25/04/06

1128-1141hrs


A prematurely middle-aged
boy actor, seated, is addressed
by a standing Barbara Stanwyck
whose hands brush the marbled lintel
of a fireplace lit to look like a slab
of obsidian but he seems terrified
beyond the demands of the scene
standing up and falling into
her arms as if obeying an offstage
slap he twists in her embrace
away from the camera
"Oh Keith!" and across her face
a discomfort registers that is as
cold and clean as Brooklyn tapwater,
a continental squaredance,
an old school shudder of purest modernity
as horizontal as the ultra-brimmed hat
of the athletically prim
police spokeswoman gold
OPP Shield on it as big as the
sunny side of a duck egg
on a bed of distressed spinach,
the voice of the "crowd"
in the background of the
reconstruction sounded like
a morning's work for an actor
doing "voices" without enthusiasm
for not enough money
in a Burnaby closet
while the girl from Wayne's World
who has, Eddie Cantor-like, been
transported to Roman times
addresses the senate
and you're the senate.