And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate.*
Not always, you withered St. Louisian. You transplanted Londoner. Not always. Of course, I tend to forget you were once and maybe always a banker. Banker’s hours are nothing like our own.
How are we? Not bad, I think. We’re missing some lights, hopefully to be provided by our reliable electric benefactor. Two of our mic cables are faulty, but replacing one is all we need. The sound cues either need to be cut or I need to direct my actors to work through these musical distractions now covering their entrances and exits. We’ve just a few remaining set pieces to stitch together and stabilize. Posters are up along Canton Street and elsewhere. Our big banner should be greeting traffic at the corner of Hwy 120 and Hwy 9. Lines are good. If the dialogue is not altogether rock solid, at least it is setting and hardening and will be ready in time. Scenes are moving steadily from one to the next with only a few rough places remaining.
And everyone looks good. Even given our limited budget, let it never be said that any of our actors take to the grassy stage looking less than awesome.
But time? We just don’t seem to have much of that luxury at all.
