Piles of oranges fill a cart along Anfu Lu, in the French Concession of Shangai ... I walk the cobblestone streets lignted with French imported trees, and dream up a new play
Learning Mandarin is like learning a new instrument, it is a song. The sweepers-rhythm plays well against the sing-song voices of the Chinese,
while ex-pats crowd into more-than-western cafes sipping their lattes with their babies in carriages ...
The theatre fills up at night to see shows from all over the world, and men outside play cards leaning over benches with cigarettes in hand ... the dogs bark and chase each other, and wrap their leashes around our feet.
Next week I will perform as Anais Nin and a nurse in TheatreRUN's French play about Antonin Artaud's life and letters. Bur right now, I curl into Divisadero by Michael Ondaatje, at Cafe Merianbad, where I smoke cigarettes indoors and listen to the sounds ... Shangai's air is filled with a pulsating energy; sky scrapers pierce the sky beside the image of an older world ... Change is something that happens overnight here. There is an area that has never been developed because it is cursed. An old couple died because they refused to leave their home. I listen to these stories and the sounds, and I realize I am part of the music of the city now, my pen taps on the desk, my coffee cup clinks on its saucer as I look up ...
