Awake within a dream. The audience is still filtering in as the curtains are swept open to reveal a landscape of slim trees listing from weighted hinges on the stage. A still figure in the frozen act of motion faces another, seated further back upon a dais. I recognize him...it's Mark Haim. In my dream, a scream of sound ignites flashes, bringing to life the statues. Mark runs forward to stop just before the edge of the stage with a distinct look of confusion and discomfiture, slowly returning to his seat to become again a statue, a dusting of white upon his dark suit. Figures emerge to walk in varied, short patterns; in turn still, then moving as if compelled by unseen forces. The landscape becoming a shifting, writhing patchwork of contrasts and nuanced facial expression. Scenarios of interaction and conflicts are played out. Still lives juxtaposed upon frantic, often anxious, manic then serene moments all mingling, confusing, intersecting, replacing...suddenly Mark runs forward to stop with that look! The look that says: "I thought I knew what I was doing, but suddenly I'm not so sure". I recognize that look. Returning to his seat to be dusted yet again and slowly, slowly being shifted forward along a track I'm reminded of the french gargoyles of Notre Dame, alive with fierce intent yet captured in the stillness of their stone bodies, the mark of time upon their shoulders in pigeon droppings and sulfur. As the chaos of life erupts, unfolds and winds down over and over again he observes it all silently, remaining seated to then once again spring to life, rushing forward and then again be stopped short.
Restored to my self as the lights flicker out, as the dream recedes, I am given the distinct impression that as we live our lives in busy constant motion, the shapely and strange notion of time is a delightful, often uncomfortable and confounding mystery.
After a breather of an intermission we march forward in the bodies of the large cast now assembled. Faces recognized, bright colored multi-hued comfortable clothing like tangy candy springing forward, a happy gait turning into the occasional skip their shiny faces at times blank then gleeful, now sad, then again tired, confused, determined. The line of people always marching forward to turn and shift against a massive rainbow drape. Ourselves, our rainbow, our faces all happy, then grumpy, walking forward, marching forward in time. Compelled relentlessly forward under the power of bouncy Country Pop we're talking on cell phones, drinking our Starbucks, checking our nails. We're tall and short, we wear glasses, we're perky. We have long hair and wear jeans. We're inked from head to toe, have pink ankle cuffs, wear a studded codpiece and are also naked underneath. Colors turn khaki drab and Starbucks are replaced with toy pistols, machine guns, faces menacing, brows creased, eyes narrowed. Flowers sprout from guns and marching forward, always marching forward in time we grow old, but are of course, also young. The end is the beginning.