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([personal profile] crivelli Aug. 8th, 2011 01:22 pm)
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Samantha, by Edward Albee

They weren't with me
When I was taken in to die.
They were in Spain.

They lay on a bed in Grenada
With the phone to their ear
And they cried when they told them,
Cried into the phone.

I know that much.

I was kept for them
Curled in a frozen sleep
Until they came back.

They dug a hole then
(He and his friend dug a hole then)
On the point, by the ocean
Where all the others had been laid:
Poochie, Jennifer, Harry, Andrew, Jane,
and the cats
Cunegonde, Sarah, Leslie, Dorothy, Jake.

They dug a hole and put me in it.
Gentle Diane, the potter,
Baked clay biscuits for me
Placed them.
(Very Egyptian for an Irish Wolfhound. . . .
. . .but nice.)

I liked being with all the others,
On the point, by the ocean,
Especially Andrew, especially Jake.

I wonder -
- when it comes time
For the diggers, for gentle Diane,
Will they be put here too?
On the point? By the ocean? With us?

I hope so.
crivelli: (Default)
([personal profile] crivelli Aug. 8th, 2011 12:52 pm)
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with his Maltese, Poochi, Montauk, NY, August 9, 1976


Is that when you know that a play has gone through this “subconscious” process and is ready to come out?


Not necessarily. It's when I find myself typing.


That's not an answer.


It really is. There's a time to go to the typewriter. It's like a dog: the way a dog before it craps wanders around in circles—a piece of earth, an area of grass, circles it for a long time before it squats. It's like that: figuratively circling the typewriter getting ready to write, and then finally one sits down.



Writers and Their Dogs


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