Sadly there are no more goats on the farm. I wish there were. The Goat Palace holds old set pieces and odds and ends. A very large, squirrel has made it home, running along the rafters, getting a rise out of Luka.
When it wasn’t as full as it is now, we use to use it as a hide away. A reprieve. A small group and a guitar. A shady spot to read, or share stories. Once we tried to use it as an alternative rehearsal space for choreography but so much dust was stomped up, that plan was aborted.
I’ve tried to wash from my mind the night a drummer held a reading of his erotic beat poetry in there. Another too vivid memory, was hanging out with a intimate, late night jam session, while the Serbian accordion player kept alternating between hitting on me and drunkenly expressing his hatred of Roma people. He would shift between leaning into me, speaking quietly, with soft eyes; to spit frothing from his mouth and eyes blazing with fury. It was late and I’d crossed the wall of waking and dreams and started having a panic attack. Thus, began my realization that I am an introvert, who doesn’t handle social over-stimulation well. When it’s passed around, just let it pass you by.