where thou didst vent thy moans as fast as mill wheels strike
The Literary, the Theatrical, the Cinematic, the Virtuosic
The Yellow Wallpaper season at Farfara's here early this year. I swear to you - *swear* - that there is something living in our walls. It sounds bigger than a mouse. A lot bigger. I've chased its sounds into all our cabinets, but no trace. In fact, as soon as I walk into the kitchen, the wall-creature goes very still.
"Where is it?" D asks from blissful SoCal.
"In the wall between the kitchen cabinets and Dr. DD's room." We've dedicated the tiny Harry Potter crawlspace under the stairs to our friend, who manages to be both a working actor and a physicist with remarkably high security clearance. A mastiff used to live there, so there's a locked gate across the opening.
"Have you crawled in to see whether whatever it is is living there?"
[Pause. Ominous pause.]
"Oh yeah, D. That's just what I want to do in the middle of the night, alone here: crawl into a tiny, pitch-dark space where a terrified possum-sized creature has made its home. Are you enjoying your West Coast home-owning? [It's like backseat driving, but more distant and authoritative.] 'Cause I'm gonna be the one with rabies and severe scarring."
"OK, OK," he says, 'til I am soothed.