There's an unsteadiness of unreality to this fantasy that will make it hard to take, except in the camps of those committed minority drumbeaters, for its wilderness of waifs is without woe or humanity while its sounds are those of ululations and muzzy hystorics (that's the way you get when you've finished). Items in the picture; foreground, Marietta MaGhee-Chavez who is the heir to the country of Spain, the possessor of the legendary Colcha stitch and the savior of a road-runner, dying in Woolworth's before he is sold as a macaw; background, the travelers who tell their tales as they find their way to her place of glorifications where dream commodities include a wake (this brings in a coroner, a priest and a nun for a body that comes to life); stage right,- her husband who is hoping to become that in fact as well as name and who dreams too of restoring her usefulness to his shop, ""Artifices of Spain""; stage left, -- all the definitions of Spain, the Highway and the machinery of dream and circumstances. Backdrop might be the ""country of self""; the decor is from many psychological case histories; the dialog slips from biblical to garbled grotesqueries -- and it all goes over the hill on moonbeams. Place -- West 23rd Street, New York City. For the initiate -- a dilly of a Dall.