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What changes when we change the month
of May to the month of Can?
It is the beginning of a new month with all things possible.
The month renamed as the month of Can.
There is a bird that sings at 3:15 in the morning.
It is still dark now at this time but the bird’s
song makes me think it is light.
How can the bird sing like this in the darkness?
It is hope that dies last.
Randy once said, “We are surrounded by insurmountable
Today is Can one yes? Yes, one can is today.
It is can day.
The day we unite with our fellow laborers around the world.
We can do more than we have done.
We can do anything we set our minds to do.
192 + 291 = 483 + 384 = 867 + 768 = 1,635 + 5,361 = 6,996
Do you love it?
It’s our child isn’t it?
Hou je ervan?
Het is ons kind, niet?
C’est notre enfant, non?
In each mirror, the world exists; and in each world, mirrors
multiply; time moves on - we need to start.
My mind was blank, and I didn’t know what to say.
I found myself reflected in the faces of others, but this
didn’t help me, as their faces revealed very little
– what were they thinking?
I had forgotten if my friend’s father was still alive,
or dead – and how facts eluded me, I sought them out
but couldn’t hold onto them as much as I would have
liked, and despite my efforts to obtain them.
38 years of memories and my mind is blank.
Could you say I’m half dead, midway on life’s
journey, lost on a dark road?
Looking up from the table, I turned left and my image was
reflected in the sideboard mirror, and my face - partly
silhouetted - was unfamiliar to me.
I tread lightly, exuding politeness, and say “may”
instead of “can”.
I turn around on my heels, 180 degrees, and retrace my
Old age is a second childhood.
I sink into the mirror of mercury.
Twilight has arrived; through the window, the green leaves
of the treetops are illuminated with an unreal hue which
lasts for ten minutes, then is gone, though its traces continue
to refract in the glass.
The sun pushes up dragging the toad.
The sun pushes up pulling the rain.
The sun pushes up whispering to the birds.
Beware. A man shouts under water. He pushes his way through
the wall of forgetfulness learning to talk after the car
crash. "When I was younger," he says, "I
was a planet. Now I am extinct."
A whirling dervish is forbidden to pick-up an object or
money if it falls out of his bag while spinning. Coins on
the ground are left behind. To believe is to lose. No longer
retaining possession. Mislaying this and that. Unable to
keep control. Failing to win. Letting oneself not know the
way. As when making tracks, making hay, making no bones
about it, making eyes, making a go at it, making a performance
together. To believe is to leave something behind. We lost
a week to bad weather.
You leave the rest of your day.
Farewell to reason.
We carry hunched stones of the past on our backs so take
up your ancestors and walk.
You died from the deaths of others.
On the horizon
A short-legged horse departs.
Gandhi laughed often and heartily, embarrassing his friends.
This is often left out of his biographies.
A rehearsal of The Sea & Poison in front of
Northside high school students, our first meeting to start
a ongoing dialogue with. The high school students tell us
of a painting project process they have worked on throughout
their school year.
If we jump high enough do you think we can suspend ourselves
off the ground, do you think we can echo a place we haven't
seen before? Can we sit here, can we take this seat, can
we have this dance? How can we alter the previous, the present,
the past, how can we alternate towards change to create
adaptability, with adaptation we must adapt this body to
its surroundings, its renewlocation. We must take this opportunity
to rise, in a single exact jump (I am not quite sure which
number), from falling to jumping, and upwards to rebuilding.
Two sentences for two Tic Toc performances, one for Sara
Schnadt, a tedium of unwinding a wound of coral red, red
blood stained wool, be careful to attend and clean what
is left. For Deva Eveland, a creaturetion of a gymnasium
kindergarten librarian, a mutation of a non-existence with
a protruding rounders bat nose.
He is still breathing, he is now awake, out of the coma,
remember this is another station of his recovery. He can
breathe with a tube inserted into a circular incision in
his throat, a pipe. He has to learn how to swallow, he has
to learn how to sustain breathing for himself, without the
aid of a machine blowing air. Tonight with tiny breathes
I lie awake, tiny jumps of air that suspend and glide like
a small mist, humidifying into his lungs.
Bells of Orthodox Easter will wake her in the night.
She will articulate an incompleteness as if to say here
was a garden of roses.
She will say the listener is the only creator here.
Her arrival will cheer everybody up.
She will sit quietly at this time, and nothing will happen.
She will talk about cooking, concentration, care, and how
does all of this collapse?
She will forget something at the grocery store.
She will have time to assimilate what you think this means
before the time that she will repeat it.
She will say three words that have the word can in them:
She will set a swarm of miracle workers in motion.
She will travel home on the train.
She will dream of speaking with clarity, and she will speak
Three parts of May (entwined):
answers to a writer’s questions in preparation for
our Chicago premiere of It’s an Earthquake in
My Heart, memories of a child named May who came to
stay, email home from Brussels.
There are loops of fear and insecurity that we get caught
in and this piece is about those loops: how they are constructed
and how they might work themselves out through memory, reiteration,
and internal discovery.
May was a problem. She was moved into my room and I was
moved into my mother’s room to share with her.
Here are your instructions for teaching my class Thursday,
A kind of meditation in the form of a list of trees to heal
the psyche of a wounded soldier: The natural world offers
Class is held in the Luddington Building 1104 South Wabash,
third floor (walking up is faster than waiting for the elevators)
May was a young girl. She was moved into my room. She was
to be like a sister to us only different.
We didn't want the imitation to be complete. It proved
too difficult for the knees and so we modified it.
stretch of your arms
the stretch of time
the time of emptiness
the act of emptying
we are sleeping next to each other
the kind of writing that you could call "the daily
here are 2 solutions to spray your plants to keep the bugs
away: coffee or cigarette-butted water
a more chemical solution will more definitely evoke a sort
of 'bug holocaust'
remember i anewadventure he'scontinuedinto andi'mhappy
iknowit'sbest tobeinside myinsidesfeeltoobig itmakes soi'malone
love&concern&explanation amessageonthemachine returninghome
accompaniedforgetfulness driftingresonance lickableleisure
shadowsofthehand lettersshowing iwouldlikerecorded thestinkingwheel
beginningtoleave tellingsomebody unitingwiresbyyourself
associatedsceptically ofastoryrecollectedrandomely refreshingfactisciousattitude
knickersdrawnuptorecall toapurpleknot wilderfixerfashioned
I remember being abnormal as a child and my parents &
friends didn't acknowledge the fact.
Everyone else in the community was in on the scheme to
accept me as a normal person and treat me as such.
When I left my home community it was different.
The new people I met were not in on the plan.
People thought I was abnormal and I realized it was true.
I had to fill them in on the scheme, and slowly learned
to introduce myself.
If I think i can live a private life I am mistaken.
I am a part of a close community and the whole world, watching.
We still perform like we are hungry.
I wanted to write that falls apart.
I wanted to write in a sentence that doesn't hold well
yet holds its place.
It should be quite simple but I don't always realize the
importance of my fragmented thoughts.
193 + 291 = 584 + 485 = 1,069 + 9,601 = 10,670 + 07,601
= 18,271 + 17,281 = 35,552 + 25,553 = 61,105 + 50,116 =
111,221 + 122,111 = 233,332
When you talk to your grandfather, refer to him in the
The mirror shakes in its place, the reflected cars rumbling
by outside the window seem to bump up and down vertically
as they continue forward on their horizontal trajectory.
The long hand of my watch continually overtakes and laps
the short hand - the here and now is frantic, always ticking
over, difficult to process, but the slower time, the hourly
pacing around its 12 hour cycle offers a structure to make
the reflection of the cars still, clear, defined.
Shake hands with business colleagues and always offer
them a small gift at the start of a meeting.
When you meet a stranger, mirrors shake with excitement,
because the world is multiplying.
Now I’m calm, content with my lot, with the here
Three kisses on the cheek: left cheek, right cheek,
Approaching 40, childless, but there are children within
I strategize how I move around a room.
People are generally outgoing and use nicknames, but
avoid planning business trips in June, July and August.
I marvel at those who don’t seem to be in a hurry.
I feel the time running out, constantly ticking away, behaving
as a mirror that does not reflect.
Are words birds?
That fly through TV picture shows after midnight?
Lining up on the horizon line of Hogan's Heroes, Hawaii
Five-O, and Hill Street Blues?
Like drops of rain on the telephone wire, they perch
Tern. Black Tailed Gull. Sage Sparrow.
to spell The Dead want their portraits painted.
My name is Arnold. I was born in Tiegen, West Flanders,
in the eleventh century. I lived as a monk at the abbey
of St. Medard. As by knowing one lump of clay, we come to
know all things made of clay. As by knowing one gold nugget
we come to know all things gold. As by knowing one brew,
we come to know all things brewed. And so I came to know
the invisible as winter loomed and the city flooded with
plague. Verily, verily, I say unto you, hail the brew.
Verboden Vrucht. Dark, strong, with a spicy aroma.
Rochefort 10. Dark and sweet with a fruity palate.
Orval. Amber. Malt. A great aperitif.
If we change the month of May to the Month of Can, we can
paint your portrait.
When did you die?
"I was killed here one cold night in March."
You will need to sit still for a long time.
Two days ago I reached the age of 29, and yet a voice is
still missing, yet his breathing is still here. At the gym
we pack up The Sea & Poison props in their
trunks once more for another departure to a new city of
Brussels. Last night we made chalk dust markings. Stick
figures on a concrete floor outside of an El stop, repeated
over and over rhizome patterns on the pedestrian tracks
to and from the city. A point to remember loss, suddenly
tonight with a spring downpour the figures are gone. They've
lost their motion, the smallness of marking, has lost itself
this evening, a disappearance of change. What would Hans
Christian Anderson say now, once the voice has gone, once
a year has gone. To look and feel blind in the throat, as
if a possibility of sight has come this year and still,
withholding itself. Clear tight marbles filled with air
bubbles swirl themselves around the lair. Careful not to
swallow or you can lose your place and have to start again.
After cycling home in another rainfall from the joint birthday
party of Katrina, Eleanor and I, I make a phone call. I
just want to know when I can bring him home Mark, then I
Travel plans will wake her in the night.
She will articulate a difficulty remembering an exquisite
tetrahedral shape as if to say here was a heart beat.
She will say she used to dye her hair, but now she dyes
her I hate America.
Her Mother's Day greeting will cheer up her mother.
She will sit in silence, she will sit in science.
She will talk about the multiple causes of self-consciousness.
She will forget to turn off her lights in the grocery store
parking lot in the rain.
She will have time to move the Same towards the Other and
time to not return it to the Same.
She will see four words that have the word can in them:
She will set a cup of water in motion on the lift of stain
from auto-upholstery instruction that betokens dance.
She will travel seven hours ahead.
She will dream of over Gander, Newfoundland a mirror that
reflects the sound of a bell.
She stands with her fingers flicking at odd angles, her
mouth is open, it looks as though her tongue is in mid swing.
It’s not a wince but there is something around the
eyes. He and I are smiling, he at me with a devilish glint
and I at her, beckoning. He and I are walking along the
edge and looking back to see her cantering toward us with
one foot in a slight drag.
The part-time office is across the hall, you’ll see
my name on a drawer in a file cabinet, there are some papers
in there for you.
It is a delicate thing, it involves dichotomies of power
and vulnerability, destructive mobility and helpless stasis,
and the burdens of our own customs.
My mother is behind the windshield of a car, she has arrived
at a scene between three children: we two positioned close
at the elbow and leaned together, I have an arm straight
out towards May who is placed at a slight remove, she is
Imitation became a part of it and the concentration on
imitation brought a certain kind of focus to the look of
You can also leave everything for me in there at the end.
There is the ocean behind us and palm trees and the laundry
line stretched between them. The sky, of course, is blue
with a few white clouds.
To keep May away we taught her the wrong words to the songs.
mastermixer wilderfixerfashioned toapurpleknot knickersdrawnuptorecall
refreshingfactisciousattitude ofastoryrecollected associatedsceptically
unitingwiresbyyourself tellingsomebody beginningtoleave
thestinkingwheel iwouldlikerecorded lettersshowing shadowsofthehand
driftingresonance accompaniedforgetfulness returninghome
amessageonthemachine love&concern&explanation soi'malone
itmakes myinsidesfeeltoobig tobeinside iknowit'sbest andi'mhappy
he'scontinuedinto anewadventure i remember
i'm a smaller body maybe 4 years old i'm wearing a pink
zip up jumpsuit even though i remember that the one i had
was blue and although meant to be pajamas, i would wear
this blue suit out to dinner-party-visits with my parents,
but this pink one made me look a bit like a bunny, and i
see myself mingle between taller adults who are wearing
dark clothes and holding drinks and talking and the party
goes on late and then i
Penny Rae took us to brunch at her house in Saint-Gilles.
Karen said she and CJ saw someone auctioning off a pair
A man has a Pink Panther theme song cell phone ringer and
when he answers
his accent sounds like Inspector Clouseau.
Titanne has a frog croaking cell phone ringer sound and
when it croaks
Matthew throws one of our frogs at her.
Our theater in Brussels is called De Kriekelaar (which
As we arrive we see a lot of kids there for a birthday
We enter through the garden from the side.
It is our dress rehearsal, and we see for the first time
our new super
titles in Flemish & French.
The first two questions of the performance in Flemish are:
Hou je ervan?
-Het is ons kind' niet?
The first two questions of the performance in French are:
-C'est notre enfant, non?
Later two frogs jumped out from Matthew's armpits and Mark
spun around like
a spider making her web.
We rehearse with the sound of the kids playing in the garden.
194 + 491 = 685 + 586 = 1,271 + 1,721 = 2,992
The opening night of The Sea & Poison in Brussels:
many in the audience laugh at the opening lines of text,
it feels like this will be a good show.
At the post-show discussion, all the questions and responses
from the audience were about the environment, politics,
war, culture; no questions about form, structure, and
how did you create that movement?
After one hour of enigmatic, slowly unfolding somber reflection,
scenes and texts concerning childhood, rumination, recreation,
re-creation, distanced memory recall, there is an outburst
of energy – performers separately or together engage
in movement trials, games, exertions:
Mark balances inverted on his cheek;
Karen repeatedly stands, and swoons into another fall;
Matthew overreaches, dazed, then dashes from one end of
to the other;
Bryan swirls and tumbles, hands over stretched, offering
This reaches a culmination with a baroque soundtrack, and
then emotion floods in because it’s not anything like
my life, but I recognize its struggle and play, and it’s
touched an essence, despite everything else – it feels
unclear, formless, chaotic, I don’t know the why.
Now it’s the center point, the axis of my writing,
the midpoint of the middle entry for May, this sentence
will turn on its 31st word, and that word is departure,
and from this moment, the middle of my life (already passed),
I am closer to my anticipated death on 13 December 2040,
than my documented birth on 17 October 1963.
And soon, figures are hunched over, hands on knees.
Standing or walking in line, bringing the performers down
to the height of a child while also suggesting the hunched
over spine of the elderly.
How did the spine end up like that? How did your body grow
into this shape? It’s inexplicable.
We grow smaller as time goes on.
We say of those who die in their 50s, they died so young,
before their time.
Death shows up and measures the inseam of your pants. You
talk. Then you forget. The Christmas lights. The neighbor's
car. Your own mother sitting at the table slicing bread,
blankets the encounter. Yet somewhere quietly he sits embroidering
your name on cloth.
Belgian lace is renowned for the fineness of the thread.
Flanders lace was worn in the royal courts of Paris and
London. Queen Elizabeth, the first, owned more than three
thousand lace dresses. Her courtiers wore lace ruffs stiff
with starch. Lace reached its zenith of popularity in the
mid-nineteenth century when an estimated 10,000 women and
girls worked as lace makers.
My name is Arnold. I have two things to tell you. A red
sky at night is the shepherd's delight. A red sky in the
morning is the shepherd's warning.
Three sets of twins, twelve years old, stand on the hill
posed for a portrait by the photographer. Each couplet is
dressed in matching outfits. Plaid. Maroon. Wool. They all
wear lace collars and the masks of a fox. I cannot tell
them apart. But embroidered on the pocket of their shirts,
in bright yellow thread, are their names: Amelie, Hugo,
Marianne, Rosa, Luc and Jeanne.
We wake to the cool grayness of Brussels, after a previous
evening of The Sea & Poison performance. After
an evening where a bag of Claire's from Forced Entertainment
with a lost address book from over years and years of collecting
was stolen on the way back to the hotel - Stop that man.
Was I in a northern England town and keeping up in running
after that man was not going to happen.
Now in grayness we walk through buildings of rain decay,
we pass a wall with drilled holes, inserted in the concrete
surfaces were flower heads. Somehow it helps to stabilize
and pollinate itself, to think of this building in a state
of collapse, of its stories and history and then to stabilize
with nature, with a moment to see a process of a possible
attempt towards surfaces healing. A tender moment of yearning
to connect with histories past, and yet he still breathes.
We walking are, Boris, Lucy, Nicholas, Litó, Matthew, Lin,
Karen, Cj, Bryan, and Mark, around a wooden table we sit,
in a wooden room. Where elderly figures pass through the
mid morning with cards and chess, coffees and tea. In this
morning we talk of change of our web site, of surrounding
ideas and connectivities with the new site.
In the hallway of the festival eating area (an old courtyard
that has been repaired and covered with a glass ceiling)
was a red carpet, at this moment not fleeing in the night
but two figures walking, jump up and glide along the corridor
A Passover between Matthew and I between 23:59 and midnight,
a cut off point, a segway moment, a clarity to this other
time, Sunday has arrived to Matthew.
Her shaking calmed by feeling a heartbeat, larger on one
side to repair the world, she slept and dreamed of a cormorant.
She saw it travel to add stars to the sky.
They saw the grasshoppers like rays from the sun, and they
thought of the things they had lost in the wind.
There was a can in the canal, and there was no history in
that nor was there candy nor was there farming.
Bells began to ring at 9:45 and continued at intervals through
the Pentecost morning.
To experience these recurring images not as narrative but
as a pointing to it.
She heard that beautiful things are difficult.
She sat in silence with her wealth where her friends were.
With more haste and less speed they departed the garden.
He said he was first a citizen of the world, his homeland
everywhere, and a foreigner to everyone.
As to whether he was right, here was a garden of roses,
here was a heart beat, because, as it is said, one plays
A telephone rang in a nearby room in the hotel, waking him,
and he counted 120 rings, one every 2 seconds, four minutes
of unanswered ringing, provoking a vague nocturnal dread
and thoughts of St. Anthony's bell that rings in the desert.
Songs to her were words away to keep safe and never May
quit trying. Years on, May looked back saying: I’ve
got your words hanging.
Her fingers are chipped and raw, the nails are bitten and
soft with ragged cuticles.
I have warned the students that they will need to be wary
of the time but they will need you to remind them. Let them
go when you are finished.
Everything became supercharged in the aftermath of Sept.
11th because issues we were working with were engaged on
an immediate level.
Her nose is deeply freckled, she wrinkles it often.
We haven't changed anything since the terrorist attacks
but it is almost as if we were ready for it, ready with
this piece as a response. It was a response to the condition
of our world right now, and though our world changed drastically
it isn't really so different is it?
They are Melissa, Beach, Ray, Del, Dane, Joanna, Chris,
Patrick, Megan, Justin, Rachel, Jon, Angela, Tony, and Brock
(there are 15 of them).
My brother, Nick, will do whatever I want in order to manipulate
me. I put my hair behind my ears, as my chin moves down,
my eyelids open and the focus rises to the lash edge looking
up through the tops of my eyes in a way meant to convince
May of that which was definitely untrue.
was running running down the beach to get home, i was naked
full grown and strong and i had shampoo in my hair and it
was running down my face as i ran, and i ran strong between
the houses on the slope it was getting morning and people
were puttering in their gardens and garages but i just kept
trying to get through the constructions of houses and cars
and soon i saw the busy streets and recognized the intersection
and i knew i was close
themengreeteachother withashriekingvoice toherhusband thewomannextdoorcomplains
theweightoftheirbody thesoundoftheirhoovesresonate hearingdonkeyspassmyhouse
wavesofoceanorsea thesoundofwindthatsoundslikelapping wakingto
iwasprotected sleepingdeepintherock was i when
In the wee hours of the morning Geert Van Istendael told
me about his one
visit from the angel that inspired his hand.
Once in a lifetime he was able to write eight perfect lines.
As for me, I can wait for angels and that is the easy part.
It is when they are gone and have charged me with their
work (my work) that
the actual impact of their visitation is weighted and driven
like a rivet.
My angels extend my to do list and fix me longer to this
We are 30,000 feet and wings.
We wait for the solid ground.
I have a long day to write.
We gain seven extra hours flying westward so I am allowing
myself 3 1/2
I have a feeling that I've left something behind, blue
above, 7 hours ahead
and 5 shows under our belt.
We ride a 767, land at 7:37, gain 7 hours rewind to 12:37
and touch down
home sweetly in Chicago.
Teresa and Jake
I take a nap and dream about releasing hundreds of birds
from their cages at
an ancient medieval city center.
There was also a cloud of bugs that the birds devoured.
This event was accompanied by the sound of a Disneyesque
singing a happy song as the flocking and feasting was in
I relocated this dream from the ancient city to the farm
yard where I grew up.
195 + 591 = 786 + 687 = 1,473 + 3,741 = 5,214 + 4,125 =
“This is Chicago.”
We move from one performance to the next.
We pivot around issues, concerns, theories, themes; and
as we swivel on the hairpin, shifts occur.
Cultural biography, imitation, likeness, striving, dichotomies,
all take on new shapes and hues.
The mirror on the cabinet door is swung shut, revealing
the murderer standing in the doorway – place the camera
in the right spot, place the mirror in the right spot.
Lean in to the mirror to examine the blemishes, spots,
scars - apply lotions and powders.
Mark the center point of the day, the work day, the film,
the working week, the flight, the journey – from which
point we approach our destination, our conclusion, with
a new momentum.
props are in their place
an empty performance space
a thin veil of chairs
a transparent cocoon around an asymmetrical space
a damaged space which cannot be mirrored
Brick wall, exposed theater lights, some hanging in storage,
the safety curtain is pulled up.
Turn around four times in place, stop one time each on
North, East, South, and West.
Small circular pieces of paper thrown in the air, are confetti,
snowflakes, stars, constellations, rain - spread across
the landscape, covering the injured soldier.
Most of what is said hangs in the air: what if we call
this a conversation?
Are words birds sent through the skies to remove people
from the face of the earth?
"I want my portrait painted", whispers Jeanne,
the dying girl on the brown hill.
Belgium's brewers pay homage each July to St. Arnold. At
a time of plague, Arnold is said to have immersed his crucifix
in a brew-kettle; thus encouraging the populace to drink
beer, rather than water. Suddenly, the plague ended. The
water had probably been communicating the infection, while
beer -- being boiled during production -- remained a much
safer drink. Official estimates suggest there are now over
700 beers to choose from in Belgium.
Participants in a study watched a film of a car crash.
"How fast were the cars going when they hit each other?",
they were later asked, except the word "hit" was
replaced by contacted, bumped, or smashed. Results showed
that the particular word used influenced the speed estimated,
with the word smashed evoking the highest average (40.8
mph), bumped (38.1 mph) and hit (34.0 mph), with contacted
being the lowest at 31.8 mph. When further questioned a
week later and asked if there was any evidence of broken
glass, those who had been tested using the word smashed
were consistently more likely to incorrectly report the
presence of broken glass.
A rehearsal of It’s an Earthquake in My Heart
in front of Northside high school students to continue our
ongoing dialogue with. This time can we appears
to have changed to a relaxed comfortability, towards an
informal may we in how they view and interact with
the performance. After the rehearsal we pack Earthquake
props in their trunks once more for another departure to
the Athenaeum Theatre in Chicago. If we run fast enough
do you think we can suspend ourselves off the ground, do
you think we can echo a place we haven't seen before. In
running, can we sit here, in a chair of absence, may we
take this seat you’re running with. Can we have this
Bauchian dance, have we been able to alter previous through
a collision of the present of the past. To adapt our bodies
onto others from running, falling, collapsing upwards and
This afternoon in my Chinatown home I have planted a garden
on individual steps to lead you to the front door. There
are tall grasses with marigolds and silvas, English ivy,
tall grasses, pink geraniums, tall grasses, a hanging basket
of petunias, tall grasses, dahlias, a fuchsia hanging basket
on top of a barrel. A hope to connect with nature, of growth
that I have been unable to see.
Lucy's mother has had a stroke, her left side is immobilized,
she is in the hospital, what can be happening, we discover
frail bodies. They have taken away the pipe out of his throat,
that has been a back up for his breathing pattern, still
he doesn't talk, still he lies, they have increased his
physio for him to learn how to grip, to move small objects
to a certain distance.
I dreamed I was the Grand Canyon, and I echoed every word
that you said.
It is night that falls but day that breaks; can we outrun
the saints in our names?
The hour of birth was full of danger and there was little
peace in it.
Grand Canyon candy canal she will have seen cancer
she will have said
Thus began rerun season; the temple bell commemorates the
birthday of the Buddha, with free parking provided at the
adjacent butcher shop.
To see the wood in the table and the words in the sentence.
Stravinsky hums a tune at the piano, tentatively touching
the keys, that one day will become The Rite of Spring.
So that the voices of sanity might not go unheard, she silently
practiced one hour of non-action.
I would like to thank today's penumbral eclipse.
I said I had intended this to become one of 48 love songs.
As to whether I was right, here was a garden of roses, here
was a heart beat, because, as it is said, one plays the
flute for oneself.
She awoke in the night with the realization that she was
still a beginner.
We have had to learn even more about patience and quiet
We children startle as the door slams shut, the hiccoughs
took three days to go away, we taught the wrong words to
the songs. What was the night like in the room at the end
of the hall? Her parents peddled their wares on different
islands. Take the “r” out of “Mary,”
take the sing out of song, Mother May I, yes you may.
As I'm sure you noticed, I got cut off as we were trying
to converse and I couldn't get back on, I'm performing in
Brussels, I'll send more later right now I need to get off
line again, I may be running up a huge bill.
Working away for small reward and having as much patience
as we ask of our audience.
I hope all is well in your corner.
There were three parents, there were three children, there
was one May, one Mary, two siblings, countless giggles both
gathered and scattered, a few airplanes, hundreds of miles
between, 8 months, three bedrooms, one house, one beach,
five palm trees, a hill and an ocean, countless grains of
sand, the wind, the song—two songs sung together—and
two versions: the wrong and the right.
It is about a kind of tolerance of that which is not completely
explicable. In time, and with reflection, the piece reveals
itself. It is like a piece of music.
when i was sleepingdeepintherock iwasprotected wakingto
thesoundofwindthatsoundslikelapping wavesofoceanorsea hearingdonkeyspassmyhouse
thesoundoftheirhoovesresonate theweightofthebody thewomannextdoorcomplains
toherhusband withashriekingvoice the mengreeteachother "theracehasbegun"
'holocaust bug' of sort a evoke definitely more will solution
chemical more a water butted-cigarette or coffee away bugs
the keep to with plants your spray to solutions 2 are here
"me daily the" call could you that writing of
other each to next sleeping are we
emptying of act the
emptiness of line the
time of stretch the
arms your of stretch
I am carving a granite marker for my grandparents’
It is not patience that carves stone.
It is not diamond or carbide that carves stone.
It is up at 5 AM the sun.
It is my multitude of light thoughts.
This evening we are running a dress rehearsal at the Athenaeum
Theater in Chicago.
The flight of steps, the front box office, the long hall,
the restrooms, the carved balcony, the paneled walls, the
empty plush red seats, the dressing rooms. . . everything
exists for the stage.
Our audience, our light and our performance space is on
Teresa, Jake, Eli, Margaret, Chris, Scott, Lin and CJ maintain
a silence around us.
We do it so many times that we can do it perfectly (easily)
without thinking about it.
Then we can perform it; but now being mindful of what it
At the end of the evening we leave the theater a ghost
light in the darkness.
196 + 691 =
“Do nine men interpret?” “Nine men,”
At the post-show discussion in Chicago, there are questions
about form and structure, and certain elements of the performance
- sections, subsections and interruptions - are described.
When will we grow up?
The six year old’s daily school homework will make
him a resentful but reliable worker - in old age, his hands
struggle to hold a pen, and his eyesight is fading.
The small child, on her first flight, turns to her grandmother
soon after take off, and asks: “are we getting smaller
The car’s back window framed a picture: part night
road receding, part my face reflecting.
As the performance approaches its conclusion, there is
an understanding which spreads backwards, that encapsulates
what has come before, that engages the present moment with
the experience of what has already unfolded.
The memory of the performance is held differently, we know
there are only minutes remaining.
What has been mirrored, what has been reflected back on
us, when did the performance turn in on itself?
For a long time it moved forwards, leaving its traces,
its evidence, disparate, unconnected, bewildering, then
a point came where it turned in on itself, a circle was
closed, and what was separate, singular, became a continuum,
part of a whole, which contained echoes, repetition, coherence:
and two ideas seem to mirror themselves although they are
themselves worlds apart.
This lecture feels like nothing else.
In each mirror, the world exists; our view of the world
is partially hidden by our own reflection; and in each world,
mirrors multiply; time moves on - we need to stop.
The sun pushes up hitting the trucks on their way home.
I can see them clearly.
The sun pushes up bumping the trucks on their way home.
I can see them rocking.
The sun pushes up smashing the trucks on their way home.
Windshields are cracking.
We perform The Sea & Poison. A friend sees
it for the second time, a year later.
"Why did you edit the part where someone is given
an award?" she asks.
"But we never had an award in the piece," I reply.
"You know the part. I think someone did it while standing
on the green turfs. I'm sure of it."
I plead with her.
"I'm sorry, Louise. It never happened."
Stories end but you have to carry on with the rest of
Everything ends with flowers. Daffodils. Peonies. Carnations.
We carry hunched stones of the future on our backs so take
up your grave and walk.
You have already died from the deaths of others.
But look at the brown hill on the horizon.
Men moving their hands back and forth secretly nod, called
A helmet with nothing inside it.
Night falls over skinny mosquitoes.
Split my words in the grass and make them soil again.
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