Since 1968
“This might appear pretentious but the only thing which interests us is what is accurate and true” (Lecoq)
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In acting, creating a character is like being a sea anemone.
You’re the chosen substance: anemone. Tendrils. Whatever the tendrils are …
The message appeared as I was reading to my nine-year-old daughter Theadora over breakfast. She was perfectly capable of reading to herself, but neither of us yet wanted to relinquish this morning ritual. As I turned a page of Flowers …
Turtle head, poke out of shell
and water, barely send out
ripples. Arms outstretched, slowly
tread water, breathe in
a deep, turtle breath,
wade shallow
near, and on, and over
the surface; you are everywhere.
Acorn in the years-ago ground,
Brent isn’t at the Yellow House, is unreachable by phone, hasn’t seen Vicky, who went to Iceland, for days, talked to Bear, who never liked him like that because he sleeps exclusively with Georgia, who also hasn’t heard from Brent …
To walk down the street is a test of my womanhood.
Onlookers keep on looking.
I am beleaguered with looks of assessment.
I am the vanishing point that engulfs the eyes of the cityscape,
A positive magnet to the negative …
“Stormy night tonight,” my father said.
We were seated at the card table—the one flat surface in his new one-bedroom apartment. He was the one who asked for the divorce, but with good reason: my mom was gay. And though …
