A horn sounds — an emergency — a car crash. The onlookers find themselves in a hospital ward, waiting to find out what has happened and how badly the injured are hurt. But the hospital lies through night woods and farmyard and a corn maze, and the blood is fake. […]Read article
Charles Neville was playing New Orleans jazz on Edith Wharton’s terrace. It was a summer night, and his saxophone lifted its voice while children run on the grass.
He lived here, not far from her garden, where contemporary poets read their work. In the Berkshires, many people and communities make one, like streams and springs running across the slopes into to the Housatonic.
People live and build and transform. Spoken word poets, bhangra dancers on a college stage, a young theater company singing Fun Home in a tavern — people celebrate who they are. And the community comes together to honor them.