marox_pass_interpretations fyn gula in wooden crates made of fresh pine boards used previously to ship tulip bulbs, not from holland, because it said underneath a sticker that they were from england, copello had several stacks of books and magazines. they, some five or six, were placed uniformly on a rough-hewned cart made from sturdy oak and locust sticks found fallen from summer thunderstorms. the wheels were taken from an old man cruiser rescued from a donegal antique shoppe that left most of their stuff out in the rain to collect even more rust than they already possessed. pushing the cart was a russian bear dressed in red velvet and ralph lauren, except for the hat which was alpaca and made by a nepalese montain guide. it used to be nimbia's but there were bad memories attached to it. something about a girl. the bear had been trained in kiev and bought by copello in a sympathy auction somewhere in the ukraine. "does this mean the show is over?" a boy asked. he was still chewing the mexican gum that nylem had thrown in a fit of anger. there are questions we are asked that are so fucking stupid it is a waste of time to answer them, but we do so because we risk being called a snob, god forbid, and so copello told him, kindly and with respect for the boy's inexperience that the show is actually never over, it just changes, and is changing now from theatre to art, or was it aeways art. yes, it is not changing so much as evolving, growing, expanding, becoming illuminated. the boy heard the words and they made absolutely no sense to him, actually he was thinking copello was a bit cranked, and he wished his mother was there to tell him if this man was a stranger to be avoided. yet next to him, his friend, magdalena, asked if they were going to do cut and paste and copello's face lit up with the joy we get when we find someone who attempts to understand us. actually, he did this liile dance where he stuck his ass out in the rhythm of his heartbeat. the books were blank, hand-made journals from firenzian leather. each one had cost him nearly one hundred u.s. dollars but he had the money, saved from seven weekend perfomances at a children's festival in helsinki. the paper was choice, foliobond, crisp, and pH neutral. the magazines were an obscure mix of international fashion, music, style, gardening, child life, and electronics. there were scissors from toadflax that nabiscus once gave him, bought when he needed more scopeta de bello observation time at a sidewalk sale. they were very cool actually, antique maybe, something some georgia o'keeffe type would use to cut fabric and make a sarong. there was plain old elmer's glue copello found for a quarter a bottle at walmart. twenty cents excuse me. and also a healthy armload of ny times, book review sections and arts and entertainment. tins of caran d'ache watercolour crayons, pencils, paints, various inks and pens, pencils, charcoal, pastel, oils, you name it? it's there. "you all know the story," copello said, handing a blank book to everyone in attendance. "so simply journal your interpretation of your knowledge of fyn's time at the e room, the famous thank you dinner with the bessons, the trip to london, and the time in marseille." so they all got to work. they pulled magazines from the boxes, leafed through them until they found an image that would correspond or a heading of words, or simply filler. they cut, pasted, drew, painted, wrote. "i'm starting with fyn at lisa's bedside," anton said, finding a picture of blue sky and clouds. "remember she's all bandaged up from the dog bite and fyn is telling her the hungry giant story and he doesn't know the doc and his wife are looking on...?" 010804 ... birdmad stirring 010805 ... oldephebe fyn gula ... oh my 040116 ... log burning fire birdmad and oE...thanks, i just noticed your compliments. they are, as always, much appreciated. it's so interesting to look back on previous writings... 060317 what's it to you? who go blather from