When I visited the place - North Elba, New York, next to Lake Placid - where John Brown is buried, his stone pulled rivers from my eyes. Even now, hundreds of miles and dozens of years away in my home state of Connecticut (where Brown was born), the water pulls from my body toward his.

​

This work - a show about John Brown - is smoldering in my body (as his lies a-moldering in the grave), gathering itself. I imagine the great gravity of that grave stone and living story will gather me, and a composer, and a theatre, in some future we cannot see, though we know it will be beautiful.