It’s been a year and a half since my poetry play, “Dreams of May”, had its 2-week run in London’s Pentameters Theatre.  But tonight, in a small church hall out by Heathrow, we did the first in a series of 3 new performances.  I have to say, my reaction to hearing those poems again — poems which I somehow wrote — and seeing my words put into action by the wonderful actress, Rosalind Cressy, was quite surprising.  I thought I knew the piece.  I thought I had heard it and seen it so many times before that it would be like watching an old video for the umpteenth time.  I thought I would enjoy doing it again, but that was about all I thought would happen.  The amazing thing, though, was that I found myself wondering how I ever wrote it.  Not that I’m saying it’s so brilliant (you can make your own decision about that) but that I couldn’t remember how I ever had the impetus, inspiration to put some of those words together.  Where did they come from?  And then, inevitably, could I ever do it again?

I suppose I have always just trusted that the words would come, that the images would be there behind my eyes when I went looking for them, that the sounds would always be whispering in my ear.  I never doubted that until tonight.  Who was I when I wrote that piece?  Who am I now?  I guess I like existential angst as much as the next guy.  I just didn’t expect it to pop up tonight. Strange.