They Tore Down the Theatre

the lucille ewing childrens theatre. ewings. ct. the theatre.

my theatre.
they tore it down.

in summer 2003 straight line winds knocked an enormous hole in its roof. four months later, they covered the hole with a tarp. it blew off.

three years later, they tore it down. what was once my first home away from home (even before lakeshore, there was the theatre) is now a series of mounds. of dirt and metal. wood, chairs, doors. debris.

i used to spend entire days there. sundays. a morning show, a sack lunch, an afternoon show. i used to spend afternoons there. three afternoons a week almost every week for six years. i played thorin, an egg, the artful dodger, half a copy machine. and what now? a series of piles of dirt and metal.

when they tore it down i was singing. i didnt know. i wasnt there. i was singing in a basement. i should have known to stop. i left and went immediately to the theatre. there was a fence up. i ignored it. trespassing doesnt count when the rubble was your first home away from home. i took pictures. tomorrow ill take more, in the light of day.

So hard to move on
Still loving whats gone
They say life carries on
Carries on and on
and on
and on

the perpetrator, monster, murderer.


children theatre. no s.


horror movie roller coaster: foundations, supports.


a door that used to lead to the reception room. now to the ground.


this chair was always broken, but it was never that broken. i took it.


backstage sink.


the end.