Howell's Opera MMouse

February 05, 2010

A friend invited mme along to see a performance by a big city poet at Howell’s old Opera House. She said the building’s first floor had been remodeled into a gorgeous gallery space. Arriving at the front door I could see the walls on the two opposite sides were the old brick of the original place still in good shape. They definitely were cleaned up; a great addition to the new make-over.

The floors were redone, sparkling and shining of all the new materials. The ceiling was in good shape as well. The front wall, all glass had enough depth to display and view many works of art. Looking out to the street from the inside was also part of the wall including letting in the available light of the day.

Watching the poet’s first set was an enjoyable surprise. During the long intermission, curiosity begged mme to walk down a hallway. Turning to the left, low and behold was a door. A note on the door read, ‘Do not enter with food or drink.’ Being an adventurous sole I just put the drink on the floor and in a corner.

I opened the door which led to a half staircase going up. Needless to say I ventured up that part of the stairs. Then having to turn left began walking up the other half. At the top was another wooden door that to some would say, open. I did. It was kind of dark in there but a few dimly lit and bare light bulbs supplied enough light to allow anyone who traveled this far to walk even further.

I was entering the huge room of the Opera House. To the left was a stage about three or four feet high. An old theatre curtain still hung, but closed back on both sides. The place where all the seats would be was open and empty. I could hear a few people talking so I figured it wasn’t against the law to just look around.

On the wall to the left of the stage were windows to the outside. They were tall, narrow and bare of curtains or coverings giving a view of outside. The wall opposite was an unfinished brick. A balcony was built opposite the stage that gave a great view of the stage if in fact there were any kind of performance.

In the middle of the ceiling of the big room hung a humongous ceiling light. It was very ornate and too big for anyone’s living room unless you were Bill Gates, Charley Chaplin or the Queen of the Nile. It dominated the room like a monster.

Everywhere I walked the old wood floors creaked and echoed through the room. Stepping up to and facing the pillars that held up the balcony one could see that people had left their scraped in the old paint, calling cards from years past. The colour of the columns appeared to be a dark blue - green shade.

Again, the dim light made brighter may have made a difference in the real colour. It certainly wasn’t chartreuse, pink, orange, yellow, white, red or anything close to those except blue green. I continued walking around while feeling the call of the past as I slowly gravitated to the stage area.

Facing the stage and on the right side was another door which of course was opened. Sauntering up the short wooden stairs needless to say I was in the backstage area. Scanning the area, I was now near where the curtain guy would have been. That job is probably called something but damned if I know.

There was another bare blaring light bulb on a short stand used for light that wasn’t very directional. I was still able to walk around the stage with again more creaking sounds. The back wall of the stage was again old brick. Then I walked over to the right hand side of the back stage area where another person stood. She called mme over and said, “Look here, look at all these old things.”

‘Here,’ was a bare 1” x 6” board wall she wanted to show mme. She had a pretty strong flashlight that shone on the wall she was pointing towards. On the wall were a slew of signatures, personal quotes, old posters and such from yesteryear.

It was amazing that so many of them were still in good shape and readable. I can’t remember exactly what any of them said but suffice it to say they all concerned who was there as well as what shows were once performed there.

After seeing all that I left the stage and walked across the huge room again just so I could say I was in the balcony of Howell’s Opera House. Opening one of the two back doors that opened to an anteroom I followed the smell to the balcony steps and walked up the very dark stairs. I stood there for a moment in silence.

The view from the top was pretty cool to say the least. I walked up to the end of the balcony and scanned the whole place. I wondered when this part of the building would be completed so performances of all kinds could continue like they did in the past. That’s when I got the urge to move in and do it mmyself.

I dreamed of living in the place while working on it at the same time. I had visions of being the mouse in the opera house. I also felt inspired to paint there as well. Creating a community painting project immediately came to mmind.

I imagined it would be a great opportunity to in fact raise not only funds for the projected renovations but it certainly would bring more awareness to the opera house itself. Being the dreamer that I amm after seeing and inspired by all this I had to inquire as to the plans of the future of the building. I had thoughts of what to do next in order to get ready for the community and how to work as well as live in the bare environs. The place was begging to be useful once more. So was I.

You’re probably all smiling, frowning or even laughing at this point. I wouldn’t blame you of course. But that’s the way I thought when I was there as well as a few weeks after when trying to connect with the powers that be in order to fulfill that dream. When leaving the poet’s performance and after questioning a few locals about who was in charge, I left with a few cards with phone numbers that I did eventually call. One answering machine led to the next and so on and so on.

At the end of this little cliff hanger, no it never happened; but it was a nice dream anyway. When finally reaching someone ‘they’ told mme there was a five million dollar estimate on the next phase of the reconstruction. Plans were in the works.

Unfortunately for mme the answer to the mouse question was not only that it would be impossible for mme to live there mostly due to insurance reasons, but in fact and no thank you, mmy help wasn’t needed either. C’est la Vie! Adios pal.

What can I say? On the other hand I always think if one doesn’t ask then won never nose. In any case I’mm not dead yet and at this point that work is not completed yet either. I haven’t checked lately to see if it’s even begun but this story reminds mme to try that again. Whether it will ever happen or not I’d still like to be:


Howell’s Opera MMouse

I want to live in Howell’s Opera House.
I want to live like Howell’s Opera MMouse.
I crave to heal the floors
Too fix the crumbled walls - broke doors.

You’ll climb the stares,
Here wild audience’s cheered
They cried through tears where prose acted out.
We’ll reclaim the balcony
Bear witness is auld mmelodies made relevant
Threw dusted hues tended
Heaved din dearth up ended from bountiful toils.

Yes, to live ‘n work width-thin these old hauls
Aye; want to heal worn age is, falls,
And carry on curtains call in stage is
Boards adorned worn passed century’s phased diss
Sworn to linger in memories of pages cast a sighed.

Through times stood still
Of those who peeked act’s bash or
Those who spoke ‘fore cash
In tomes while gleaming up write
A loooooong, daze dawns to
Cow noise night’s full moons forlorn.

They’ve left the columns grazed of glad songs,
Sobbed with sad songs - light’s bright - praised
Good bye’s to those who’ve scene the grandest and
Clasped their hands outlandishly sow as they would
Hear the plays, wild listening to memorised lips
Written scores of actor’s and barmaids
Trading smiles mid-chews ‘n spittoons

End of trail workers listening to olde English smerkers
While slurring plied drinks words slip through the glass
To friends unsteady in gingham, pinks, curve’s ready ‘fore
Standing ovations end whished never friends.
Tall blends of dreams ‘n holler’s, ‘n whoops
In Howell’s Opera House – restored, recouped
Wouldn’t it be some thing – gist to re: due?
Yep, I want to live like Howell’s Opera MMouse
Wood in chew.