visited Venice in May of 2004. We stayed at a hotel that was just adjacent to what used to be, then was, then used to be, and now is the Teatro La Fenice. Construction of La Fenice began in 1790 and was completed in 1792. It burned to the ground in 1836. La Fenice rose from the ashes (that is what the name means) in 1844. In 1996 it was once again completely destroyed by fire. In March 2001, a court in Venice found two electricians guilty of setting the fire. Enrico Carella and his cousin, Massimiliano Marchetti, appeared to have set the building ablaze because their company was facing heavy fines over delays in repair work. Carella, the company's owner, was sent to prison for seven years, while Marchetti received a six-year sentence. It took, in the manner Italian, from 1996 until November 2004 to rebuild the opera house and the first production in the new opera house was La Traviata. How fitting.

A second aside: One morning as Gregory and I were preparing for our day’s outing in Venice, we heard a beautiful tenor’s voice drifting through our window which opened on the construction site of the most current La Fenice. The site consisted of a hole in the ground, a tall crane erected in the center of the hole, and a steel frame that would become the perimeter of the building. Wondering where the music was coming from, we peered out of our window and saw a lone construction worker, with hard hat and overalls, climbing the crane and singing. He was singing an aria from La Bohem. Was a “goose-bump” moment. Construction site, construction worker, crane, opera aria, La Fenice. Can you tell it is an experience neither of us will ever forget?

Back to the story. “La Traviata” that is. It is a story about Violetta, a courtesan (a prostitute with wealthy upper-class clients circa 17th century France) who falls in love with Alfredo and in Act One, gives up her old loose way of life to love only him.

In Act Two, Alfredo’s father persuades Violetta to give up his son for Alfredo’s own sake, his sister’s and family’s sake, and to please God. Violetta decides to leave for Paris but first writes a letter to Alfredo, packs, and leaves. Alfred arrives home, his father returns, a messenger shows up with the letter from Violetta (whom the messenger happened to meet on the road,) and Alfredo declares he will get his revenge on Violetta for leading him on and then deserting him. P.S. Violetta is dying of consumption.

In Act III, Alfredo returns to forgive Violetta and ask her forgiveness, Alfredo’s father asks her forgiveness as well, the doctor arrives, Violetta is feeling much better and stronger, and asks forgiveness from both Alfredo and his father. A moment or two later she falls over dead. At least she died happily.

Back to 1) The music was beautiful. 2) The voices superb. 3) The acting believable. 4) The story ... NOT. Here is the peeve, at least from my point of view: Why waste all that time when life passes too quickly as it is, why miss opportunities and why reap all that sadness when you could have spent your time more happily from the beginning. Why not follow your heart in love and don’t worry about what your parents or what God might say. Have you been dishonest? Have you harmed anyone? Have you been true to yourself? These should be your tests. If your answer is NO, NO, and YES ... you pass. 

Wouldn’t it be nice if it was that easy to live your life? If Violetta and Alfred had done that from the beginning, the opera would not have gone on for three hours. But maybe a brief encounter of honesty and love is worth more than any three hour period of time? Maybe the opera was closer to real-life than I imagined!

Listening to Memories

Driving home down Golf Road today I noticed that a house had been torn down. Behind a cyclone fence erected for construction safety the rubble and remains of what used to be someone's house could be seen.

The sidewalk still led up to a set of three concrete steps which entered what used to be someone's home, someone's life.

As I continued driving I heard some of the memories that the home was playing for itself. Listening with sadness to the memories that would no longer take place or be created anew.

A baby was crying as the mother shuffled in her nightgown and slippers down the hall to his bedroom to comfort him and help him fall back asleep.

From the kitchen, as the father was preparing Sunday brunch, the smell of bacon was wafting up the stairs into the bedroom of the still sleeping mother and children, followed by the smell of bitter, freshly brewed coffee.

Loud music filtered out from under the door of the teenager's bedroom and worked its way into the living room below and into the aggravated nerves of the parents trying to watch TV.

Cords of "Happy Birthday to You" from the upright piano and words sung slowly like a funeral dirge accompanied the homemade, buttercreamly decorated cake that had come out of the oven earlier that morning.

Silence and darkness communicated with the rooms as the family slept peacefully until the first alarm clock on dad's night stand clanged everyone in the house awake.

The refrigerator, close to empty anticipating shopping day, sported four neatly lined up brown paper bags filled with sandwiches, chips, fruit, and a cookie, each one labeled for pick up and a trip on its way to school, the office, the job.

Raised voices, adult voices, disagreed and argued. Quieted listeners, children listeners feared the anger and wished for its stopping, again.

The monsters in the basement continued to haunt the youngest brother as he quickly ran up the stairs carrying the jar of canned tomatoes requested by his mother.

Hair clogged the sink, stains surrounded the toilet bowl, and the shower continued to drip, drip, drip as the family of four waited their turn to ready themselves for the day and again to prepare themselves for the night.

Alzheimer's

It is so hard to write fiction when non-fiction life continues to unfold fiction-like.

I still find it easier to write about Alzheimer's and the path on which Gregory and I continue to walk, than to create "stories" about life.

The Alzheimer's path belongs to him but when you love someone; you go into amazing, scary, deep places with them.

Writing

Today, my friend and fellow writer Pat and I went to a presentation at the Chicago Cultural Arts Festival. The discussion was with Justin Torres who wrote We The Animals. Hearing him talk about his work of fiction caused me to think about myself as a writer and what I believe to be true about myself when it comes to my writing.

I am more of a memoirist than anything. Most of my stories are true although some embellishment of the details may help fill out the stories where my memory fails me.

For me, making up a story is the farthest from what I want to do when I feel  I have so many of my own stories to tell and isn't recounting and/or explaining life a series of Story Telling Experiences?

Saying this makes me feel like I may sound vain and a little self important, but far from that when I explain that I have always compared Fiction Writers to God while Memoirists are just  Story Tellers.

To create a uniquely new, previously non-existant life from bits and pieces of one's experience and lots of research; a life with beginnings, middles, and ends; a life with colors and nuances, joys and sorrows, celebrations and tragedies; is more like an act of God creating the world in six days and resting on the seventh.

The Memoirist's job is to retell his stories in a way that is interesting, engaging, humorous, at times not so funny; all added to other possible descriptors. There may be red herrings, plot twists, flash-backs, and other surprises. The stories can sound like fiction but they are not. The line between the two styles of literature is thin and I can see where the two may easily cross at times.

When I asked Mr. Torres to talk about how much of his book is about him even though it is a work of fiction, when compared to a memoirist who shares his real life experiences with possibly some embellishment, he felt my use of the word embellishment was a strange choice. I do not think so.

I think he skirted the issue on what is the definition and interpretation of Fiction vs Memoirs to which I will add, possibly the definition of the newer genre of Creative Non-Fiction.

Fiction is defined as literature in the form of prose, esp. short stories and novels, that describes imaginary events and people.

Memoirs is a historical account or biography written from personal knowledge or special sources. 

Creative Non-Fiction writing, which I sometimes more easily refer to as Memoirs (but also known as literary nonfiction or narrative nonfiction,) interestingly takes many more words to define. 

It is a genre of writing that uses literary styles and techniques to create factually accurate narratives. Creative nonfiction contrasts with other nonfiction, such as technical writing or journalism, which is also rooted in accurate fact, but is not primarily written in service to its craft. 

As a genre, creative nonfiction is still relatively young, and is only beginning to be scrutinized with the same critical analysis given to fiction and poetry.

P.S. Poetry is my second form of literary expression! Interesting.

An Interview

The other day I was interviewed by a Northwestern student in Creative Writing. It is always nice to be able to talk about yourself to someone who wants to hear what you have to say. It also gave me the opportunity to organize my thoughts and to "tell my story" again. She came across Michael's Museum and then my web site by searching "important people in Evanston." I am impressed.

I received this e-mail from the student:

THANK YOU so much for interviewing with me! I loved getting to hear your story and your insights. Some of the things you said about the art of non-fiction left a huge impression on me...I keep thinking about that idea of writing as a means of documentation and remembrance just as much as it is a means of storytelling. 

I am hoping to go to Michael's Museum over the weekend! Do you have a favorite item or collection there that I should look out for?

I'm beginning to work on my assignment and will send you the finished project as soon as it is done! I'm also starting to work on creating a personal blog...the advice to try and write every day, and acquire an audience, makes a lot of sense to me. Thanks for the inspiration and motivation to try it out!

J

Toilet Paper

This morning, as I was sitting there, I realized that there is something wonderful about a fresh new roll of toilet paper, just installed. No really! Think about it. A new beginning. A fresh start. A rebirth? Clean, crisp, full. White. 1,000 sheets. Preferably wrapped in an individual paper wrapper. Pristine. Pure. White. Useful and ready to go. Dispensing up and over the roll so as to be more sanitary for the next person, especially if you are the next person. The sound it makes as you roll off those first few sheets. The fullness of the roll reassuring you that you will not want. It doesn’t matter that the sheets may or may not tear at the perforations. It doesn’t matter whether you fold, fan, or bunch. What matters is the satisfaction of knowing that your needs will be met.

In Mexico, outside of a public toilet at the beach, a little old lady, and I mean wrinkled and little and old ancient lady sits at a table with little piles of newspaper, cut into four inch squares, for sale ... 1 peso a pile. Just think what she could do with a fresh roll of toilet paper.

In Chicago, in a booth you are occupying at the department store, just think how reassuring it would be to have a fresh, personal roll of toilet paper, wrapped or unwrapped, when on finishing up you realize that there is an empty dispenser on the wall to your right.

In Italy, squatting over a hole in the floor at the train station (hearing the train’s whistle approach from a distance) think how delighted you would be to have a roll of the soft, silky white stuff in your backpack rather than having to use the greenish, sandpaper like roll of stuff sitting on the floor next to the wall on which you are bracing yourself so as not fall into the toilet hole.

See what I mean. There IS something wonderful about a fresh new roll of toilet paper, just installed.

Long Time No See

Boy it has been along time since you've seen any new material here. I apologize and hope that you will continue to check this blog. Sometimes my life is overwhelmed with walking the Alzheimer's Path with Gregory. Most of my energy (and writing) goes into taking care of myself and taking care of him. So my personal writing suffers. I do feel a responsibility to you (and mostly to myself) to promote and practice my creative non-fiction writing. I have even promised myself that at some point I will try some fiction writing. Meanwhile I need to move this blog to a higher priority ... but after I have taken care of myself. So stay tuned...

As a teaser, here is a poem that was written recently and shared at my first ever poetry reading that took place on January 12, 2012 at CURT's Cafe, here in Evanston. This poem is based on a true event that took place while I was an undergraduate student at the University of Illinois at Champaign/Urbana.

The Visit (An Epic Poem) - 2012

Driving twenty five miles

We arrived at the farm house

Abandoned long ago

At the intersection of two unnamed roads.

The arrival was in a cloud of dust

At a house shrouded in dust

To visit people turned to dust

And their spirits of etherial dust.

The front door easily pushed open

Greeting us with a quiet as thick as years

No one in the rocker to greet us open armed 

Nor at the table for their morning meal.

The rocker mocked a horror film, 

Gently rocking in its deathly rhythm

Next to an empty window pane

Glass resting on the floor glittering.

On the table waiting

A cereal bowl with crusted spoon

Brown medicine bottle three quarters full

Rotting leather case with its pipe.

Up the stairs, carefully with fear

We dared what waited from time

No one in the bedroom asleep ... or dead

A bathroom, its faucet no longer dripping.

The bedroom with bed neatly quilted

A frilly pink bathrobe on a nail on the door

Clothes hanging in the armoire, not many

A bureau drawer nested by a robin now gone.

The bathroom a disgrace if any housewife was asked

Rusted toilet, scum ringed sink, smudged mirror

Abandoned animal tracks printing the floor in a scurry

Window curtains now hanging shredded.

Down the stairs not daring an over-shoulder look,

We took our leave in silence, door hinge daring to squeak,

We gently whispered our grateful goodbyes,

For dust’s sharing it secreted memories.

Driving twenty five miles

We arrived back home

One day our lives to be abandoned

In a still life painting memory of our own.

Circus Transition

Some thirty years ago I won a grant from the Illinois Arts Council based on my previous performances as a mime clown. With the grant money I put together a show called "Maybe-the-Clown and his Back Pocket Review." The joke was that the "Back Pocket Review" consisted of a table, two chairs, a life size doll dancing partner, many many props and a sound system; all toted around in a largish black trunk for a half hour show which consisted of drama, humor, magic, dancing, mime, and audience participation. Definitely not able to fit in the clown's back pocket. Maybe, the Clown was a white face clown dressed in a oversized tuxedo, white ruffled shirt with red bow tie, bright red "afro" wig, top hat, and red sponge nose.

Since those some thirty years ago I have periodically had what are called "Work Oppressive Dreams" in which I am about to begin the 30-minute show and part of my costume was left behind, the makeup won't go on correctly, props are missing or malfunctioning, the batteries from the sound system have lost their charge, I've forgotten the routine, or worse the audience is uncooperative if not rebelious. I am sure there is a message one should get from having this type of dream, which I am sure you have had sometime as well, but I won't go into that here.

So the motivation for this post comes from last nights most unusual dream. I, in the role of Maybe-the-Clown, had joined a smaller family circus. It was a joyful place to be and I was beginning to get to know the other performers. I had experienced my first performance and while I was not at my best, everything came off well. I made my entry cues, the audience loved me, the magic worked, the dancing was fun. I was continuing to work on my timing and getting used to the daily on and off stage schedule which would allow my performance to run more smoothly. I would wake up smiling, go back to sleep, and pick up where the dream left off.

When I woke up in the morning I realized that some kind of transition had taken place. Never before in the last thirty or so years had I had a dream in which the clown had his act together, so to speak. I'll let you see if there is a message here.

Sweet Sweet Mary

Mary was trying to make things right.

She has lied to Mark about loosing her virginity and again to Mat. Mom was quite proud of her daughter's abstinence considering what the other girls at that school were up to.

Mary had not shown up to work on her second day at Burger King claiming a severe migraine and never returned. The manager wrote off the cash register shorts to Mary's lack of experience handling money.

Mary's mom was convinced that someone had taken the hundred dollar bill from her purse while she was at work. Mary showed off her beautiful, expensive new blouse which she said she had purchased with her first full week's wages.

The police actually believed Mary when she told them she was 18 and let her take the six pack home to Peter, with whom she planned to loose her virginity while her mom was at work.

On his way home, a little tipsy, Peter didn't notice that a twenty was missing from his wallet but his dick was feeling real good. Who said white and black didn't mix.

Maybe Mary would make things right tomorrow.

Last night...

Last night I awoke to the sound of something. Birds against the window? An item dropped upstairs? Part of a dream?

Then it came again so I got out of bed to scout around.

Nothing.

Then again.

As I was walking by the laundry closet, again.

I opened the door to discover that a box, on the top shelf where we keep our Christmas decorations, had come open.

Miniature old world European glass ornaments, individually protected in plastic bags, were showering down on the floor.

No damage done, box relocated, and back to bed.

Evanston Writer's Workshop

Wow. This weekend was spent at a conference sponsored by the Evanston Writer's Workshop. It was their second annual writer's conference and it was a hit! I came away feeling renewed, I learned new things to help me with my craft, and was able to reconfirm myself as a writer.

Deb and Amanda organized the conference accounting for every detail, provided a comfortable setting in the form of the Winnetka Community House, found amazing people to share their knowledge of the craft and art of writing, fed us well, and were generous with the "freebies" including a tote bag, book, journal, etc.

It was good seeing the people I knew from attending the Workshop sessions during the year as well as making new writer friends. It was the year anniversary since I met my new friend Pat and it was great sharing the experience with her.

The presenters were so supportive. Cherry Adiar, New York Times Best Seller romantic suspense writer, adopted me and I her. She opened for me a new challenge of "plotting," the possibility of writing fiction and helped me see how I could achieve academic and business "left brain" activities in a creative "right brain" kind of way. She made us all feel that we could be successful and accomplish whatever we put out minds to.

Several publishers, including Tera, Dawn, and Kelly listened to a "pitch" (brief explanation) of my current work and were very supportive, offering concrete suggestions and reinforcing the importance of the writing I am doing on love, hope, and Alzheimer's Disease.

After a hiatus from writing because of the work of getting Michael's Museum up and running, I am excited to be back to working on my writing and continuing my efforts at getting my manuscript published.

The Stories People Tell

People tell stories. They tell them to family, friends, acquaintances, neighbors, and sometimes to strangers they meet in the elevator or while standing in line at the checkout. Usually a person has a repertoire of stories that they tell to various people depending on the who, when, why, and where of the situation.


These stories get told over and over either because people are asked, are interesting, or because they are full of themselves. Eventually some stories get retired and new ones take their place. Actually I have known some people who retell the same stories over and over (I listen patiently) and never replace them.


I have discovered a new tendency in myself. Yes, I have my stories. Yes, I think most of them are interesting. No, I do not think I repeat them to the same person. But the new development is that I have been writing a number of my stories on my: "michael a horvich writes," "michael a horvich cares about people who care about alzheimer's," "michael a horvich photographs" and "michael's museum,"BLOGS.


I find myself telling a story and saying things like: "You may have read about this on my BLOG." "You can go to my BLOG and read about this." "Why don't you read my BLOG for a more detailed description."


Perhaps one day I will find myself saying: "You've heard the story, you've read the book, and now you can see the soon to be released movie." 
'
Stay tuned for the TV series:-)

Jagoff!

"Do you know why you were pulled over, mam?
"No officer, I do not.
"My name is Officer Jag-off. You failed to activate your turn signal when you turned left back at Route 12. May I see your driver's license and automobile registration. Stay in the car. If you need me, signal with your arm out the window. I wouldn't want you getting hurt by a passing car.

A short while later Officer Jag-off returns to the car.

"Here is your ticket. It notes 'failure to use turn signal.' You can (pointing to the various parts of the ticket) pay on line, pay in this envelope which I am required to give you, or protest by calling this number. Here is the rest of your information. I'll turn my spotlight off so you can pull out without being blinded.

"Merry Christmas Officer Jag-off.

Luckily it wasn't me that went through this scenario but you would think that the police have better things to do than pull someone over for such a minor infraction especially when there were no other cars around and when is is possible that the turn signal was used but after all that adrenalin, red and blue lights flashing, spot light blinding, who can remember?

Why not a warning if he needed to feel powerful? Make the person cringe, plead, shake. Then offer a warning. He could still pretend that he was powerful and had a big dick! The cause and effect relationship is not balanced: a ticket for $100, a mark on your record, an increase in your insurance not to mention the emotional stress for possibly forgetting to turn on your turn signal!

Jag-off! Names have been changed to protect the innocent.

Morning

Morning. 


Sitting in front of my computer. Writing. Steaming hot coffee waiting. Intermittently savored. 


Muffled sounds coming from the kitchen. Gregory making his breakfast. The sound of keys clicking. The hum of a vacuum cleaner works its way past the unit entry door. Housekeeping. Coffee. Writing. 


Ding, dong, ding, dong. Quarter past announced by Helen's grandmother's clock in the guest room. Toast being spread with butter. Milk being poured. His throat cleared. A chair scraping the floor boards. Coffee. Writing. 


Thinking. Proof reading. Saving. Publishing. Good morning. Another day to celebrate life.

Fire, Fire, Fire!

Was in the middle of reading an e-mail when our emergency alert system announced that we needed to evacuate the building. Helped Gregory get himself together, shoved the cat in her carry box, threw on my coat and filled my pockets.

Loud horn wailing, pulsing. Lights flashing. Recorded voice announcing. Wailing, pulsing, announcing. Urgent.

Felt the door for heat, opened it carefully, proceeded to the escape stairwell across from our unit. Checked there for smoke. Walked down four floors, out of the building into the street and around the block to the condo entrance. 

Within less than a minute of the alarm the fire department arrived. Firemen running into the command center of the building to determine what the problem was and what further action be taken. By now the alert stopped ringing and we reentered the building.

The alarm was prompted by a problem in the mechanical room. A water leak was from coming from the building humidifier (which was just turned on with the heat yesterday) and easily taken care of. 

Back now and cat freed from her carry box. I am always amazed that here in our condo of 250 units on 25 floors, I can feel safe and protected. The system works. And if it didn't we live one floor above the roof top garden and I have a folding escape stair under the kitchen sink that would easily allow us to escape over the balcony and to freedom.

Finding Fascination in the Quotidian

Quotidian. Ordinary, common place, every day. Robert Weissenstein, as quoted by George Will in Newsweek 11/15/10 P. 24, finds exhilaration in the fact that there will always be a next new thing, and that it will not be new for long. 


Three million iPods were sold in 2.5 years; 3 million Kindles were sold in two years; 3 million iPads were sold in 80 days; 3 million iPhones were sold in three weeks. Also amazing is that the cause and effect cycle of change has no end and very often we are not, or cannot be aware of the chain that change creates and how or when that chain circles us personally.


I have always heard people who were older than I was say, "The older you get the faster time seems to fly." At 65, I am now in the position of experiencing this for myself. It gets a little more important when one realizes that the years left to fly by are not as many as when you first started flying. 


After reading Will's article and Weissenstein's observations, I wonder now if the cause of this exponential speeding up of time is due to age or due to the speed with which living life increases. Although one would think that since you can get so much more done in such a short period of time,  the days would seem longer, would seem to slow down.

Confused on the Internet

I am so confused. Trying to create a larger presence on an already large internet is disconcerting. So far I have: 1) a website with my partner Gregory, 2) a me.com gallery, 3) a professional site, 4) a Michael's Museum site, 5) a writing BLOG, 6) an Alzheimer's BLOG, 7) a photography BLOG, and 8) a Michael's Museum BLOG. I will soon be linked to: 9) The Chicago Children's Museum on Navy Pier site, 10) am beginning to develop a Twitter visibility, 11) just opened a Twitpix account, 12) just remembered I have the Google Picasa picture site, and 13) want to do more on Linkedin. A baker's dozen. A good luck number. A lot of work. 


I wrote this BLOG after I tried to share a picture on my friend Jan's BLOG entry "Bookshelf Porn." First, I couldn't figure out how to do it. Then, I did it, but incorrectly. Next I figured it out. Finally, there is probably a better way to do so, but one of which I am still unaware. I am confused on the internet. 


So here is my answer. Here is my BLOG entry. Here is a picture of my contribution to Jan's BLOG "Bookshelf Porn." And here is a link to Jan's BLOG. (P.S. You can reach most of my active internet endeavors and those of my friends by clicking on the links to your right!)


CLICK HERE FOR
Jan's BLOG: "Bookshelf Porn"

MY ADDITION/COMMENT ON JAN'S BLOG:

Bedroom Books. Note two art pieces (left-"Me at My Wedding" and right-"Broom Lady") by Jan.

A Tale (Tail) of Two Kitties

Last night as we were dozing off, I heard Mariah (our cat) squeaking. Sometimes she does that when she is in the other part of the house and feels lonely. I whistle her special whistle or call her name and she comes to find us, lonely no more.

This time she didn't show up but continued squeaking. Half asleep I didn't want to get out of bed, but I did. I searched the front of the house and Mariah was not to be found. Then I heard a squeak again and laughed. I realized that she had been locked in the bathroom and was calling, "Let me out of here!"

In a high voice, I narrated aloud one scenario of what she was thinking: "Oh my. I am locked in here and I am so scared. It is so dark and I am all alone. I am frightened. I am trapped forever. Meow. Meow. Meow!"

Instantly I began a second scenario, "Damn fool. Locked me in here again. How long am I going to have to shout before the dummy realizes where I am? Why is he looking in the living room? If I am smart enough to let them know I'm locked in here, isn't he smart enough to hear that I am calling from the bathroom?"

Then, fully awake by now, I got the giggles. "What?" Gregory asked. "A Tail of Two Kitties" I replied.

"Cities. Goodnight," he said.

Thought of the Day

Driving past a skunk (RIP) that I had seen two days before and that had been run over a number of times since:


"Dead skunk smells like coffee after a few days."

OPERA Part III

I wrote this piece while "Light Walking" for the opera Regina at The Lyric Opera of Chicago. Light walking takes place when lights are being set for an upcoming opera and people are needed on stage as stand-ins for the singers to make sure the lighting effects work successfully.

• • • • •

The fire curtain goes up. The house lights dim. The auditorium black. 

Stars twinkling in the heavens ... exit signs at the back of balconies one and two. 

Six stippled red rivers flow ... main floor aisle lights on alternating rows reflecting on the carpet. 

Count the burned out yellow with red lettered EXIT lamps. 

Count the burned out orange lamped wall sconces. 

Will be working by opening night. 

Shadows of seats and rows, the audience yet to arrive. 

Reflection of directors booth, lighting booth, sur-title booth at the rear of the Artis Kranik Theater.

A makeshift desk with several computers, dim lamps, telephone, microphone at the center row on the main floor. 

Seated there, the stage director, assistant stage director, lighting director, set designer, costume designer, stage manager, assistant stage manager.

Center Stage. Apple red, glossy grand stairway. Flared upstage center, curving and raising stage left, narrows up stage some thirty steps away and exit stage left. Grand stair handrail runs the stair up stage but not securely. Hold to guide you, not support you. Some twenty higher rise steps down the escape stair off stage. Enter, exit, GO! Up the center of the stairs, at intervals, three chairs next to three tables holding three lamps. Caution taken but safe.

Up stage. Three levels of louvered windows five across each level. Level one windows raise to meet the rake of the stage. Level two windows eighteen steps off stage right. Level three windows twenty eight steps off stage left. Tall rise steps. Watch your step. Shaky but secure. Narrow walkway behind each level of windows. Narrow, watch your step. Shaky but secure. Each pair of windows secured with a bolt. Slide back the bolt. Open the window. Floor to ceiling view available. Careful. Then notice two cables from door jam to door jam to guide you. Not support you just guide you. Caution taken but safe.

Floor canvas. Wood grain painted panels, one width, double width, triple width. Randomly arranged. Blue in some light, black/gray in other. Slippery. Watch your step. Raked. Watch your step. Will work on roughing up later. Don’t fall into the pit ... or the tuba! Caution taken but safe.

Fire curtain goes up. House lights dim. A hush. Auditorium black. The conductor enters, spot light, applause, dim. The conductor raises his baton, “Michael, enter at top of stairs and slowly walk down. Up stage at rail. Or closer to center if you are comfortable. GO. Michael, sit in the wheel chair holding the bank box in your lap. Stage hands secure the wheel chair. Don’t forget the rake. Raise the wheel chair foot rests. Feet flat on floor for support. Just in case. GO.

Angela, sit in chair stage left. Go to the lip of the stair landing stage right. Face down stage. Three quarters body front. Look back up stairway. Exit stage right. GO. Jim, enter third level windows stage left, stand by center windows, open windows, close windows, open windows, close windows.

The lights circle the stage searching you at just the correct angle. Lights from stage left, stage right, up stage and down stage. Each item lit to perfection. Each item aglow (or shadowed in the dim.) “The stage will go to black out. GO.” In the fly, electricians adjust lights. At the makeshift desk with several computers the people make notes, discuss, decide, make notes, pick up the microphone, say GO.

Light walkers stand and wait until the next GO. Twelve in the afternoon until ten at night, fifteen minute break every two hours, two half hour dinner breaks. Four dollars an hour ... but done for love not money.

And finally ... light walkers take a bow and thank you.