A Long Day's Journey Into Night
Its an odd time of year for me, perhaps because of the delayed but approaching winter, it being that twilight season. Tomorrow is schedule to be 72F, all at a time when our mountains usually brace for snow. And the trees are only now beginning to drop their leaves, cocky as if feeling that snow will take even longer to arrive. This is when large branches break under the one-off early storm that surprises with heavy, wet snow which melts slowly, a sticky weight that clings until it takes the branches with it to the ground. Eugene O'Neill wrote the title play above, one often hailed as one of the great age-old --or is that old age-- stories in the world of theater, that of tired muscles and crisp skin that add to those thoughts of being washed up, the free-flowing but cheap booze bringing what no plastic surgery can, a morphine cloud to blur what your eyes and brain so starkly show you. Look at us, they cry like ghosts. Look at...