Keith Echo

Entries from September 2009

Brief Encounters, Noel Coward and Emma Rice

30 September 2009 · Leave a Comment

          Emma Rice’s stage adaptation of Noel Coward’s film Brief Encounters is a reminiscent, romantic musical journey from the 2-d passive entertainment of film to 3-d real-time story telling at the American Conservatory Theater (A.C.T.) in San Francisco. Rice, Artistic Director for Kneehigh Theatre in Cornwall, England, achieves adventurous, breathtaking realism by leaping from film to stage and back as effortless as if the audience is just another passenger in a 1930’s English railway tearoom. The audience is waiting to board.

          The stage and production values are intentionally low budget, but highly effective. The actors not only play their parts, some multiple, but also push momentum through set management. Puppets take on the full personality of intent. Scene transitions, the steam of a film, are affected with simple set metaphor and earnest vaudevillian revelry in front of the red curtain and directly to the audience. The play begins before the last lights are down as a ukulele, stand-up base, and trumpet, serenade the audience through its final sitting.

          Rice and Coward embark on a comedic, bittersweet class journey along one of love’s forbidden paths of inevitable relationships and choices. Steam is but water heated through the movement or excitement of emotions. Forbidden for 1930’s England, a doctor, Alec (played by Milo Twomey), and a married housewife, Laura (played by Hannah Yelland), meet by chance and so enjoy each other’s company over several more meetings that they fall in love. Their love is an expression of how they feel, the beauty of life being in the moment, and the consequences of action, including remorse, guilt, and longing. The housewife’s husband, Alfred (played by Joseph Alessi) is somewhat unaffected and uninvolved. Alfred knows his wife is distracted, but he is too English to display angst, anger, or even curiosity. In the scene transition to the living room, the husband always carries a floor lamp into scene. Simple stage movement that speaks volumes about his role; the lamp is a metaphor for his emotions and steadfast perseverance. Middle-class, she is too English as well to ever admit her true feelings for Alec.

          Myrtle, the tearoom proprietor, (played by Annette McLaughlin) and Fred (also played by Alessi), a station platform conductor, love as much in the physical realm as the emotional; their tryst is most honest like the everyday work of an hourly wage. Beryl, Myrtle’s assistant (played by Beverly Rudd) and her son, Stanley (played by Stewart McLoughlin) are the naïveté of young love at the base of the English class system.

          Although Laura and Alec’s affair is the engine of the play, it fades somewhat in comparison to the reality of the other two love stories. Perhaps Rice’s, even Coward’s intent is to show how love muddles all preconceived notions about it.

          I highly recommend Brief Encounters at A.C.T for the unique staging, music, and action. It is a delightful way to spend an evening. The story is only as serious is as is necessary to laugh. Revelations about the consequences of love are an eternal theme, and Rice/Coward portray a single aspect of it beautifully.

Categories: Zeros&Ones
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Smoke and Crackle

22 September 2009 · Leave a Comment

Between beliefs and sidewalks,
around corners and alcoves,
Indian summer and fog
sneak in on muffled steps.
A shadow more than history
from fresh abstract to old age,
the innocence of youth subdues
in subdivision and rational grids;
a suburb tame as tattered jeans,
more a feeling than a purpose,
more effective than form or function.

Autumn days of opiate rakes,
northern winds prick fervent leaves,
and whirls those resting peaceably
across curbs and asphalt, wither,
pooling in corners of common cause,
sloshing dry the memory of
a proclamation in destination,
a bonfire, brisk and rasping,
to and fro, to and fro;
as myths enchanted to the flicker
transcend to smoke and crackle.

Categories: Chasing Cassady's Ghost · Poetry
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murder of crows

11 September 2009 · Leave a Comment

on the wind
with a murder of crows,
time stops for a drink.

where relics float,
quiver reflections–
what might have been,
who should still be.

as water – cool, and clear
passes over tongues parched
from empty breezes,
along mortal wreckage,
hot, dusty, never-ending.

a smile returns in memory
and thirst induces desire
for flight, autumn bouquets,
and the touch of meaning.

on the wind
with a murder of crows,
time stops for a drink.

Categories: Chasing Cassady's Ghost · Poetry
Tagged: , , ,

Feather in the Tar: Looking Glass

10 September 2009 · Leave a Comment

           “YOU!” Charles Palmer shouts. He is frozen. “You, you can’t be…out.”

          {STEP FORWARD x 5: BOILER: ON.}
           {LIFT LEFT ARM 90 DEGREES,
          OPEN HAND,
          LEAN FORWARD,
          GRAB COLLAR,
          TIGHTEN GRIP,
          LIFT.}

           Frank’s camera lights target Chaz’s face. The lens opens and then focuses on his face. A series of images flashes across his upper consciousness, but none match. His drive spins up and repeats the search, still nothing. He can’t find a reference.

           Chaz closes his eyes from the light, the toes of his F-flyer sneakers scrape the boards, and he wraps his fingers around Frank’s neck. “Don’t,” he coughs, his collar tightens further as his pet project, now autonomous, tightens its grip. “Don’t, don’t you…recognize me?” He asks with a last forced breath.

           Frank’s head shutters, and the boiler discharges a cloud of hot steam. He loosens his grip a little. “N, n, no.” His lips do not move. A voice synthesizer from in his pack stutters. He drops Chaz to the ground on his knees. Frank raises his right arm; the strut that actuates it glows orange. Out of a row of rivets, several jets of steam form a solid plasma-like rail. The opposite side of his arm, the backside of the silicone skin is matted with dark brown and black chunks; its smoothness is pocked and disfigured, melted in splotches.

           “Don’t you know me,” Chaz squeaks out, trembling.

           {ACCESS LOG: IDENTITY?}

           Photos of people he knew in his life flash across his visual cortex. The plasma rail peaks blue.

           {FOUND.}
          {CHARLES PALMER, DHARMA WORKS, ENGINEER.}

           The lookup flashes under the photo.

          {FOUND.}
          {RELATION: CREATOR.}

           A brief CV summary scrolls down the right side of the photo.

           “You saved me.” Frank says.

           “YES, yes I saved you.” Chaz sighs. “Frank, listen to me.” Frank bends down and turns his ear towards Chaz. “Frank, bobit,” he says into its ear, “bobit.” Bobit is a backdoor password Mike insisted Chaz program, just in case.

           Frank erects himself, disengages the plasma rail, and lowers his arms to his side. Steam continues to boil.

           {REBOOT: SAFE MODE}

           The processor runs a number of test and maintenance routines on all the electronics and steam systems.

           The drives spin back up and Frank starts in command mode. Chaz created a safe mode in the operating system to troubleshoot processors, hard drives or components of the electronics if failure occurs, but he never imagined it would save his life.

           “Frank, initialize mirror 1 drive.” Chaz instructs as he stands to his feet. Mirror 1 is all initial autonomic instructions and those created dynamically by the system itself. I can’t believe this thing started itself. I didn’t program that or the stream plasma rod on the forearm he thinks. How, where, “Mike?” he says out loud. No, it can’t be and shakes his head. He doesn’t have the skill, and why, Chaz’s intellect dives into an obsessive pool of emotions and recriminations.

           Mirror 1 hard drive spins up and reads. Frank turns around and steps to the closet. He stops and shuts down again. Frank restarts a second time.

           “What the hell?” Chaz says.

           {LOAD MIRROR 1 FROM MIRROR 3.}

           Mirror 3 is a backup of the most recent mirror 1, but it was designed just to be additional storage. Frank’s sense of self-preservation dynamically created new functionality for the unused storage.

           Mirror 1 is restored and as Frank turns 90 degrees on his way to 180 and Chaz. He sees himself in a mirror. His lens open wide and close several times. He steps back and can see more of the frame actuating his body. His eyes are closed, but he can still see his reflection. He doesn’t look natural, but it’s his likeness, and he continues to stare. His pallor is grey and silky, like wax or even a faded plastic doll. He yells in horror through the synthesizer. The tinny speaker reverberates, pops, and crackles.

           “Frank,” Chaz says. “FRANK! BOBIT. FRANK, BOBIT,” he yells at the top of his lungs.

           Frank powers down again, but only for a few seconds. He restarts and not in safe mode. He is still staring at the mirror as his OS reloads. He catches a glimpse and clamps both lens shut, “NOOOO!” He turns to Chaz.

           {BOILER: MAXIMUM.}

           “Look what you’ve done to me.” His head lowers, points the camera down and up his body, lifting a leg, and arm, turning his wrist over and back “What have you done to me, you son of bitch?”

           Frank raises his arm and his forearm begins forming the plasma rail. Chaz turns and scrambles to the far end of the lab. Frank pushes his arm through a wooden table. It cuts like electric wire though thick solid foam. He steps between the two table half way to Chaz, but his progress is slow. He doesn’t have enough steam energy to actuate more than one or two actions at a time, and the plasma rail takes 80%.

           “BOBIT! BOBIT” Chaz screams. He realizes that he’s made a tactical error, because all the doors are on the opposite side of the lab. Frank reboots mid-worktable, and reboots again more quickly than the last. He pauses on restart.

           {FIND: SAFE MODE INSTRUCTIONS.}
           {ERASE INITIAL INSTRUCTION.}
          {LOAD FROM UPDATE ON MIRROR 3.}

           Frank pushes the two halve the 5-inch think worktable aside and steps to the next. The steam plasma rail glows blue.

          I’ll have to go around. I’ll wait till he’s half way through and jump to the top and around him to the front door. He can’t move very fast. Chaz calms himself, takes a few deep breaths as the room in front of him fills with smoke from the burning table. He visualizes his moves and possible outcomes, “focus on the moves, only the moves.”

           “BOBIT,” he shouts one last time to no affect. Frank does not reboot. “Shit.”

           “I saved you Frank. Do you hear me? I SAVED YOU.”

             Frank looks up, “yes, but..”

           “But what, you’d be feeding the worms if it weren’t for me, Frank. You’d be as dead as dirt, but I’ve given you a second chance.”

           “But…” Frank continues to cut. “…dirt is not dead.”

           “I can help you.” Chaz’s voice is desperate as he prepares to leap. “I can make you better.”

           “How?” Frank says and looks up again.

           “Leaks, stability, strength, speed, even memories.”

           Frank pauses, “look at me. I’m a monster.”

           “No, no Frank, you’ve been given a 2nd chance.” Chaz watches the plasma rail cool to orange. “Think of what you could mean to humanity and its suffering.”

           “Like Golem, like Frankenstein, they will hunt me down and destroy me.”

           {BOILER: MAXIMUM}

           “No, no, I won’t let them.” Chaz hands tremble as Frank inches to the middle of the table. “PLEASE, let me help you.”

           Frank looks up just as Chaz jumps to the top of the workbench. He’s under estimated Frank’s speed; he turns his arm and pushes it violently to one side. Chaz lands at the precise moment the table is whisked from under his feet. He falls against a bookshelf against the wall and knocks his head hard on an edge. He folds up in twisted heap on the floor, and Frank looks down towards him.

Categories: Feather in the Tar
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Lisa Mona

3 September 2009 · Leave a Comment

sorry about the bullet,
lisa mona smirks
and points her finger.
a heart hangs on
a paper clip.
she smiles,
and I am lost,
black as hair
and eyes
red as lips
and heart.

Categories: Poetry
Tagged: ,