Behind the Red Light: What Prostitutes Taught Me About Being a Woman
Maybe it was just that prostitutes were already on my mind, but the clicking of my heels seemed especially loud in the Red Light District today. Ten minutes ago, I was still recovering from a sweaty all-nighter with a last-minute reading response. My last load of laundry had mysteriously left my clothes smelling like crotch. I hadn’t shaved in over a week. The dim classroom made me feel like what I was: an overtired college student reeking of sleep deprivation.
Dear Wolf’s Head
I wish you were not the first thing I see when I wake up. I wish you were not the last thing I see before I lie down to sleep. I wish I didn’t stare into your always shut eyelids each time I rise up from downward dog on my yoga mat. You are at eye level with the windows of my bedroom, but you never make eye contact. What a poor neighbor.
At the Cabaret, ‘The Bird Bath’ gets surreal
It’s not that hard to create a piece of theater that’s weird, or disturbing. But it’s almost impossible to do that while making the work beautiful. This weekend at the Yale Cabaret, “The Bird Bath” manages to do just that.