A large part of this story took place a while back. And quite a bit of it tomorrow. Such is the poetic license of liturgical drama.

The typewriter is dusted and pencils are sharpened, doors are closed and heady music is played to drown out the sounds of man and nature behond the cell of staggering creation.

I write primarily as an entertainer. But I find that whehter you're writing comically or dramtically, you write from a point of view of someting that disburgs or outrages you.

The plot surges forward, complex gears mesh and strip and make a hell of a lot of noise -- drowning out the worki of true masters like that Mozart fellow and what's-his-name Handel.

. . . If you lose their interest, your're closing Saturday night.