During intermission, A Ti Nyalien corralled the crowd into ecstatic sounds of loneliness, isolation, and joy.
As summer shifted into fall, Literary Creatures tumbled miraculously into place. There were loose plans–very loose, like the soil of a newly burnt field, simply waiting for growth to come find it. An idea of black-light, of a synthesizer; of a typewriter poem and a room dressed in ethereal plantlife. After years of scattering tiny seeds of what Literary Creaturescould be, I signed up for Philadelphia’s Fringe Festival. It felt on the surface like a whim pulled along by the project’s deeper desires: a desire to manifest, to remain fixed, to morph into a concrete experience; an event.