| [Exit
From Uncle Vanya] Brooklyn Academy of Music, 2/22/03 Philip Fried |
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| Now they're leaving us as the light goes down and never goes out . . . Vanya and Sonya totaling accounts . . . Each night the watchman sings and the stars descend to the fields - the summer is never- ending - and cannot be counted. The trees diminish from year to year. In a thousand years, the happy people will never remember us who sit breathless before the applause begins, not wanting this firefly era to end, its smell of hay and tango of groveling, |
bang! of misaimed love and odor of gunpowder rising like morning mist . . . Telegin, play, we're perspiring, high in the rafters, limbo's fellowship, remembering how the doctor paced out the summer a thousand miles that way and this and sat in a chair. There's no other way for us to be born into pre-birth's motherland where we were so bored oh god we put on trousers and shaved, trying on selves, sipped into dresses and tried devotion  |
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