Friday, December 12th, 2003
I hope that people take my ponderings on this subject as the play that it is.
But I have to say I love Sarina Salemi, whom I hope creates a writing space that we can enjoy. In all seriousness. I love her thoughts on history. She claims that history is in the library. I can go with that. As long as she would agree that history must be “constructed.”
After all we would know nothing of George Washington or Honest Abe if we didn’t read or hear about them.
But my play goes to perception and environment and, of course, memory.
The fact of the matter is that to some people I don’t exist. For not knowing me they will live fine lives, I hope. Some people do know me. When I pass from this world, they will remember some part. “He was a fine chap, with some degree of humor,” they may claim. “He had no sense of fashion. His singing voice could tarnish silver and generate globs of earwax in the listener.” “He was six foot five.” “Really?”
“Who is Sarina Salemi,” I ask.