The remnant of an ancient idea with Arlecchino patches and rusty rags flutters on a prairie wind somewhere in the middle of a dreamscape of weathered wood and cactus blossoms, perfuming warm night air. I'm sitting in my Hip Pocket Theatre. Its texture reminds me of my face, furrowed with lines running through, like years, reflecting all thirty-seven seasons of plays, pantomimes, and rituals of expression created here.
I'm seventy-four years old. I've been making-believe since childhood. I'll continue making-believe until the day I die, knowing nothing more than how to pretend and create theatre. This is my home, carved from a wilderness still breathing. My hands, rough and raw, are scraped and scarred from performing chores that accompany my role as artistic director. I love it here, and wish simply to continue exploring through artful experimentation as playwright, performer, director, scenic artist, and elderly child.