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Looking for application security solutions? Hire Microminder to handle your app sec by rendering your apps impenetrable to cyber threats.
With more enterprises adopting digital approaches to conduct their businesses, the need for application security has increased. Previously, companies neglected security in software design, but with the wave of cyber attacks, it's a non-negotiable at every app development stage.
Therefore, application security holistically refers to all security measures designed at the application level to checkmate external security threats in the form of data or code hijacking.
As one of the best cybersecurity companies in the industry, we've seen the damage these malicious threats can wreak on an enterprise. This is why we've curated effective application-level security solutions to improve your organisation's security posture
What is Application Security?
Application Security involves making applications more secure at all stages of the software development lifecycle.
Commonly referred to as App Sec, application security in its entirety is security measures involving software, hardware, best practices, and techniques to detect, remediate, and prevent the emergence of flaws, threats and vulnerabilities.
Application security is prioritised at all stages of the application development life cycle, from analysis to design, testing, deployment and maintenance. It reduces the chances of threat actors gaining unauthorised access to your network. With Microminder's application security controls, you can fortify your business' network and applications.
Microminder's application security controls encompass techniques that improve an application's security during the coding stage. By feeding in specific access control codes during the development stage, the entire application becomes less vulnerable to malicious actors. Also, as an added layer of security, Microminder deploys its fuzzing techniques to test which unexpected values create potential vulnerabilities in the application.
How Microminder's application security services work?
Microminder's application security services aim to prevent malicious actors from accessing, retrieving, modifying or corrupting sensitive data from your organisation's application. Our app sec protocol involves security controls which, according to NIST, are countermeasures prescribed...
Microminder's application security controls can be categorised by function, and they include:
Application security testing controls
Keeps vulnerabilities at bay while the application is being developed.
Access control safeguards, including authentication and authorisation
Prevents unauthorised and unauthenticated access to application resources.
Microminder's application security services aim to prevent malicious actors from accessing, retrieving, modifying or corrupting sensitive data from your organisation's application. Our app sec protocol involves security controls which, according to NIST, are countermeasures prescribed for organisations to protect their confidentiality while meeting security requirements.
These security controls or countermeasures include application firewalls, routers that prevent the IP address of computers from being visible over the internet, antivirus programs, encryption and decryption tools, not to mention vulnerability assessment tools to scan and remediate threats in applications and SaaS. These controls are deployed at diverse levels of the software development life cycle (SDLC).
Encryption controls
Used to obfuscate and encrypt sensitive data at various application layers.
Logging controls
Tracks application activities for testing application performance and reporting identified threats.
What Microminder's application security services offer
Microminder's application security services diversify into cloud, web, IoT and mobile application security. Therefore, our security controls extend to the endpoints of operating systems like Android, iOS and Windows as they assess the applications in these employee and user OS devices for security issues.
Our cloud application security services feature policies, processes and controls that facilitate data security and application protection in collaborative cloud environments. Lastly, Microminder's web application security protects HTTP applications from exploitation by threat actors.
For the holistic application security of all mobile, IoT, web and cloud environments, Microminder deploys a series of tests or scans.
Our application security testing improves the resilience of applications to threats and vulnerabilities by revealing and remediating weaknesses at the application level. This is done with specific tools at different stages of the software development life cycle.
These tools include:
Static application security testing (SAST)
Dynamic application security testing (DAST)
Interactive application security testing (IAST)
Pen testing
Software composition analysis (SCA)
Mobile application security testing (MAST)
CNAPP
Run-time application security protection (RASP).
In addition to these tools, Microminder also offers API security, advanced bot protection, DDoS protection, and attack analysis and reporting.
Why you need Microminder's Application Security
It would be best if you had application security solutions from a service provider like Microminder Cybersecurity for multiple reasons, including:
Risk minimisation
Checkmate coding errors
Enhanced security posture
Guaranteed business continuity
Cyber threats and vulnerabilities pose severe risks to one's business. If such a threat gains access to critical data in the organisation's application, the repercussions could be so damaging that the business might not recover. Hence, your organisation needs Microminder's robust app sec to minimise business risks.
Microminder's application security guarantees the application's security at every SDLC stage. Therefore, with AppSec, coding errors which could allow unverified inputs, data exfiltration or SQL injections are checkmated at various stages of the application's life cycle, even after the application is deployed.
By identifying and remediating application-level security threats and vulnerabilities through rigorous testing and security controls, you effectively enhance the security posture of your business. Therefore, by transforming your security approach from reactive to proactive with Microminder's AppSec, you make your organisation resilient to attacks by threat actors.
Application threats and vulnerabilities can truncate the legacy and continuity of your modern business. These malicious actors can access your application and retrieve, corrupt or delete confidential data from it. Thus, costing you a fortune in legal fees, remediation fees, mass employee turnover, bankruptcy and worse, a tainted business reputation. Microminder's AppSec guarantees the confidentiality, integrity and continuity of your business.
Application security is a non-negotiable part of web or application development. Because of this, several regulatory and auditing bodies are deployed to guarantee compliance of your company's security standards with the required industry standards. Microminder's application security tools and solutions adhere to these industry standards and compliance metrics. Thus, its presence protects your application level and prevents you from getting fined by these regulatory bodies.
Application security is a vital part of application development that identifies and mitigates flaws, vulnerabilities and threat actions at the application level of the software development life cycle. These flaws could stem from the developer's errors, and AppSec helps organisations find them at each SDLC stage before threat actors exploit them after the software's deployment.
Microminder's application security system is integrated with intrusion detection systems (IDS) and intrusion prevention systems (IPS) to further enhance your enterprise's cybersecurity posture. We are committed to the holistic security of your applications, networks and endpoints.


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Services Column 1
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TH 23 North Gap
By Joleen Ketterling | October 10, 2022
TH 23 is an important corridor that is the primary east-west route that connects Willmar to I-94. The TH 23 North Gap project is currently under construction, and is anticipated…
I-94 St. Michael to Albertville and Monticello to Clearwater Design-Build Projects
These two design-build projects started in 2019 and will be completed in the fall of 2022. These projects were unique as both shared the same the contractor, QA (MnDOT and…
Fall Newsletter 2022
By Joleen Ketterling | September 20, 2022
Summer Newsletter 2022
By Joleen Ketterling | June 17, 2022
Spring Newsletter 2022
I-35W North MnPass
By Joleen Ketterling | January 11, 2022
The I-35W North MnPass Project was completed in late 2021 and cost approximately $208 million; the three-year Project consisted of the addition of MnPass (now E-ZPass) lanes in both northbound…
By peservicesmn | September 21, 2020
This project will expand 12.5 miles of Hwy 14 from two lanes to four lanes between Dodge Center and Owatonna to complete a continuous four-lane road between Mankato and Rochester.…
St. Croix Crossing
The St. Croix River crossing in Stillwater, Minnesota is a highway bridge connecting downtown Stillwater to the Town of St. Joseph in St. Croix County, Wisconsin. The crossing consists of…
Willmar Wye
The Minnesota Department of Transportation and its partners Burlington Northern Santa Fe Railway (BNSF), City of Willmar, Kandiyohi County and the Kandiyohi County and City of Willmar Economic Development Commission…
Minnesota River Bridge
MnDOT in partnership with Dakota County, Hennepin County, City of Bloomington and the City of Burnsville are developing a project to replace the bridge and pavement on I-35W between Cliff…
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Bi-Flex pressure relief technology offers pressure relief at inhalation and exhalation to make BiPAP therapy more like natural breathing. By tracking each breath, Bi-Flex pressure relief technology delivers pressure relief at three critical points in the breathing cycle: the transition from exhalation to inhalation, the transition from inhalation to exhalation and during exhalation. The BiPAP Pro Bi-Flex offers two therapies: Bi-Level and Bi-Level with Bi-Flex and may offer CPAP and CPAP with C-Flex. The BiPAP Bi-Flex is used to treat Obstructive Sleep Apnea.
System One Humidity Control has been designed to establish optimum patient comfort and device performance. For additional comfort, System One now has improved absolute humidity and target relative humidity levels across all humidifier dial settings. In addition, a new "classic" mode provides the ability to shut off humidity control. Even in changing environmental conditions, consistent humidification levels are preserved throughout each night. System One closely monitors room temperature, room humidity, and flow to determine what is required to maintain the patient-selected humidity level. By controlling relative humidity output at the mask, rainout can be prevented, under most circumstances.
Through a combination of our cleverly-designed water chamber plus the advanced Dry Box design, the risk of water ingress into the device is virtually eliminated. Even when fully filled, to the fill line, the water chamber can be tilted or turned upside-down without leaking back into the device. Should any water manage to escape the chamber, the Dry Box prevents it from entering the device.
The System One device incorporates a room temperature and humidity sensor with a temperature sensor at the end of the Heated Tube to deliver the selected level of humidity to the patient while providing protection against rainout. As a result, higher levels of humidity can be achieved for patients who could benefit from humidification.


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Navigating Life after Music Music School: Choosing Solidarity Instead of Scarcity with Olivia Dobbs
It's has been inspiring for me to learn Olivia Dobb's philosophy towards music and being a musician. I love Olivia's thoughts on supporting each other and understanding that the success of others benefits us all. Olivia has performed with a wide variety of ensembles, including a band that improvises accompaniment for comedy shows!
ER: Tell us about your musical background and what you currently do. OD: I started playing the flute in elementary school, and performed for church services and pretty much any other occasion when people would allow it. In middle school I began private lessons, joined the Milwaukee Youth Symphony Orchestra's flute choir (and later, their jazz band), and I was off to the races. In high school, I was especially keen on playing in pep band and pit orchestras, and I picked up saxophone and clarinet. After studying flute performance in Chicago, I returned to Milwaukee and started working. Pre-Covid: I am a freelance woodwind doubler, doing about 150 shows a year, mainly in pit orchestras, as a backing musician (that's the best I've got for "sideman" in gender-neutral), and subbing with regional orchestras and big bands. During-Covid: I'm taking advantage of the extra practice time, my private studio has expanded, and I'm also working on some personal recording projects I'd been putting off.
ER: I understand that you decided not to continue majoring in music after your first year of college. Was it difficult to keep up with music while majoring in a different subject? OD: Yes, but the challenge was very rewarding. During that year studying at DePaul, I had been granted amazing opportunities - played in several ensembles, got an internship at a venue, attended tons of performances, and spent hours on end in the practice rooms. Leaving that environment pushed me to discover and create my own opportunities with more autonomy. I continued taking private lessons, financed by a part-time job tutoring high schoolers in AP Music Theory, and later a job in a music store. I had the freedom to study saxophone and clarinet, get internships and gigs in a variety of scenes, and meet amazing mentors. One strategy that helped me through it (and that continues to pay off today) was creating a very structured schedule to keep up with all these commitments.
ER: What was your biggest challenge after college graduation? OD: Auditions, for sure. It took a lot of time and experimentation to learn how to deal with the psychological challenges and that intense performance anxiety, which I'd rarely experienced in other settings. Fortunately, I had patient and generous mentors, family, friends, and neighbors who listened to my mock auditions, and frequent self-recording has helped too.
ER: Have you ever had a big disappointment relating to music? What did you do to get back up? OD: This pandemic year is the thing that's disrupted my relationship with music the most. My motivation to play has always come from live collaboration and live performance. So this year I've been exploring solitary musical outlets that aren't performance-oriented, such as writing and production. I'm also keeping a pretty strict practice routine, for its own sake. Teaching has been really inspiring as well.
ER: Have your career goals changed over time? OD: Yes, a bit. When I was applying for colleges, I just knew I was heading towards a career as a performing musician, but truly didn't have much understanding of the business. I liked seeing my friends' bands and playing in musicals. When I left Chicago, I planned to study up and apply for a masters degree program in multiple woodwinds and earn a chair on Broadway. After graduation, my primary goal was to tour with a show. Lately, I still love playing for theatre and symphony orchestras, but I've also really enjoyed traveling with bands. There's something so electrifying and intimate about those performances. And now Covid is actually helping me get to know myself better as an artist, and I'm more excited than ever to get back to live performance...so there's definitely some refining and reevaluation happening along the way :)
ER: What actions did you take during the first year or two after graduation that were successful? OD: Expanding my comfort zone socially was very helpful. I'm quite an introvert, but I devoted lots of time to seeking out masterclasses, festivals, networking opportunities, etc. to learn more and meet people. I also took up running and yoga, which have been great for my playing and health.
ER: Looking back, what do you consider to be the most important step that you took for your music career? OD: I'm not sure there was one most important step for me, but a million small steps along the way. One was playing with The Improvised Musical at ComedySportz. While I was in school, I was looking for regular groups to join that would challenge different aspects of my playing. What better way to practice improvising than by playing in a band that makes up accompaniments to long-form improv comedy, in front of a live audience? Not only did my improvising and doubles improve, but I also learned important skills from the actors - "yes, and", make your partner look good, keep the focus on the story, keep moving the story along, etc. Those lessons and relationships have shaped my approach to performance, business, and life.
ER: I know you've worked hard to master doubling instruments. What opportunities have you gained from your woodwind doubling skills? OD: Going back to my early days in MYSO's flute choir, I always got called on to play the alto and bass flutes, which was amazing. Later on I'd play a lot more piccolo in orchestral contexts. Nearly all of the musicals I work on call for woodwind doubling (or as some have described it, "flair bartending with instruments"), and so do a few of the bands I play with. The time I spent studying clarinet and saxophone made me a much stronger improviser and prepared me for gigs outside of the classical and theatre scenes. I teach all three instrument families, too.
ER: What advice would you give someone in music school or recently graduated from music school? OD: Practice, study, network, but not because you're concerned about landing a job in a cutthroat industry. That way burnout lies. Do it because you love it, because your craft is your pride and joy, because it brings people together, because it benefits all musicians when any one of us is thriving. Solidarity is a much stronger mindset than scarcity.
ER: Anything else you want to add? OD: Thanks so much for these great questions, Emmy! This blog has introduced me to fascinating musicians over the last few months and I'm honored to be included in your project.
ER: How can people find you? Website: oliviadobbswoodwinds.com
Instagram: @livdo_ww


Buying jeans when you are five foot nothing with an hour glass figure can be difficult, so I am always on the lookout for designs that cater for my height, size and shape.
So when I heard that the Australian company, Katies, had released a new range of jeans which came in a short length, I took myself off to my nearest store to try some on!
I have to say I would never have considered even going into a Katies store…I have now been a few times and I have noticed that I am usually the youngest in there by about 20 years!
But I tell you, it is definitely worth a look as they have some great fresh designs at affordable prices!
Anyway, back to jeans…in their new Cotton Collection, there are the Short Straight Ultimate jeans (for you taller girls, there is regular length as well).
With a new cotton rich blend designed to give you a feel good fabric and a feel good fit. This slip on jean offers flat front support and a wide waistband to hold in the tummy. The mock pockets and fly help to flatten and sculpt the body for a comfortable fit and beautiful silhouette.
Sounds good to me…and the shorter length is perfect!
I originally bought a size 10 from a store from , but found they stretched too much, so ordered size 8 online…ended up getting the dark denim and the black in the Short Straight Ultimate jeans, as well as sneaking in a pair of Crop Cotton Ultimate jeans in the mid denim.
Placed my order on a Monday night, and they arrived by Wednesday afternoon…free delivery since my order was over $100!
The size 8s are tight to pull on…damn those curves…but the struggle is worth it as they are a much better fit then the 10s for me.
And the good news is these jeans are currently on sale online, or you can check in store…just be careful if you go to a store as the staff in the one I went to weren't aware that there was a short and a regular length!
Click here to visit the Katies website for more information!
I would Trista! I thought the size 8 was going to be too small to pull on so got the size 10 which are now way too big for me. It is a bit of struggle to get the smaller size on, but once on, the fit is perfect!


This is a course I wrote for people who want a quick, straight-forward, fun and easy way to enter the world of LCHF – it's not heavy, but will give you a good place to start.
As a co-author of The Real Meal Revolution – and the Nutritional expert on the book – I am in a unique position to help you understand the LCHF or 'banting' lifestyle.
I am the original author of the 'Banting Diet' as you know it, and wrote this course shortly after the book was published. I've now fine-tuned it into a version that will be easy to understand and apply without being too wordy – it's punchy and to the point without fluff.
The course is a correspondence course, you will only go online to look up links on the internet I give you – everything else is sent to you.
Please note: There is no certification for this inexpensive version, it's merely for you personally – to enhance your knowledge of the LCHF lifestyle. If you want a more in-depth course, do the 6-month LCHF Course, which will give you a certificate of completion.
Simply to know much more about the real food, LCHF lifestyle. It doesn't qualify you to coach or practice or anything like that – this course is essentially LCHF with attitude – I pull no punches and give you the full truth. No tippy-toeing around the subjects that might offend – TRUTH is important to your health, and if others have vested interests and won't tell you the whole truth, I will. My absolute, all-consuming, over-riding passion is TRUTH above all else. It is one of my core values, and I believe we need to help others with dignity, compassion and empathy – so many struggle with this lifestyle. I have 23 years of experience in LCHF and health – I did this decades before it became "famous" – and believe me I know what works and what doesn't.
I've discovered that there are 2 types of LCHF enthusiasts: the purists, and the not-too-fussed ones. I'm pretty purist in all I do – but even if you aren't a purist, you can adapt this. However, I'll give you the 100% PURE version and you can take it from there.
Please note regarding the content – you may NOT to pass this on to anyone without paying for it – it is my intellectual property and therefore copyright material. I have specially made this a very affordable price so everyone can benefit.
Is vegetarian LCHF ok? Is it possible? If so, how?


A version of this article appeared in the print edition of The Daily Star on February 11, 2015, on page 7.
Over the last few months, there have been myriad corruption exposes in Lebanon, in a variety of sectors and industries, from medicine and food to customs authorities and even refugee funding. But not only have there been few arrests related to the allegations, what has been discovered thus far is clearly the tip of the iceberg.
Some 800 customs employees have been moved to different roles within the department, the Finance Ministry announced Tuesday, in a case most likely linked to endemic corruption within the institution.


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Sarah Bednarek
John Bresland
volume of smoke
The set of the stage is history's attic or backstage place. Anachronous junk from all periods of history is pushed to the walls, as if the stage were just cleaned seconds before the audience entered. As the audience files in, the sole illumination on stage is provided by a ghost light sitting center stage. Embedded in the junk are two ladders, six chairs and multiple costume pieces/props. As the actors change characters throughout the show, they return to various places in the pile of junk to get their costume pieces and create each character. The idea is that the ensemble is a theater company of ghosts condemned to recreate this tragedy in purgatory night after night for all of eternity. Throughout the play they will form the visual component of each other's monologues. This is—once again—not the sole interpretation of this text, it is merely a concept that worked for us. As the house music fades, and with the house lights dimming, the reverend's wife appears from the back of the house, holding a candle, making her way through the audience during her speech.
reverend's wife
The frequenter of the theater obeys the dictates of a common depravity. Morals on the stage are always distorted. Vice is allied with virtue, as to appear like a younger sister—never permitting suspicion that the monster is actually seated within the heart.
Richmond, afflicted Richmond.
You have resolved that all your theatres shall go dark, their stages bare of any action for the following four months—like the bones of a carcass pecked clean of its meat. Performance of no shape shall be permitted to approach her.
May this city have the grace to protract that period even farther and farther.
(She blows out the candle. Darkness. When the lights rise, music plays and two actors set the six chairs and two ladders up for use in the rest of the show.)
stagehand
Thirty five scenes. Purple sunsets. Skies painted with the whitest clouds. Nightscapes, the canvas scattered with stars. Snow capped mountains. Rolling oceans.
On and on and on. There was a tapestry for every time of day, every season. Every corner of the world.
Thirty five scenes, all of them suspended over the actors' heads. Hanging by hemp and not much else.
After an evening's performance, when the house is finally empty—walking backstage, I'd catch myself listening to the fibers flexing themselves under the backdrop's weight. The hemp stretches itself, each rope making this twisting sound. All high-pitched and leathery. Sounds like sails billowing in the wind. All those backdrops, just catching a stray draft. Shifting with the current.
This theatre's nothing but a schooner, built in with thirty five different sails—each one an expanse of canvas set with a different piece of scenery.
It was my job to hoist up the sails, manning the masts backstage. Holding the ropes until the order was called to raise the sky. Raise the sunset. Raise the mountains.
My hands have the scars to prove it. Palms have nearly been burned through. Takes me an hour after every show to pick the splinters out from each wrist—wrapping the ends of these ropes around my arms, just to keep my grip.
The curtains open and the command goes out. The actors step on stage, looking out into that audience. Nothing but an ocean of rolling heads.
We set sail every evening.
There are parts men are destined to play. Hamlet, for one. I remember my first encounter with the role, portraying the Prince of Denmark for over seventy consecutive performances. Our production toured throughout the southeastern region of the United States. I inhabited the role within a completely different theatre every evening. Knoxville, Tennessee. Atlanta, Georgia. Night after night, I took to the stage—only for the very spirit of Shakespeare to enter my body, possessing this vessel for the duration of the performance. I channeled his immortal words as if I were speaking them for the very first time.
Critics agreed. The reviews said just as much, expressing their admiration at my ability to make the lines crackle. If there had been a pail of water at my side, one columnist reported. I would have tossed it upon Mr. Robinson, hoping to extinguish his infernal interpretation of the Bard.
It's the legacy of the line that I most admire. What's written will be read. What's published will be performed for an eternity. These lines will be repeated by hundreds upon hundreds of actors. But how that one performer chooses to speak them will be his mark on the role. The next ends up adding something completely different. And so on and so forth.
But I'll admit this much: Never in my life had I ever spoke such words on stage with such conviction, such sincerity, as—The house is on fire.
And the curtain that closed on me that evening was in flames.
backstage with the stagehand, the property man, and the carpenter
STAGEHAND: It was from the first act. There's a chandelier hanging from the ceiling. Illuminates the whole stage. Looks intimate enough. It's the last scene before the intermission, so when the curtain falls—I'm supposed to wait for the order to hoist the chandelier up, lifting the lamp back with the rest of the tapestries.
Raise up the chandelier. Who said it, I can't say. My back was turned, but I heard his voice clear enough. As clear as I can hear my own, talking to you right now. Raise up the chandelier. Raise up the chandelier.
I'm not deaf. Certainly not dumb. Orders are orders and I do as I'm told.
If I were one to point fingers, I'd aim mine at the property man. Right between the eyes.
(The PROPERTY MAN, who has been sitting in the audience, pops up and makes his way to the stage.)
PROPERTY MAN: It was during the intermission when I noticed the glow. This stray flicker of light that I couldn't account for. Looking up, I immediately saw it amongst all the other backdrops—that flush of orange and yellow, casting a shadow over the ropes.
The stage hand had raised the scene before extinguishing the candle.
Lower that lamp and blow it out.
Three times, I said it. Repeatedly.
STAGEHAND: There were about three minutes before the second act was to start, so I told the carpenter to extinguish it.
CARPENTER: That lamp was up high. Made it difficult for me to see which rope it was tied to. Had to unfasten a few before finding the right one. The candle had cast these shadows across the cables. Looked like one big knot up there. All the cords moving, tangling up into each other.
So I gave a good yank on the pulley.
STAGEHAND: Two cords worked over two pulleys. The roof had a collar-beam attached to the ceiling, the lamp hanging down from above by about fourteen feet.
CARPENTER: The rope got all twisted into itself, so I gave a good yank on the pulley.
STAGEHAND: Whoever handled the chandelier had done a poor job. I found myself backstage, attempting to move it. Only for the rope to catch on a separate set-piece, spinning a bit before settling back down again.
CARPENTER: I gave a good yank on the pulley. Only the lamp shook. Started rocking a bit. Just a few inches. Back and forth, like that. Had to raise it up again, just to bring it down. Only it jerked this time. It jostled. The lamp swerved from its upright position, dragging the candle clear across the lower corner of the neighboring backdrop.
STAGEHAND: All that varnish. All that lacquer.
PROPERTY MAN: The scene went up in a second.
CARPENTER: In a heartbeat. Whoosh . . .
STAGEHAND: Barely even a breath.
PROPERTY MAN: It was the morning sky. The tapestry that caught on fire. It was a painting of the morning sky, just at sunrise—daybreak only a moment away.
STAGEHAND: The flame rose. Grew and grew. Tapering off to a sharp point, it reached the roof.
CARPENTER: Couldn't have been more than six or seven feet.
STAGEHAND: Six feet. Maybe seven.
PROPERTY MAN: More like seven.
CARPENTER: Six.
STAGEHAND and PROPERTY MAN: Seven.
CARPENTER: All those scenes, lacquered up in varnish. Might as well have painted them in kerosene.
PROPERTY MAN: Skies. Sunsets. Daybreaks. Rolling oceans. Street fronts. Mountains. Houses. Living rooms. Churches. Cliff tops. Roof tops. Starry skies. Clouds. Snow. Lightning bolts. Tidal wives. Temples. Bedrooms. Cityscapes.
STAGEHAND: Thirty five tapestries.
CARPENTER: All on fire now.
STAGEHAND: All hanging over the stage. Hiding behind the proscenium. The second act had started, the audience wrapped up in the show —while welling up just over their heads, the fire mounted. Grew along the roof, the flames extending their way towards the house.
CARPENTER: That actor on stage took one look up, lifting his eyes towards the ceiling—only to turn back to the audience, and say . . .
ACTOR: The house is on fire.
STAGEHAND: Only nobody in the audience believed him!
CARPENTER: Now how bad of an actor can you be that you can yell fire in a crowded theatre and still nobody believes you?
STAGEHAND: He received a standing ovation that night.
CARPENTER: That's for sure.
STAGEHAND: Everybody leapt to their feet the second they saw the fire falling from the ceiling, scattering across the stage.
CARPENTER: He brought the house down!
audience member #1
Damn seats. Uncomfortable as hell. After an hour of sitting in them, your back's practically bent in half. You leave the theatre feeling like a hunchback.
The armrests are wood, while the rest is cast iron. Make one move during the show, just to adjust yourself—and your seat sends out the most ear-piercing screech. Sounds like a cat on fire, caterwauling to death.
I can't even concentrate on the show. I'll spend the entire night searching for that one comfortable position, shifting back and forth. I'll slip forward for five minutes, until I've lost the feeling in my legs. I'll pull myself up until my tailbone's rubbing against the back, my rump all numb.
Lean to the left. Lean to the right.
My seat squeaking and shrieking. Everyone's heads turning towards me.
Our strength is in our numbers, people! The audience can't complain if we shuffle all at once. Not a soul can be singled out when we budge as brothers, united!
Altogether now: Shift!
On my mark: Move!
On the count of three: One, two, three!
Find that comfort wherever you can! Whatever it takes to make the play more bearable!
(When AUDIENCE MEMBER #2 begins, the rest of the cast turn into the background for his speech—the wife, the child, the other spectators, sitting in the rows of seats that they have just set up.)
These were the best seats in the house. Front and center, just a few rows back from the orchestra. There was a perfect view of the entire stage. Less heads to look over. The balcony was well behind us. It was as if this show were being performed solely for my family and I. The rest of the audience may as well have melted away from my mind's eye, left with this flawless landscape of the stage.
If you could understand the amount of trouble I went to, simply to obtain these seats—you'd appreciate my patience. My wife had been begging me to take her to the theatre for months. I rarely heard the end of it. Our anniversary was well on its way—so I figured, this would be a most appropriate present to commemorate our marriage with. I kept it a secret for weeks. It was perfect. Couldn't have planned a better present.
I'd even gone to the lengths of blindfolding my wife, escorting her to her chair with the aid of my daughter's arm. The two of us sat at her side, each taking an ear—whispering hints of where we could possibly be. Every sound made her bristle with this inquisitiveness. The rustling of the playbills, the murmur of the audience. She hadn't a clue.
Is it dinner? No . . .
Is it a concert? No . . .
Where are we then? Patience, my dear. Patience . . .
Removing the blindfold was just about the most wonderful part of the evening for me. Watching her eyes come into focus, taking in the stage. And then flaring up. My God, her eyes lit like oil lamps falling to the floor, the kerosene bursting over the ground. I'd never seen anything so beautiful. She could barely contain herself. And the kiss she gave me, in front of everyone else in that audience, before the entire house, the balcony, the boxes—I tell you now, it may as well have been the both of us on that stage, performing our own play.
Everyone from the house began to cheer. Before the play had even started, we received our very own standing ovation.
(The actors playing the other audience members see the fire, turn and run in slow motion out of the space, leaving the AUDIENCE MEMBER his wife and their child alone on stage.)
When the cry was made that there was a fire —sure enough, not two breaths later, I could see the flames enveloping the proscenium, spreading along the edge of the stage. My wife reached for my arm, squeezing. But I insisted that we stay in place.
Patience, I said. It would be more prudent to sit still. To wait while the rest of the audience hurried for the exits. The couple next to us had to extend their legs over our own, scurrying for the aisles—while I insisted to my wife and daughter that we keep in place.
Patience, I said. Knowing quite well that we'd be crammed in with everyone else from the house, pushed and prodded along like cattle. Knowing quite well that there'd be very little chance of the three of us staying together, battling the corralling crowd. Knowing quite well that when we entered the stream of people forcing their way through the aisles, there'd be no hope of me keeping my grip on my wife's hand and her holding onto our daughter.
Patience, I said. Sit here and wait.
We did, watching the fire spread, suddenly surrounding us—as if this were the show I paid for. As if this was what we'd come to watch.
If I had taken the time to realize why, why I insisted so heartily that we stay in our seats, while everyone else raced for the exit, yelling and screaming as they went. To recognize my intentions for what they were, what part of me had been so stubborn—I might have been able to admit to myself that it was for the view. The intimacy of it all. Front and center. Just a few rows back from the orchestra.
Don't you see? These were the best seats in the house.
The curtain had been dropped in hopes of warding off the flames. Through the thick partition, I could see a very large bright light mounting in its intensity. Glowing.
And then the flames ate through.
(Blackout. Chaotic and haunting music. During the next section, the chairs are rearranged into two parallel lines at either side of the stage, the PARENTS run through the audience whilst the CHILDREN get ready for their monologues.)
what we said to our children
PARENT #1: Whatever you do, honey—don't let go of my hand.
PARENT #2: Keep your grip. Hold on tight.
PARENT #3: I want you to follow the fresh air, wherever you can find it.
PARENT #1: Let your lungs lead the way.
PARENT #2: Have you seen your sister?
PARENT #3: Have you seen your little brother?
PARENT #1: Your father?
PARENT #2: Have you seen where your mother went?
PARENT #3: Stay right here.
PARENT #1: Don't move.
PARENT #2: Wait until I come back for you.
PARENT #3: I'll be returning right away.
PARENT #1: Keep your head low, honey.
PARENT #2: Don't look down. Don't look at the floor.
PARENT #3: Keep up with me. Stop falling behind.
PARENT #1: Pick up your feet, sweetie. We don't have much time.
PARENT #2: If your eyes keep stinging, close them.
PARENT #3: The smoke's just getting in your eyes.
PARENT #1: I'd give you a piggy-back if the smoke wasn't rising.
PARENT #2: You'd have your head in the clouds all the way out.
PARENT #3: Can you hear me, honey?
PARENT #1: Can you see?
PARENT #2: Can you breathe?
(The PARENTS reenter the space in a slow funereal procession while the CHILDREN speak.)
children triptych — pt. I
My mother had stood behind me at the mirror for hours, preparing my hair for our evening out. She had taken a cup full of sugar that afternoon, boiling it in barley—so that she could then dip my curls into the substance, soaking my hair in it, combing its thick consistency through and through. When the sugar solidified, so would my hair—keeping its curls perfectly intact throughout the entire night.
That's why when the fire spread over my body, devouring my head in flames—my curls crispened, even crackled, the slightest scent of sweetness spreading with the cinders of my scalp.
children triptych — pt. II
I was bored. Kept kicking the seat in front of me, until the man sitting there turned around and glared. Couldn't help but snicker a bit.
My mother took me by the hand. Nearly yanked my arm out of its socket—pulling me up from my seat, dragging me down the aisle.
Got my whipping in the lobby. Bent me right over her knee, spanking me in front of the ushers. Never felt more embarrassed in all of my life.
The doors parted open, the audience charging through. Looked like a dam had broken, the water rushing right over my mother and I. Nobody stopped long enough to realize we were right there in front of them. Nobody leaned over to try and pick us up from the floor.
What it must've felt like to step on some little boy's bony frame, the snap of his ribs resonating through their shoe. What that softness must've felt like from under their foot, realizing they'd just trampled over me. If they even realized it at all.
children triptych — pt. III
I only let go of your hand for a moment, long enough to fix my dress. It had gotten all ruffled, bunching up at my feet. I kept stepping on the hem. The crowd behind me continued to trod on the back end, throwing me backwards with every step forward.
I figured, if I could just grip the fringe with my hand, lifting the hem up to my knee—I'd be able to run faster. Keep up with you.
You made this dress for me, taking my measurements. You asked me to stand still, hold my arms out at my shoulders—while I imagined myself to be a bird, flapping its wings. You asked me to stop shifting, keep my knees together—while I imagined myself to be a pony, whinnying up onto its hind legs.
You finally gave up, throwing your own hands into the air.
Well, if this dress ends up being too big for you, you'll simply have to grow into it.
Never had the chance.
(During this section, the other actors who have turned neutral fall to the ground dead in slow motion one by one.)
The floor had gone soft. The smoke had grown so thick inside the hallway, I couldn't see six inches in front of me—let alone where I was stepping. I acted upon the blind faith of one-foot-in-front-of-the-other. Over and over again, just like that. Praying I'd find the hard floor again.
It took all of my energy to force my way through the crowd, just to reach the street outside. I stepped over the people in front of me, climbing over their heads. I pushed so hard, forgetting that these were people—trampling over their bodies without even considering helping them get back up.
The smoke made it easy enough. There was nothing to see. There was only their physical presence, the touch and not much else.
One-foot-in-front-of-the-other. As simple as that.
There was smoke in my lungs. Everyone around me was sinking, falling to the floor—while I kept climbing higher, reaching for anything that would advance me ahead of the rest. Everyone was extending their hands for me to grab and pull them back up to their feet. I discovered that the persons blockading the exits were principally ladies, crying for relief. They entreated the crowd not to hurt them. Beseeching so loudly, it became a chorus. It sounded like a song.
Those who escaped, myself included, did so at the expense of others. I found freedom on the bodies of others too weak to find it first.
You must understand. I had to find my daughter.
We had been separated in the lobby.
Once I had made my way outdoors, it struck me that Candice was still trapped somewhere inside. I had to turn around and force my way through the burning doors, past all the people piling up around the exit. It was like turning the tides, like some salmon working its way upstream.
I wasn't nearly as fortunate the second time around.
orchestra member
Who'd miss the musicians? If the fire had scorched the orchestra, burning every member of the band—I'm curious: Who'd mourn the loss of them?
Not many.
Every night, it's the same thing. Somebody's always waiting backstage, hoping for an autograph from one of the actors. But us musicians—we can move freely amongst the audience after the show, like ghosts walking amongst the living.
It's because we're buried down here, in this pit. Where no one can see us. Save for those folks sitting in the balcony, we're invisible. I've had little children spit on me from the box seats just above my head, this drizzle of saliva getting my sheet music all wet in the middle of the show. The pages will stick together, making it nearly impossible for me to turn them in time to keep up with the music.
Thank God smoke rises. If I'd been up there, in the house—I would've choked to death with the rest of them.
The stage became a funeral pyre.
My sheet music was burning, curling up into ash. Sitting in the pit by myself, I just watched the fire eat through the paper, spreading through the measures —as if the flames were reading the music, note by note. The rest of the orchestra had run, dropping their instruments to the floor. Leaving their music behind. The fire took to their instruments instantly. Seized them in a second. Flames snaked inside each woodwind, tunneling through the flue—a flash of fire flaring out from the finger holes. When it came upon the string section, the fire reached for the harp first—a wave of flames wrapping around the wires, plucking each string until they snapped. One after another, pling, pling, pling.
The brass held its own. Each horn heated up like a frying pan on the stove. I had reached for my horn, only to burn my hand. Singed the skin right off my palm. See?
I tell you, it seems so strange—but it sounded as if the fire itself were playing the music now.
That's why I stayed. I wanted to listen. Hear how the flames played.
The third floorboard from the rear of stage right creaks whenever you step on it. The pressure of an actor's foot makes the wood warp, sending this squeal into the air.
You think about how it happened. How many steps it took to wear down the wood. How many actors it's taken to stand in that one particular spot. Over and over again.
How I prepare for an evening's performance is to make my way on stage before the house opens, simply walk about the theater—acquainting myself with every creak, every weak spot within the wood. I want to know where to step and where not to. I want to hear the stage, the two of us communicating amongst ourselves—until I'm well aware of every weakness, every fragile gap, every loose floorboard.
You imagine every actor that's come before you. You imagine the roles that they've played, the very lines they delivered. You imagine them as ghosts now, come and gone.
I come here before the house opens so that I can hear them. I prepare for my part by listening to the ghosts of those roles performed before me. They're in the wood. They're in the stage. In the proscenium. They are everywhere.
They'll be here long after we're all gone, I can tell you that.
Take the most succulent dessert you've ever tasted. Conjure it up in your memory if you can.
A decadently dark chocolate mousse, topped off with a white fudge flower. A bittersweet coffee pudding, sprinkled in chocolate dust. A pecan tart, caramelized in brown sugar. Apple dumplings covered in a white peach puree.
I tell you this now: None of them compare to the taste of that first breath of delicious air I took into my lungs upon escaping that building.
The members of the audience sitting in the box seats couldn't escape through the stairwell anymore, the fire having overwhelmed the hallway. I watched a man take his wife's hand into his own and leap off from the balcony. (The actors knock over two chairs.) Landed right in the percussion section, their fall cushioned by the kettle drum. They made the most resounding impact I've ever heard.
Another couple followed them down, hurdling themselves off the balcony and into the pit. (The actors knock over two more chairs.) Before long, there was a heap of people in the orchestra—none of them able to get up, their legs broken or backs snapped. (The third pair of chairs falls.)
Buried below those bodies, at the very bottom of this heap—you'll find our instruments underneath the rest.
You'll find a French horn, its funnel crushed under the weight of some woman's fall. Its valves collapsed, its brass covered in soot.
This is my instrument.
This is how the fire had a harmony of its own.
(The chairs are pulled back into the two columns, tipped over. AUDIENCE MEMBER 5 takes a book from the pile of junk and starts ripping pages out of it while she talks.)
Somewhere within the rafters of the stage, a pigeon had built its nest. Lord knows how long ago. Long enough to raise a family. Could've been there for years.
Wasn't until I was outside, watching the fire devour the theatre—when I noticed, higher up, just above the building, a pair of flaming wings taking to the sky. Then another. And another. That family of pigeons had been trapped inside—escaping through the receding roof, their bodies now burning. They flew through the air as far as their wings could carry them, only to give out suddenly, falling to the ground.
One landed right at my feet, smoke spiriting up from its chest. The feathers had been burned off completely. What was left behind was nothing but the bony frame, like a umbrella without its webbing.
There's this ghost story my ma always told us kids before we'd slip off to sleep. She'd come over on a slave ship when she was just a little thing. No older than sixteen. Just her and her older sister, crammed in those quarters with over a hundred others. Said there wasn't enough room to sit down, even to sleep. The two of them would have to take turns. One sister would sleep for a few hours, resting her head on the other's shoulder—only to wake up and trade places. Just back and forth like that, growing weak in the knees from standing all the time.
Ma's sister was pregnant, see? Had been for months. Her belly swelled on board that boat, ready to let her baby go. Wasn't until one night, when things were stormy outside, the water all rocky, pitching that ship up and down, rain leaking in from above, the ocean spitting in through the portholes—when, all of a sudden, ma's sister just heads right into labor. She's giving birth on her feet, surrounded by all those slaves. Started screaming and shouting, blood running down her legs. Quivering in the knees.
There wasn't any room for her. Nobody budged. She's begging for help, but there wasn't enough space for people to even breathe—let alone give birth to some baby. Not in the middle of the ocean. Not in the middle of some storm.
Ma's says her sister was pushed toward the ship's side. Everybody just started grabbing her, dragging her away from ma. Says she watched her older sister get lifted up from floor, passed over the heads of everyone else, holding onto her belly the entire time—only to get pushed through a porthole. Heard her scream as far as the ocean, the sea swallowing her right up.
Suddenly, there was just that much more room to breathe.
The way my ma tells it, though—that's where her story starts. Watching her older sister slip through that porthole. Dreaming about her giving birth out there in that ocean. Holding onto her baby in the cold water. Two of them drifting for an eternity. Out there.
I couldn't help but start dreaming about her, myself. Always saw auntie in my sleep, slipping through my window. Cradling her baby, as blue as that sea.
She'd never leave me alone.
When word got out that there was a fire down at the theatre, I went. Didn't need to look where I was going. Simply followed the flames. You could see them from all the way cross town, lifting up into the sky.
First thing I find are these women standing at the windows. Glass comes showering down. Shatters across the street. I'm standing down below, only to watch these women leap. One after another. Just jumping out from the windows. They're getting pushed by the people behind them, forced to fall.
I see this one woman with her clothes on fire. She hits the ground, the ribs of her dress just about the only thing left of her—the rest in flames.
Never seen anything like that before. Not in my life.
Only in my dreams.
For every woman that come jumping out from that window, I'd stand right beneath them—holding my arms out, like this. Just catching them, one by one.
They say I saved thirty six lives that night. Just catching those folks getting shoved out the window.
But I'll tell you this: Seems like I only saved one. For every lady that came falling into my arms, all I saw was my ma's sister. Over and over again.
My family came to this country with ghosts shackling our backs already. I don't need your ghosts haunting me, to boot. Keep your own ghosts, why don't you?
(In the Richmond production, this section was done by several actors. Quite chaotic, lots of movement.)
Five hundred and ninety eight people had to funnel their way through those doors, there. Nearly all of Richmond had come to the theatre that night.
Five hundred and eighteen of them were adults. Eighty tickets were sold at a reduced rate to children.
Five hundred and ninety eight.
The human body holds about three hundred and fifty bones at birth, only for a few of them to fuse together the farther into adulthood you go. Once you've reached your majority, your skeleton's solidified itself into a slim two hundred and six bones. So the older you get, the less of skeleton you have. You actually lose around . . . one hundred and forty four bones.
So let's estimate that those eighty tickets went to children with all three hundred and fifty bones. Three hundred and fifty times eighty equals . . . twenty eight thousand bones, from the children alone.
Take the five hundred and eighteen tickets bought at general admission and multiply them by two hundred and six and you come out to somewhere around . . . one hundred six thousand seven hundred and eight bones, from the adults alone.
That's what, then . . . ? One hundred thirty four thousand seven hundred eight bones, all under one roof.
Seventy of those five hundred and ninety eight perished in the fire. Of those seventy, fifty were women. Twenty were men. Men have one rib missing from the equation, pending on your religious affiliations. The lord God took one of Adam's ribs and closed up the place with flesh. The lord God made a woman from the rib He had taken out of the man. Carry the one rib over and add that to the women and it balances itself out at somewhere around . . . seventy thousand ribs. Give or take.
Consider that twenty of those that perished were children at three hundred fifty and that tallies up to . . . seven thousand bones.
Tally up the remaining fifty at two hundred six and that amounts to . . . ten thousand three hundred bones.
Altogether . . . seventeen thousand three hundred bones.
All piled up in neat heaps. In the orchestra pit. In the aisle. At the exit. Near the windows along the second floor.
Now you try telling me whose are whose.
(By now the ladders and chairs have been reconfigured into a shape reminiscent of a pile of dead bodies.)
Right here, piled upright, around a dozen high, there lay a mass of burned bodies. Bodies of all classes and conditions of people. Young and old, men and women, Bond and free, rich and poor. Some of them were burned so badly, it was practically impossible to discern who exactly they were. Others looked nearly uninjured—and yet, life had left their bodies. All cold and stiff.
property man
This was the aisle. Where it used to be. I can remember it, as if it were still there—leading up to the exit. The aisle was narrow enough that two people could scarcely pass one another at a time, funneling the audience through. We always had to hold the curtain by five minutes, simply to seat everyone.
The roof hadn't been plastered. It had a sheathing of pine planks, layered with these flimsy shingles. When the flames were high enough to reach the roof, it all went up in seconds. Burned right through. Those who survived said they looked up and could see the stars in the sky—the entire ceiling completely missing, exposing the night, the evening in clear view. Framed in flames.
The staircase was just back there, leading to the lobby. The weight of the audience crowding onto the steps made it collapse, over a dozen people falling into a heap of stairs.
(By now, THE REVEREND has appeared, he sets up a chair for the PROPERTY MAN and consoles him.)
I built this theatre. I headed the committee that constructed this building, setting the stage for the fire.
People ask me if I ever felt guilty. If I felt responsible for those that died.
The only answer I've ever given was in my actions. Shortly thereafter, I headed the committee that built the Monumental Church—constructing it right on top of where the theatre had been.
What more do you want from me?
They buried all those unknown bones in the orchestra pit. Instead of some cemetery, the city's making a grave out of the area where the walls of this theatre once were.
Seems fitting.
(The REVEREND becomes the doctor's patient.)
Our houses have all become hospitals now.
You wouldn't believe the number of people I've seen this week, wheezing their way into my office. Half of the city has come to me, complaining about smoke inhalation. Peering down as many throats as I have, I swear—I should be in the chimney sweeping business. I could just as well have been staring down these people's stove-pipes.
The singed nasal hairs. The burns around the mouth. And all that ash, lining up along the trachea.
Everything's phlegmy this week. I've pulled out a spittoon, setting it next to my desk. Before I even ask for my patient to open up and say aah, I insist that they spit for me. If their saliva's gone gray, then I know for a fact that their lungs are full of fluid—which means I have to operate, right away.
If it's black, then God help them. They'll be drowning in their sleep within the week.
There are certain ironies to fire. I can think of two, just off the top of my head.
First one being, as babies—a fresh set of lungs are meant to sound crepitant. Before that first breath of air, the tissues crackle. Sounds like a fire inside your chest.
Your first breath is a blaze of oxygen, opening up your lungs.
Second, this being the heart of the tobacco industry—we of the medical profession are privately aware of the dangers of inhaling cigar smoke. Smoking causes the exact amount of damage to the lungs as a fire would, simply extended over a considerably lengthy amount of time. Our bodies are their own little playhouses that we've set ablaze—burning our insides out, one cigar at a time.
Hmm . . .
We write these words to be eternal. Ever read a dead play? There's nothing more dismal than a script that hasn't been performed for years. There's something . . . musty to it. The words sound gummy to the tongue. Congealed, even. You can hear the cobwebs connecting the sentences together.
Playwrights never die. Wish they would. Ghoulish, yes. But definitely not dead. Their hopes at eternity come at a price. Acting as if they've got a chance at immortality. For every playwright I've ever come into contact with, it's the same old argument—Here's my chance at leaving my mark. My work will live beyond me. My words will be uttered well passed my life.
You'd think they'd made a deal with the Devil. That's what the Protestants would have you believe, anyway.
Ghouls, all of them. Every playwright I ever met was one of the undead, wandering around aimlessly backstage. Shuffling their heals to find the next scrap of life to sink their mossy teeth in to.
You don't believe me? Try talking to one. See how well your conversation goes.
The Bleeding Nun
(In both productions, this was performed as a kind of PYRAMUS AND THISBEE play-within-a-play. The worst performance of a play you could possibly imagine. The narrator parts were divvied up amongst three cast members, with the remaining cast playing RAYMOND, AGNES and the NUN)
Where yon proud turrets crown the rock,
Seest thou a warrior stand?
He sighs to hear the castle clock,
Say midnight is at hand.
It strikes, and now his lady fair,
Comes tripping from her hall.
Her heart is rent by deep despair,
And tears in torrents fall.
"Ah! Woe is me, my love," she cried,
"What anguish wrings my heart.
Ah! Woe is me," she said, and sigh'd,
"We must for ever part."
"Not so, my Agnes!" Raymond cried,
"For leave thee will I never.
Thou art mine, and I am thine,
Body and soul for ever!
Oft have you heard old Ellinore,
Your nurse, with horror tell,
How robed in white, and stain'd with gore,
Appears a specter fell.
And each fifth year, at dead of night,
Stalks through the castle gate,
Which, by ancient solemn rite,
For her must open wait.
Soon as to some far distant land,
Retires to-morrow's sun,
With torch and dagger in her hand,
Appears the Bleeding Nun.
Now you shall play the Bleeding Nun,
Array'd in robes so white,
And at the solemn hour of one,
Stalk forth to meet your knight."
"For I am thine," fair Agnes cried.
"And leave thee will I never,
I am thine, and thou art mine,
Body and soul forever!"
Fair Agnes sat within her bower,
And waited the long wish'd-for hour,
When she should meet her knight.
And Raymond, as the clock struck one,
Before the castle stood.
And soon came forth his lovely Nun,
Her white robes stain'd in blood.
He bore her in his arm away,
And placed her on her steed.
And to the maid he thus did say,
As on they rode with speed.
"Oh Agnes! Agnes! thou art mine,
And leave thee will I never,
Body and soul for ever!"
"Oh Raymond! Raymond, I am thine,
A whirling blast from off the stream
Threw back the maiden's veil.
Don Raymond gave a hideous scream,
And felt his spirits fail.
Then down his limbs, in strange affright,
Cold dews to pour begun,
No Agnes met his shudd'ring sight,
"God! 'Tis the Bleeding Nun!"
A form of more than mortal size,
All ghastly, pale, and dead,
Fix'd on the Knight her livid eyes,
And thus the specter said:
"Oh Raymond! Raymond! I am thine,
And leave thee will I never!
(The actress who played the NUN turns to the audience.)
On stage, I was the Bleeding Nun.
To the people of Richmond, I am the Bleeding Nun.
My daughter had sat in one of the boxes along the balcony, with the rest of the acting company's children and family—watching me perform on stage, only a few feet away. She knew the role just as well as I did. If not better. I'd raised her playing that part. The other members of the company always teased her—or was it me? Insisting that she should be my understudy.
When the theatre began to burn, I escaped through the backstage door—hoping I'd find my daughter on the other side of the building, waiting amongst all the other family members. It completely slipped my mind that I was still in costume, the entire front-side of my dress drenched in stage blood. For every man and woman I ran up to in the street, they would only stare—shocked at the sight of me standing there, covered in gore. Begging them to help me find my daughter. Had they seen my daughter? Running up and down the block, frantically calling out her name. Sifting through the growing crowd of onlookers. Charlotte? Charlotte?
You didn't need to perish in that theatre to have died in the fire.
I'm a ghost to these people. My occupation is gone. I dress in weeds. When it came time for the company to leave Richmond, I couldn't bring myself to abandon my only child. And now, when I walk down the streets, I can hear the children whispering behind my back—That's her. That's the Bleeding Nun.
(Music. The set is reconfigured to how it was when the REVEREND consoled the PROPERTY MAN and the image of the two of them is recreated. This monologue is delivered to the PROPERY MAN.)
I can say this within private company. Heaven forbid if it were to be uttered elsewhere.
The theatre fire offered us an opportunity.
Quite frankly, it kick-started the Second Great Awakening. It was . . . mobilizing. Inspiring, how about that?
By all means, feel sympathy towards those who perished. But may I remind you, as good Christians—we need to be an enemy of the theatre. Look upon this fire as an act of God. If there will ever be a finer example of hell on earth, I pray it never befall us.
The people of Richmond had become neglectors of God, plain and simple. The sins of the theatre had taken grip. God simply made his presence known.
Look upon Job. By punishing him, God warned the rest. Job was the example set for everyone else. The hand of God can fall upon you or I at any given moment, just as it had with Job.
What separated those who survived from those who died in the fire is simple:
We now had a cause. We now had an example.
(The PROPERTY MAN crosses the stage and delivers this to the mourning ACTRESS who has been in a dimly lit corner the entire time, sitting on a ladder.)
We held a contest. A commission of influential Richmonders organized a cordial competition between the Episcopalians and the Presbyterians to see who could raise the most money to build a new church on the scorched property. A subscription drive, if you will. What people of what faith would pledge the most money? The land would be given over to whichever faith reached the bid the quickest.
The Episcopalians won.
(The REVEREND'S WIFE delivers this to her husband, who is now sitting in the chair vacated by the PROPERTY MAN.)
How very little the theatre and the church agree with each other. We are not unconscious of such occurrences happening in the church. A similar fate has befallen the righteous, as it did with those wicked theatre-goers. Roofs have collapsed onto congregations, floors have fallen away.
But what has the righteous man to fear? He has devoted his services to God.
Though the earth, and the works that are therein, be burned up—he stands on the ashes of a universe and exclaims, I have lost nothing.
His soul has nothing to fear but the prospect of eternity in heaven.
Can the theatre offer the same for its casualties?
Listen to these ministers, mosquitoing scripture. They've sunk their tongue into the bible and sucked up enough testament to drain the gospels dry. There isn't any holiness left.
Thought I heard something buzzing about my ear. Listening to their sermons, I feel as if I should now be wary of malaria. They're preaching their own personal form of yellow fever. The congregation will be dropping dead from all this religious fervor.
We'll all be swatting gospels before too long.
And look what they've done now. From the very ashes of the theatre, a Monumental Church rose up. The Episcopalians built their new house of worship directly over the spot where the theatre once stood. As a testament to their faith. As a way to strengthen their congregation. Capitalizing on this act of God.
Rushed right into building it, too. The cinders had barely cooled. Sermons were heard coming from the pulpit as early as the following spring.
One theatre made way for another. From the ashes of one playhouse, we set the stage for a new one.
Ever see someone on fire? They dance. Every limb waves through the air, as if to rid themselves of the blaze—hoping to shake the flames away.
I tell you this now: The only other time I've seen such fervor, such animation from the human body, was in church. The moment the holy spirit enters the body of a parishioner, they become agitated. Unsettled.
They dance.
Personally, I never attended the theatre all too often. It was a . . . onflict of interest. But quite early on, I realized there was something to be gained from the stage. Something to reap.
To better tend to my congregation, I learned how to act.
You could say the theatre held some sway over the church, yes. Only mildly so, though. Initially. We simply took the resources of the stage and used them for our own means, to help spread our message.
And Richmond was ripe for it. Look at what the theatre had done. These people were in mourning. These people were suffering.
And preaching requires presence. A magnetic personality. The gestures, the control over the voice. Proper volume and elocution. That takes training. Talent is only the half of it. How you utilize those skills behind the pulpit is what really matters.
So I studied. I learned from the greats, watching them perform. I learned every gesture and gesticulation from the actor's bag of tricks. I learned the value of the dramatic pause. Vocal techniques. I learned that my body was my tool and that I could use it as such.
I could've been a great actor.
And for those eight years following the fire, I was. The only thespian to grace the stage here in Richmond was me. And I packed the house every Sunday.
ACTRESS: It was blatant exploitation, is what it was.
REVEREND: That's not the case at all.
ACTRESS: You capitalized on our ashes.
REVEREND: Not true, not true. We merely made use of the raw materials. The heap that was before us all. Somebody needed to say something. Someone had to make sense of it all. So we did. The church had been running in circles, chasing its own tail for year —losing more and more people to the theatre every Sunday. And then the fire.
ACTRESS: No! Not then the fire.
REVEREND: Yes, the fire . . .
ACTRESS: Don't chalk this up to an act of God.
REVEREND: What would you call it then?
ACTRESS: An accident.
REVEREND: There are no accidents.
ACTRESS: It was an accident.
REVEREND: It was a calling.
ACTRESS: It was a candle.
REVEREND: It was God in that flame.
ACTRESS: You know what's so amazing about all this? You're on a stage, too—just as much as any actor is.
REVEREND: I don't deny it. I never did.
ACTRESS: You just built yours on the bones of those who died.
REVEREND: How can you say that?
ACTRESS: You criticize the theatre while you stand on stage, like some hypocrite!
REVEREND: Have you ever been to one of my sermons?
ACTRESS: Have you ever been to one of my shows?
REVEREND: I go to bed early on Saturdays.
ACTRESS: I sleep in on Sundays.
(During this next section, the rest of the cast breaks character and reconfigures the stage to be exactly the same as present, after which they exit walking in near-slow-motion. The REVEREND'S WIFE lights a candle that she retrieves from the pile of junk.)
The Theatre of Venice was struck by lightning, 1769. Dozens were trampled to death. The Amsterdam playhouse took fire, 1772. Seven people suffocated from smoke. The theatre at Sargossa, 1772. Nearly half the audience perished. The Palais Royal burnt to the ground, 1781—during the French opera, of all things. The theatre at Montpelier, 1783. Five hundred lives were lost there. The theatre at Mentz, 1786. The London Opera House, 1789. The Royal Circus, 1805. The theatre at Altona, 1807. The theatre at Berlin, 1808. All burned down, hundreds of persons burnt with them.
And you ask me why I never go to the theatre.
People refuse to look back at their tragedies. They insist that for every current catastrophe, they were the first to experience it. But history proves otherwise. Tragedy is nothing new. To you or to the other hundreds of thousands of people who've experienced it. Try whining to the people who died in the fire at the Rickett's Circus in Philadelphia. The Pantheon. The Covent Garden.
From this fire, the people of Richmond will weep. They'll beseech for God's good will to spare them from such hardship.
But I'll tell you this: You just wait until the next generation comes. The same will happen to them, soon enough. And the next. And the next. And what none of them will ever realize is that it's happened all before. Particularly in Richmond.
This city deserves to burn down.
(The Ghost Light relights. The REVEREND'S WIFE exits through the house as the theme music blares. After she exits, the ghost light slowly dims. When it is out, the play has ended.)
Production Note
Afterthoughts by the Director


What is it that you, me and the last Qing dynasty Emperor, Puyi, could all have in common? Absolute power at the age of two? Two wives for our sixteenth birthday? A flawed come-back in our thirties? Or maybe it's that now we can all be buried together.


text:
Q: Run and clear different programs in python and clear the console and variables I am working with Spyder. I have 50 codes called node1.py to node50.py I want to do this more efficiently than just loading each file manually and pressing the run key.
I have found this tutorial and built a code in which I import the 50 files as import node3.py. However, I would like to close the console after each run to clear all tehe variables. Unfortunately, I don't see anywhere how to do this from a script. Can anyone please tell me what I have to introduce to close the console or clear all what I have introduced?

redpajama_set_name: RedPajamaStackExchange


text:
We Are Gathered Here Today
WCBE 90.5FM | By John DeSando
The height of the COVID menace, about two years ago, is chronicled in We are Gathered here Today as a drama that does laudable service to everything we felt and did during that time.
More than anything else, the remote videos like Zoom and Google gave us are ground zero for our collective anguish. In this tale, a mixed -race, multi-generational family has no choice but to witness the pandemic death of patriarch Henry Stone (Peter Jason) remotely because visitors were not allowed in hospitals at that time.
Heading the entourage is eldest son, Henry Stone (Danny Huston), trying to keep a lid on his complex feelings and those of the immediate family and friends who eventually join the meeting. Writer/director Paul Boyd makes the split screen come alive as if it were a proscenium arch and we in the front row.
I am struck how used to the venue I have become: I immediately studied the performance of first-rate actors and related the many incendiary issues that so frequently poke up as if at a Thanksgiving dinner. Yet, even electronically, I noted, love conquers all.
More than showing the impersonal nature of video connecting, this drama shows the emotions and difficult relationships that could exist in any family, especially in the supercharged atmosphere as the death of the patriarch. No video call could erase the dynamics; rather it mitigates the passion a bit given the remoteness.
We are Gathered Here Today not only details the sorrow the pandemic brings to the world, it also depicts vividly the pain of saying goodbye to anyone at any time. A chronicle about a dark time in our history turns out to be a moving drama about what James Joyce called the "melancholy unity between the living and the dead."
Director: Peter Boyd (I, Challenger)
Screenplay: Boyd
Cast: Danny Huston (The Aviator)
Run Time: 1h 14m
John DeSando, a Los Angeles Press Club first-place winner for National Entertainment Journalism, hosts NPR's It's Movie Time and co-hosts Cinema Classics as well as podcasts Back Talk and Double Take out of WCBE 90.5 FM. Contact him at JohnDeSando52@gmail.com
John DeSando
John DeSando holds a BA from Georgetown University and a Ph.D. in English from The University of Arizona. He served several universities as a professor, dean, and academic vice president. He has been producing and broadcasting as a film critic on It's Movie Time and Cinema Classics for more than two decades. DeSando received the Los Angeles Press Club's first-place honors for national entertainment journalism.
See stories by John DeSando


Flycast Launches New Direct Marketing Unit - InternetNews.
Ad network Flycast Communications Corp. rolled out a new division focused on providing comprehensive Web marketing solutions to traditional direct marketers and direct marketing agencies.
The new division, called Flycast Digital DM, is headed by Scott Grafft, Flycast's vice president of direct marketing and a 15-year veteran in the direct marketing industry.
Flycast Digital DM provides direct marketers the tools, technology and consultation needed to apply proven direct marketing principles and techniques to the Internet, the company said. Flycast said it has already signed a number of customers for the service, including Draft Worldwide, FCB Direct, Grey Direct, FusionDM and Direct Results Group (DRG).
"The Internet is a direct marketer's dream, with its unique ability to measure response quickly and effectively and limit the cost of acquiring new customers," said George Garrick, Flycast's chairman and chief executive officer. "The creation of the Digital DM division is a natural evolution for Flycast as we strengthen our position as the Web's leading direct response network."


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text:
Bloody Kisses ist das dritte Studioalbum der US-amerikanischen Metal-Band Type O Negative. Es erschien im August 1993 bei Roadrunner Records und bedeutete den kommerziellen Durchbruch für die Band. Das Album erreichte in den USA 1995 Gold- und im Jahr 2000 Platinstatus.

Musikstil
Im Gegensatz zum vorhergehenden Album Slow, Deep and Hard wurden die Songs auf Bloody Kisses zugänglicher und melodischer. In die oft düsteren und melancholischen Liedern wurden Choralgesänge, Synthesizer- und Orgelpassagen integriert. Dennoch gibt es auch schnelle, Hardcore-ähnliche Songs. Mit dem Stück Summer Breeze von Seals & Crofts wurde ein Soft-Rock-Song von 1972 in einer Doom-Metal-ähnlichen Version gespielt. Die schnellen Songs sind eher kurz gehalten, die ersten beiden Singles Black No.1 (Little Miss Scare-All) und Christian Woman sind hingegen bis zu elf Minuten lang und bestehen aus mehreren, oft durch Tempiwechsel markierten Teilen. Bei Christian Woman sind diese Teile unterschiedlich benannt. Die Stücke gehen oft direkt ineinander über. Die beiden Hardcore-Stücke Kill All the White People (mit Phil Anselmo) und We Hate Everyone wurden auf der Digipak-Version vom 10. Mai 1994 entfernt und durch Suspended in Dusk ersetzt, der B-Seite der Single Christian Woman (dort mit dem Zusatz: "previously too embarassed to release", zu Deutsch: "bislang zu beschämt, um es zu veröffentlichen"). Can't Lose You ist eine Hymne an die Beatles.

Entstehungsgeschichte
Wie schon das Vorgängeralbum wurde Bloody Kisses in Josh Silvers Studio Systems Two in Brooklyn aufgenommen. Dabei habe laut Booklet neben dem Bensonhoist Lesbian Choir auch das Brooklyn Philharmonic Orchestra unter der Leitung von Verdigris Philogiston mitgewirkt (offenbar eine fiktive Person, die später auf dem Album The Least Worst of erneut auftaucht). Weitere Aufnahmen wurden im Studio Sty in the Sky durchgeführt. Paul Bento ist an Sitar und Tambura zu hören. Etwa zwei Monate nach der Veröffentlichung wechselte Schlagzeuger Sal Abruscato zu Life of Agony, ex-Roadie Johnny Kelly übernahm seinen Posten. Nach den beiden ersten Singles wurde 1994 auch Summer Breeze ausgekoppelt. Am 9. November 1995 erhielt das Album als erstes des Labels Gold, am 14. Dezember 2000 Platin. Besonders in Europa musste sich die Band im Anschluss an die Veröffentlichung häufig in Interviews gegen Vorwürfe verteidigen, auf vorherigen Veröffentlichungen rechtes Gedankengut vertreten zu haben.

Texte
Bei den Texten werden zum Teil Gothic-Metal-typische Themen wie Sex, Tod und Christentum aufgegriffen. Black No.1 ist als ironische Anspielung auf die Gothic-Metal-Szene und deren Anhängerinnen interpretiert worden, allerdings bezog Steele selbst das Lied auf persönliche Erfahrungen:

Bei Kill All the White People (Liedtext: "Kill all the white people / Then we'll be free", Deutsch: "Tötet alle Weißen / Dann werden wir frei sein") und We Hate Everyone kann allerdings nicht von Sensibilität gesprochen werden: Ersteren Song bezeichnete Josh Silver als "Presse-Verarsche", die Stücke sind somit als Reaktion auf die Rassismus-Vorwürfe gegen die Band zu sehen. Die Band gab an, den Hintergrundgesang von Kill All the White People hätten "fünf unserer schwarzen Freunde" eingesungen.

Rezeption
Im Rolling Stone erhielt Bloody Kisses eine eher skeptische Rezension. Julia Szabo setzte sich kritisch mit den Texten auseinander. Sie hob die drei Singles hervor und vergab zweieinhalb von fünf Sternen. Dennoch belegte das Album im Jahr 2014 Platz 88 auf der Liste Die 100 besten Metal- und Hardrock-Alben aller Zeiten der Zeitschrift.

Steve Huey von allmusic.com nannte die Platte einen "größeren Schritt vorwärts", kritisierte aber ebenfalls textliche "Klischees". Die Platte klinge wie eine "Beerdigung", habe aber dem Gothic-Metal-Genre neues Leben eingehaucht. Die Bewertung war 4,5 von fünf Sternen.

Im deutschen Rock Hard nannte Frank Albrecht Bloody Kisses die "Platte, mit der Pete Steele all seinen Gegnern und Neidern das Maul stopfen wird." Er nannte sie textlich "einwandfrei", lobte sie musikalisch sehr und sprach bereits zu dieser Zeit vom "Album des Jahrzehnts", das eigentlich das Bewertungssystem sprenge. Es resultieren zehn von zehn Punkten. In den monatlichen "Redaktionscharts" teilte sich das Album Platz 2 mit The Missing Link von Rage. In seiner Best-of-Liste mit 500 Alben setzte das Magazin Bloody Kisses auf Platz 365. Wolf-Rüdiger Mühlmann nannte das Album mit seiner "Trauerweidenromantik" einen "langlebigen Klassiker".

Titelliste

Originalveröffentlichung
 Machine Screw (Intro) – 0:40
 Christian Woman – 8:55
 Black No.1 (Little Miss Scare-All) – 11:11
 Fay Wray Come Out and Play (Interlude) – 1:04
 Kill All the White People – 3:23
 Summer Breeze (Seals & Crofts) – 4:47
 Set Me on Fire – 3:29
 Dark Side of the Womb (Interlude) – 0:26
 We Hate Everyone – 6:50
 Bloody Kisses (A Death in the Family) – 10:52
 3.0.I.F. (Interlude) – 2:06
 Too Late: Frozen – 7:49
 Blood & Fire – 5:30
 Can't Lose You – 6:05

Digipak-Wiederveröffentlichung
 Christian Woman – 8:53
 Bloody Kisses (A Death in the Family) – 10:56
 Too Late: Frozen – 7:50
 Blood & Fire – 5:32
 Can't Lose You – 6:05
 Summer Breeze (Seals and Crofts) – 4:49
 Set Me on Fire – 3:29
 Suspended in Dusk (neu auf dieser Version) – 8:36
 Black No.1 (Little Miss Scare-All) – 11:15

Top-Shelf-Edition (Wiederveröffentlichung)
Am 5. Mai 2009 erschien eine Wiederveröffentlichung mit einer Bonus-CD mit B-Seiten und Raritäten.

CD 1:
 Machine Screw (Intro) – 0:40
 Christian Woman – 8:55
 Black No.1 (Little Miss Scare-All) – 11:11
 Fay Wray Come Out and Play (Interlude) – 1:04
 Kill All the White People – 3:23
 Summer Breeze (Seals and Crofts) – 4:47
 Set Me on Fire – 3:29
 Dark Side of the Womb (Interlude) – 0:26
 We Hate Everyone – 6:50
 Bloody Kisses (A Death in the Family) – 10:52
 3.0.I.F. (Interlude) – 2:06
 Too Late: Frozen – 7:49
 Blood & Fire – 5:30
 Can't Lose You – 6:05

CD 2:
 Suspended in Dusk – 8:36
 Black Sabbath
 Black Sabbath (From the Satanic Perspective)
 Christian Woman (Edit)
 Christian Woman (Butt-Kissing Sell-Out Version)
 Black #1 (Edit)
 Blood & Fire (Out of the Ashes Remix)
 Summer Breeze (Rick Rubin Mix)

Artwork
Auf dem Albumcover sind zwei Frauen zu sehen, die mit offenen Mündern eng aneinandergelehnt sind.

Auf die Frage, ob das Bild eine Anspielung auf Homosexualität sei, sagte Steele, er habe "kein Problem mit dieser Interpretation."

Weblinks

Einzelnachweise

Album (Heavy Metal)
Album (Gothic Metal)
Album (Doom Metal)
Album 1993

redpajama_set_name: RedPajamaWikipedia


text:
Le boulevard Pierre-Bertrand est un segment urbain de la route 358, à Québec.

Situation et accès
Le boulevard Pierre-Bertrand constitue le dernier segment de la route 358, laquelle débute dans Portneuf et se termine dans l'arrondissement des Rivières, à Québec. Au sud, il débute à la jonction du boulevard Wilfrid-Hamel, dans le quartier Vanier, près de la rivière Saint-Charles. Débutant en milieu résidentiel, il s'élargit ensuite et est divisé par un terre-plein central. Il sépare une zone résidentielle à l'est et une zone industrielle à l'ouest. Il se poursuit dans une zone industrielle et commerciale et passe sous l'autoroute Félix-Leclerc (sortie 312). Dans le quartier Neufchâtel-Est–Lebourgneuf, il rencontre ensuite le boulevard Lebourgneuf, puis se rétrécit de nouveau pour traverser une zone sans service et déboucher sur la route 369 (à l'endroit où le toponyme passe de Louis-XIV à Bastien). Le boulevard se poursuit encore sur quelques mètres vers le nord et donne accès au parc industriel des Carrières.

Origine du nom
Il rend hommage à Pierre Bertrand (1875-1948) député de Québec.

Historique
Tracé vers 1650, le chemin initial sépare les seigneuries de Saint-Ignace, à l'ouest, et de Saint-Joseph, à l'est. Il permet alors aux colons d'accéder au moulin des Mères, sur le bord de la rivière du Berger. La route porte ensuite le nom de Sainte-Claire (ou Sinclair en anglais). Le , à l'intérieur des limites de la ville de Québec-Ouest, la route porte le nom de « 14 avenue » conformément au système de dénominations numériques. Le , on lui confère le nom de Pierre Bertrand, député et conseiller législatif, et ce quelques années avant son décès.

De 2010 à 2013, la majeure partie du boulevard est dotée d'aménagements cyclables.

Bâtiments remarquables et lieux de mémoire

Notes et références

Voir aussi

Article connexe
 Liste des voies de la ville de Québec

Liens externes
 Ville de Québec - Toponymie : Boulevard Pierre-Bertrand
 Commission de toponymie du Québec - Boulevard Pierre-Bertrand

Pierre-Bertrand