Me? Caped Crusader

On Wednesday May 15 we went to see Henry Viii at the Stratford Festival. This year I added a 10:30 a.m. tour of the Costume Warehouse. We managed to arrive almost on time. There was about a dozen of us in the group, most of whom were frequent show attenders. The guides were volunteers. The warehouse was stuffed the rafters with decades of costumes, some going back to the first shows in the early 1950’s.

We were given a bit of background of some recent items from last year’s productions of Coriolanus, The Tempest & The Rocky Horror Show. Then the tour started. The pieces we were to see had been lined up already in various areas so we didn’t really get to wander much.

Hats, shoes, jewellery, wigs each have their own department at the Festival. We learned how costumes are cleaned – some get sprayed with vodka which deals with body odour. It would have been fun to get a peek at the actual costume fabrication shops. The guides were certainly knowledgeable & clearly enjoyed showing off some of these pieces. We could take all the pictures we wanted but couldn’t touch things.

At the end of the tour we were given the opportunity to try on costumes that weren’t to be kept in the collection. The ladies on the tour became little girls in their excitement to try on gowns, hats. I needed the help of a dresser to don the golden caped mantle in which I did feel rather kingly. The tour changes every year so I’ll definitely do it again next year.

he’d slept on that bed for years. same mattress. new sheets when needed. always freshly washed. changed once a week. that was the night he slept the best- the night of the fresh sheets. he loved the bed. the welcome it offered at all times. unquestioning. a few new mattresses over the years. given longer life my spinning them in spring. flipping them in the fall.

the bed was the refuge and support. the cradle of dreams. he laughed to himself the cradle of dreams. he was turning into a bed poet. he’d move it every now and then from a corner to more central in the room under the window or opposite from the window. all meaning a move of maybe 3 feet in anyone direction at any time. not enough space in the bedroom for much of a dance with the frame.

sometime’s he’d share the bed with others. for a night but not often. it was sturdy enough for sexual romps, play with with willing bodies. but he felt that sleeping in it was something for him and him alone. he didn’t want to share this comfortable retreat with anyone for long. he never learned how to sleep with others. didn’t want to. that would certainly be the deciding factor in any long term relationship, live in or other wise. the bed was his domain to be shared briefly but not over night.

sleep was a bargain between him and the bed. kisses would undo that bargain. unequivocal.

maybe getting back to my roots in Cape Breton
Hey! Now you can give me $$$ to defray blog fees & buy coffee on my trip to Cape Breton – sweet,eh? paypal.me/TOpoet