on dying? and you? and you?

filled up to bursting. whether ice in the mouth or whether sweat in the space heater's forgiving eye. folded up bones, pushed so close they grind and hurt. filled up to spilling. yes? is this what you mean? no? more on this later, no, more on this now.

she calls herself my work girlfriend, my world is all girls now, a slight gravy of dripping in boy from time to time and then it's mostly me doing the boyness, more on this later (maybe never, don't look too close please, walking next to zeena when we're 10 and she's still shorter than me and i think, "am i a boy?"), at dinner she told the table that i was flirting with everyone from behind the counter, can other people see what we can't? (bursting and spilling over but finding skin to fold it back in again, to keep it secret, the river's run is gushing)


she has a boyfriend. he is subject of great complaint because he is sad. standing behind the counter, i'm leaking vaguely. "i want to talk to him" that's me and "why" that's her and me again "i know him, i know him from everything you've said. we drop our bodies the same. he needs me, i promise." i'd like to be two waterfalls in the same room. the river's run is gushing. is this what you mean?

and then there's mothers and muses, yes? love that is hard to return because it's so far away, yes? and not pushing too hard and asking too much, right? the small and the large. the smell of your own pillow. the balanced equation of a good flick of the wrist. all the shoes you've ever owned. the remembered bits that still have blank spots. the distance between now and some highschool mathematics class. what time you woke up. the punishment you devised. where your phone is buried underneath cast off pants, right? the not-good soup you fucked up.

i mean even (or especially) when things are good and you are in the mud up to your neck like a delighted barn-yard animal, dying dying dying and you'd think people would notice that you are about to combust at any moment, but they don't of course. is this what you mean?

what is the soul? - more questions

"as performers, we're faced with several crucial problems:

what is the soul?
what does it long for?
what are these spirits who inhabit our bodies trying to tell us?

inevitably, what these spirits desperately need to tell us reveals both in our day-to-day lives, and in our performances. because those spirits are so desperate to convey their feelings, they do so without the slightest restraint. at times, it's almost as though they're begging us, 'please, please look.' keep in mind though, that unless you visibly tear yourself apart, we won't understand what those spirits in ou are trying to say."

- kazuo ohno

what is it to be an american
artist
inspired most by the work
emergent from other cultures
responding to american/westernization
civilization
cultural invasion?

what is the relationship of one's heritage and place
to one's soul
and intuition?

(as a sidenote,
i still feel as if i may die at any moment, perhaps tomorrow--
and you? and you? and now? and now?)

why do we say that? i ask
you know, the poor man's x or y
yuckenstein

right, she says
but maybe i just feel that way because i am the poor man
heck, if they wanna gimme that stuff
i'll take it
take all that shit to costa rica
they'll probably miss it

questions

here,
will the trees
never undress themselves
to wait for the snow?

where will my bruises go
when they leave my hips and my shoulders?

if the stars are pinpricks,
where are the edges of the fabric of the sky?

how shall i know what to listen to
when there are so many voices?

could we exhaust the possibilities
of how a human body can move?

where does the beauty of youth go
when one is no longer young?

can dirt come in through your pores and become part of your body?

what is it to dance?

is there ever an ant who lives alone?

if it is warm and sunny,
does winter come without claws and shrieks?

when will the rain come?

if big brother insidious then big sister benighted
on the telephone you become somebody's blister
this is how

not-kingrichard on your feet and in the night
the crusade in new jerusalem
happening on your behalf
your knights move against each other
you are black and you are white
you are glass and marble
(and hey if the child bleeds how will you know)
england is so many miles away

this is how you become somebody's sister
if he can ask for himself then maybe you can too

they handed us rotten coils of rope, my little darling, my fondest hope
planks crumble and raccoons take up residence, oh baby who is not my baby
the gods in our house
blazed through the sky in their chariots
one heading west in the morning
and one heading east
that is how they played it
it worked far better than if they had carved the same path

if i am thirteen and you are five
how can we be the same
we share the flouride and chlorine stains
in our teeth and hair
what did we know
they way they talked about us to each other
we listened too closely
our obedience is spun so finely
it's almost like wearing nothing at all

he says the name over and over again
so its written down with meaning inside our cheeks
i get cankers
you repeat
i've spit out everything that is my mouth
but on the phone is a full blister

Hey fox! thinking you would like this

ANTHEM
by Ariana Reines

I am a mart in the dog and look, here's some merchandise. I am a mart in the dog. Aye.

Being a mart in the dog is like being a world: overstated.

Do you know what love is if you are a mart in a dog. You sell Hoodsies and cigarettes and lotto tickets. You are real.

Do you know what a dog is if you are trapped inside of him.

Everything is part of something.

I am part of something because my life is so stupid.

Being a mousse made of stars  in the night that I want to feel is being too because I am gluey like a girl.

I even am a girl. Wow, fuck me.

Being a night inside of the mouth of a loved boy. Red black and shiny teeth with a tongue. The word of a loved boy has sense.

In mart where there are newspapers  and burnt coffee all night long, bic pens in a jar, scratch tickets and pornography, everything's ok. I am not the nice man in the mart I am the mart itself, which is inside of a dog who would love me by instinct except he doesn't know I am inside of him and a mart isn't an I.

Infinity has got to become mine so that I can know which way to turn, so that I can know in what direction something like morning is breaking.

sometimes

i cannot feel things

how can this be

sex delivered on screens

screams haved no sound

my my my what has happening

yet the longer i dwell

the less there is to tell

it’s just a feeling after all

of loneliness so strong and threatening

as to make one feel heightened mid-fall

but there’s nothing unique about it

this drama repeats

where are we if not above or below the gazes of the others.

policing the gestures that strive toward unpredictable arrangement

busy drowning to

make waves, decorate their places upon the shore

water that their toes may appreciate 

                                                            upon warms sands

“look at the ones out there

the idiots swimming

in cold dark water”

their hair delightfully engaging the wind without risk

bodies as wholesome objects fattening luxuriously spreading outward

their hunger taking on superfluously, leaning toward getting fucked

browning under the sun

dreaming of designs and change

with uncertain amounts of pain.

yeah where is everybody sez elliot, well here's a poem i was juts planning to post :)

--

dear thread, hey way,
me n sweetie took a road trip to mt real.
walked the fuck all around the over every never ending this is hard to believe.
je mange pa le ble'.
downstairs at the upstairs jazz bar clib i had a duke old fashioned, which is whiskey, so that's 21 dec 2013 to 18 jan 2014.
for the record.
three hundred eighty sum days without.
impact and intent.
record of silence.

also this is interesting

http://www.designingasociety.net/

i am in RESOURCE MODE
like making connections like knitting except at the end i DO NOT HAVE A SCARF
dropping words and pennies and then waiting for them to show up in a water fountain
you know, i really think i see it as a good thing in my life when the same advice/recommendation/etc. is coming from two directions at the same time,
this is happening because i am in RESOURCE MODE
and i feel a bit like a spider
an owl-mirror spider-dancer internet-crawling bike-about-er
maybe it is because i realized i will never fully integrate all of my parts
and so i want to integrate the world around me
weave webs tight as blankets that will serve as the walls
of our yurt-trailers in our utopic-dystopic queer perma-village of ephemera
when all of the RESOURCES are gathered
and there will be no more cracks to fall through because
we will not set up our village on a faultline or a cliff
and the crumbling that's happening will be mostly composting
instead of widespread precarity

in the face of precarity i launch into RESOURCE MODE
i danced it today

here's the new game, from leslie who learned it from a butoh artist in the bay who has a very long name that sounds like 'boat':
divide yourselves into pairs, lay out a rope on the ground.
not too neat, squiggled around.
one person goes to the beginning of the rope and closes their eyes.
they will walk, heel to toe, along the length of the rope without falling off, and their partner
holds their hand. the next pair follows, and so on.
upon completing the rope-path, switch roles;
when finished, take a few minutes to discuss.

optional follow-up: stand across the space from your partner. walk toward each other, precariously, with the same feeling as when you walked on the rope, maintaining connection and eye contact the whole time. when you meet, express your state through movement and sound, until satisfied. optionally, discuss.

these are totally some of our friends

http://farmpunk.blogspot.com/

more soon. dance camp is intense and great and weird and there are many more specific things to say, like today i spent 5 minutes curled up sucking my thumb and then moved about it, like floating interviews and learning release again and again and again, my first aerial class today was so fucking hard i thought i might cry, getting inspired by this amazing studio art-space collective and super down-to-earth creators. more. i am dancing till tired then scheming and planning. i have ideas. i wanna hear yours too.

also i am kind of lonely here, moments between busyness, wow where are my friends and my cats? maybe i will make some friends; maybe the ocean.

lol

DECEMBER 2012//

miami fucking sucks
i hear it's the new new york
new york is set to sink in the next 10 years
so they're moving all their crap down here
and no doubt all that steel, all those dollars
all those eyeless bastards/sunglassed douchebags
will weigh this swamp into the ground
and round and round we go

this the place of my nightmares.
synthetic sounds of peaceful nature
make my body quease
can you imagine?

keyboard seagulls
sunsets for your facebook cover photo
birds of paradise seat covers for your backseat

i grew up in a place
where the only rivers are 8 cars deep
what little life remains is parched
dying under the heat of a sun
untempered by all the taken-out trees

we're talking grim looks
heat, hostility
stained skin
on blinding fields of asphalt leading to warehouses of concrete
a burning hellscape

a city that turns into a sirening underworld
of shadows of hunger of sick men
right around 6 o clock
and until the next business day resumes
a whole fucking half of every day you are forced to be resigned
to the safety of your house
or else all the fucking depravity of these lost dicks
will sic you like the last happy meal on earth

landscaping means palm trees
because
what is imagination?

the party doesn't stop but your creativity certainly did
and everything
EVERYTHING
has a price tag.

i thought miami reminded me how to be utterly irresponsible,
cuz i can use doses of that,
but it really reminds me how to feel - culturally, soulfully - POOR.

----------------
woah i was kinda a classist bitch here at the end

FEBRUARY//2012
i'm a girl i'm a girl i'm a girl
oh my god i'm a girl
and when i dance
strange things happen
like melodies take shape
and eyes change lanes
and i become the anger the amusement the need
of all the women who have worn my blood
the women for whom i am another chance, a hope for our future,

who were asked not to dance, (not to dance?!!!)
too sexual
too impractical
too free, too alive
who bled from their wombs just to scream
who hid their wilderness in a pair of jeans
who never stopped dreaming, eyes lingering out the window
hearts snapping
my mother,
my grandmother,
and so and so saint, may they ravage in sleep

and i perform
yes, i perform
and not to see your shit-eating jawdrop
but because performing is living
to move outside yourself, interact with the world,
to know that you are being seen anyway
and so you may as well make it spiritual beautiful
hell, shakespeare said it, no? all the world's a stage.

it's not so scarey when you take responsibility
for the character you create.
and you are creating, aren't you?
the way i see it,
we wear masks now having seen each other's real faces
we wear godshifting costumes
knowing that we'd give it all away

blizzard's coming, wear thick socks

i can never sleep
just before
something
is
about
to
change