Here

Spring is here, and all over Europe, the sun is shining and every living thing rejoices. I finished writing the first draft of the new screenplay, Snow Blossoms, and have now come to The Premio Europa Theatre Festival in Wroclaw, Poland, an awards festival with some of the top directors in Europe presenting their work. This year, there's a focus on Polish director Jerzy Grotowski; it's the centennial of his birth. Last night was an eight hour production from Polish director Krystian Lupa, based on Andy Warhol's factory people called Factory 2. I wanted so much to enjoy it, but it was a beautiful afternoon/evening and I lasted only two and a half hours and split during the first intermission. Maybe I missed something, but for some reason Lupa's "Factory People" din't ever seem to actually do any work, but merely sat around posturing, zonked out of their minds, self-absorbed, seemingly breaking boundaries for the sake of looking "different." What about methamphetamine? Perhaps it's time this production gives Sister Ray another listen.

The previous night, the Romanian gang, nine of us, arrived late and the two scheduled shows were sold out, so they got us into a local production of Macbeth, performed by Song Of The Goat Theatre. Held in a space that resembled a church alb, often lit by candles, seven actors from Poland, England, Finland, Scotland and Wales, wearing aikido hakimas and weilding wooden bokken swords, took their places in darkness and remained onstage during the entire 80 minute show. A mix of Michael Chekov, Grotowski, Aikido and Viewpoints, it was, in short, phenomenal. I am a guest of the festival, along with gazillions of international journalists, directors, actors and writers. I'll be writing a piece for a Romanian online magazine, www.artact.ro. My friend in Bucharest, the hard-working and brilliant Ioana Moldovan, put me in touch with the festival organizers a couple of months back, and I've been put up in a swell hotel and given a pass to the week's events.

It's so very strange being in Wroclaw. My father was born and raised here, before the war when it was still called Breslau, Germany. Leaving the Warhol show, I walked across town, standing and gawking at churches whose photographs hung on my family's walls when I was a kid. And today, I found the Glamsch apartment building. My father was jujitsu champion of Selesia, had an underground Louie Armstrong collection, and so, in order to escape having to join the SS when he turned 18, he enlisted with the German Navy and was in the process of having his ship bombed when the Russians invaded Breslau. My grandparents hid their valuables in a windowsill, grabbed my 13 year old Aunt Rita, and ran out into the street with their neighbors as Russian planes flew overhead, bombing and strafing.

Tonight, two shows: Killing to Eat by Rodrigo Garcia, and The Presidents, by Werner Schab. Last night, on the outskirts of the city center, I wandered into a fair's midway. Tumultuous rides evoked screams of joy and terror, and celebrants wandered past games of chance eating cotton candy; they used bumper cars to smash into each other, and tested their strength by punching things. I was hoping for strange hybrid creatures along the lines of Spidora or the Gorilla Girl. When my brother Horst and I were kids, we went to a little carnival down the block one night and there was a freak show. One of the freaks was called Bobo The Rubber Man, and there was a painting on the outside of the tent of a man tied up with his own limbs like a pretzel. Though we were never allowed to see the freak show as kids, I'm certain that it would have been miles away more freaky than last night's Warhol show, where actresses played transvestites and a testosterone-fueled actor playing Ondine at one point tossed furniture around like a drunken Polish boxer. "A Warhol fantasy?" Maybe. But my Factory fantasy involves breakable flowers and whips.

"Oh someday I know someone will look into my eyes and say, Hello-- you're my very special one. But if you close the door, I'll never have to see the day again."
--Lou Reed, 1969