And you take out your notebook and you draw your first lines,
And you tell a brief story of making progress through time,
And the space is roomy and wider than real,
And the patrons are cartoony and boozy and formal and deal,
A blow to your careful drawn plans which slink to the floor,
And you look at the work and say,
“I didn’t mean for it to work out this way,”
But you can’t go back to how it was before,
And you shape the trays like the crook of yoru arm, the nape
of your neck,
Nestled up to the stage, a plain plywood deck,
And your drawings tell a short story it seems,
And I will not say the bromide “See and be seen,”
But there’s something there about the audience,
And there’s something there about the ambience,
And you ask yourself “Just what am I doin’”
With these stairs I’m drawin’,
With this ceiling I’m avoidin’,
With these volumes I’m makin’,
With these lines I’m tracin’,
And you move up in scale, with an uncomfortable section,
And it gives you a clue about them and direction,
About looseness of fit and a little waste,
About large things in a small place,
And this ain’t about neat, this ain’t about frugal,
Or site, skin, structure, or much else practical,
It’s about sitting on the edge of the stage
yelling “Yes! Yes! Yes!””
And not being able to get to the bar without brushing someone’s ass,
And brains, sweat and ectoplasm, form everyone near,
And Harvey’s thought that “No one ever brings
anything small into a bar
around here.” »