Posted by: normanlgreen | October 14, 2011

Dream, October 14, 2011 False Brides and Roy Rogers

Dream, home, 5;35 am

A multidisciplinary performance complex is set in a wooded park within a city. I have come out of rehearsals for some show I cannot recall. Crossing between two buildings, I am hoodwinked by my friend Leslie into attending final dress rehearsal for an experimental ballet. The only way I can get to my car is to pass through the wings and the back-stage area, which is packed with performers – mostly women.

The theme of the ballet is that a whole crowd of women are brides to be married to various men in a sprawling ceremony.  The scandal of the community:  all of the brides insist on wearing white, while their lack of experience is doubted by the whole town. Therefore they are judged undeserving of the virginal white. The brides have conspired to shock and annoy the town. Each woman performs a dance around her groom, in her turn. Each wears a long but easily airborne white veil, which she ultimately removes by shredding it at the moment she is legally wed. Beneath the veil, she wears street clothes – well tailored, but not the typical wedding dress. The men all look nineteenth century in their costuming, facial hear and demeanor. The men pretend not to notice the transformation.

I trip through the darkness in the wings and push my way past the cast, who look to me for my reaction. Nearly as far as the stage door, I pass through a lighted green-room where Leslie again appears. She shows me a gift that her father received when as a child he met Roy Rogers. She holds a scaled-down leather saddle, not more than eight inches in length.  It bears the autographed by the cowboy star. Apparently, the child met the movie star twice, as it has been inscribed once in red pen and then amended in blue ink.  The writing rounds down the side, under the saddle, and disappears into the stitching.

At last I escape from the theatre and find myself under the sulfur light of the lamps of the parking lot. Though mine is the last car present, I feel guilty when I take the short route out and drive the wrong way in the posted one-way parking lot.



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