Snowboard Shop In Small Town Colorado

(continued) ... tale of a Sunday in November

... blacks the drapes open, the two spaces are now one, the chest and the chair a bit 'deco are no longer alone, the buzz is growing and then drop suddenly, as if to underline the change of scene and the end of waiting.

tesion perceive a different side of the wall of plywood is concentration, fear, energy that grows well beyond the door is suspended, waiting, curiosity. The intermediate space is now open at the sight, the light that illuminates the scene even though they are lifeless, it returns the shapes of objects, that is how that space, and other spaces, takes over from reality, that simple act of opening heavy drapes blacks did not just reveal a floor, of the objects, but it did become a place, a history, a universe, small and immature, but perhaps more important, not just ours, is now of all the defendants and those in the audience is seated behind us on the wall of plywood, there is no distinction there is only the imagination.

I digress risk of losing concentration and the last thing to do now, back to this in my narrow hallway and light blue, I try to wipe the memory, but just a little ', only the opening bars, not I would never mess up even the few certainties: the memory is there! A little 'surprise, I realize that fear and panic are not among the list of sensations, I'm tense, but only by a positive energy, the pulse are not exactly relaxing, but it is what it takes not to lose concentration and awareness and then is protective wall of plywood, the door on the right waiting to be crossed, one more look around, we're all there, all ready.

... silence falls, then the reassuring voice of Peter who tells us, then the music stops and the three initials to memory, the last look to Ale a deep breath, the black cloth that moves and he moves well, is a step space without time, he comes on stage but it is as if we walk together. I do a silent cheer from the stadium "force Ale", I follow his words with your mind, visualize the movements repeated dozens of times, the intonations and the silences, as the words fill the scene, I realize that is the story to tell through us and not vice versa.

We now turn to me: a deep breath and held, the music, get Donna Elvira is angry ... then by ... no it's not true ... I am not to enter, in a split second I realize that Don Giovanni is coming, I'm not there anymore, somehow I was in front of the wall of plywood, that's where they are useful, a prompter, a source of 'energy, in an effort to bring to life the story away, but the story needs to Don Giovanni, not me, at that time the script is no longer written words but wind, love, meat, Don Giovanni is bullshit, defends himself , play, struggles, gets scared, try to please since it can not be pleased and at the end ... "To complete his pleasant company", was released from the scene and reunited me, are incredibly sweaty, drained of energy but happy.

The voltage does not drop, no longer fall because the story is still there, the stage is alive and the public lives with us blacks are not the drapes are closed, there's laughter and applause are with us with the story!

All together onstage for the closing of entering one by one, each to tell the last part of the last brick to our building, with the last line "Pillappunto" the music gathers strength as the lights fall, the story ends in the best way with the applause!

And so the story does not need Don Giovanni Petrucci, Sganarelle, Donna Elvira, Carol Guzman, have been leaving us alone with our smiles a bit 'embarrassed greetings to the public. The audience is now illuminated and try sguargo with friends and family to find comfort, support, and some confirmation, I have to calm down that part egocentrinca, without which I would not be here ...

The areas of excitement and nostalgia in "dressing room", exchange rate, removing make-up, rearrange, put in place, blacks have closed the drapes, but now I know that when I open up I'll be back there with others to provide energy to a new story ...

Replique Costume Du Film Spiderman

tale of a Sunday in November

A wall of plywood in front of me, plywood, signs of nails, is but a thin barrier and more than a dark space, a space in the middle seem to be abandoned and a dusty old trunk and a chair a bit 'Deco them alone, almost a blank.
Beyond the dark space of the trunk and seat are thick drapes blacks, block the light on the other side tries in vain to enlighten and give an appearance of living space. The tents do not block blacks, however, the voices, a random noise, indistinct, beyond the curtains and the wall of plywood that is always in front of me, the buzz is neither loud nor annoying, but constant, real presence and a sense of expectation, must fill the time.

Everything is ready, weeks and months spent laughing, joking without taking itself too seriously, weeks and months spent trying, toil, work, worry and laugh at him. Now nothing seems ready, the doubt until the last "Maybe we needed more time" but the time is up in front of a wall of plywood. I look away, the wall began to dislike myself, I seek the eyes of those around me in the dark blue of this narrow corridor, knowing smile, no words, no sound, mute gestures and words to remind everyone that we are not alone that all goes well, us.

A bit 'of stretcing to relax the muscles without losing tension, yet a look around, again the wall ... ok, do not panic ... the buzz is growing in intensity, feelings and emotions quickly cut my thoughts, hope and fear arm, I do not dwell too much, I will not let me distract the leave pass almost undisturbed. Carry the look on the wall Ugh, more and more unpleasant, however, started to enter my visual space, almost voluntarily excluded, an opening is on the right side, a door with another black cloth, than there is room still dark, the chest and the chair, I know I'll go from there but not yet ... (Continued)