a night of cold comfort on the cobblestones
In these days leading up to Christmas, I continue— in working simultaneously as an historical interpreter at Pricketts Fort & as a theatre & arts reviewer at Fairmont State— to straddle a chronological divide of some two & a half centuries. Making that journey almost daily, from the trans-Allegheny frontier of the 1770s to the twilight realm of contemporary art and theatre, has left me with a severe case of chronic disorientation— particularly when immersed in yet one more historical period or another while researching & reviewing a play.
This past semester it was Victorian London for The Elephant Man, followed by Weimar Berlin for Cabaret. Some of my days run from 5 a.m. to midnight, from a smoke-filled 18th century log cabin to the gas-lit smog of a 19th century London alleyway.
After such a marathon stretch of corn-hoeing, wood-splitting, & theatre-attending, the dream-sequence I am likely to endure that night will be one for the books: hoisting a hefty pint of Tetley’s ale in a darkened London pub with Fess Parker wearing a coonskin cap, a monocle & smoking a Meerschaum pipe, as we engage in a lively tête-à-tête over the relative merits of Browning’s dramatic monologues vs. Tennyson’s meditative lyrics, the increasing scarcity of prime beaver pelts in the lower Ohio valley, the deplorable living conditions among the labouring classes in London’s East End & the likelihood that the Shawnee will take to the warpath in the coming Spring. I’m never sure if I’m leading a colorful life or just entering the opening phases of dementia.
Be that as it may, Marian & I are settling in for a long, quiet interlude: decking the halls, dressing the bird, and wishing you all a very Merry Christmas indeed.
