Tonight the Flame felt like a family reunion. (for those of you who don’t know the Flame, it’s a night of storytelling at the Cottage Bistro first Wed of every month – the story has to be you, true, and a few minutes only) It was jam packed this rainy evening. I was one of the speakers, came early, and still couldn’t get a seat. The story tellers ranged from school teachers to a Doctors Beyond Borders to an actor just out of school who came out to his Iranian parents to Anton Lipovetsky singing about never having kissed a girl. I told a story about Jeremy’s wake where I spilled about ten gallons of creamed soup and eight pounds of salmon in the Davenport’s borrowed poor little innocent car…made ’em laugh, made ’em cry. Felt good to do my thing. It also felt good to remember the grace of my friends about the whole accident and be reminded that even the most hideous stench will fade in time…
It’s not too often you get a herd of playwrights out to an event. We tend to be reclusive, hunched over our computers with furrowed brows, chuckling at our own jokes, pulling at the threads in our sweaters. Word nerds. Tonight we had some superstars: Aaron Bushkowsky, Michele Riml, Alison Kelly, Deb Williams and emerging hot pants Dave Deveau. And I’m sure I’m missing a few.I saw them all laughing and chatting away, shrugging off their drippy coats and staticky hair. I stood back and just watched for a minute. Watched these beauty makers. These web spinners. These seven letter word queens. These dictionary thumbers. These great compassionate empaths. Damn, we have some fine writers in our city. Alison Kelly told a story tonight so full of warm wise wonderful imagery and hard scrabble truth. I just loved it.
Then I chatted with a bunch of people: locals who just loved to come for the show, my friends from Russia came, Corina Akeson – an actress I admire, a vibrant young blonde woman who wanted to make my story into a short film and then I traded Italy itineraries with Joel Wirkkunen who is going at the same time.
I drove home to the rhythm of the window wipers, through this little big city. Home, home, you are home to me. And I am very proud to be in such good company. Tonight you’re worth the mortgage.
