Postmodern return

No grammar of us no more me in theorizable sight only a site for more and absent all my work is all my life he you we are how and so nothing of them to persist or retain only remain if and only if these hands shortening to time doored fraying not ordinary but wigged or protrusion off ending nor traceable ginger giver girl live alone a beautiful place to take your eyes off me put my response in the inbox reuse dignifying thought and we. Though you are now, algal and loping as always. If for, then three.

It is true we undo each other

Our rooms decorate us

It is true

You brought with you an aspiration for the silver screen
Stowed delicately in your silver purse
Stringed

And loping
You travel a direction
Fated to be multiple

A Californian for a girl slung a carefree arm through mine on one of the first warm spring days. A true warmth, the kind that makes you want to kayak. At that point I had no superstitions about writing about the past, and a lack of interest in prophetic lines. Immediacy, orgasm, drugs, that life precedes my lateness. The Californian (she) didn’t pretend or flinch. She drank a canned beverage as she made offers. I conceded to her strange ways in all modes except sexual. A romance bloomed between us through winters and springs. I wonder if my two Californian friendships benefit from the coastal time difference. The 2 times. Now, she maps her route with regard to water and wisdom. I strive to become a better listener. Less anxious, I think. We contact each other from time to time. 

Note

When you're making an improvisational performance, it's the state of mind that you choreograph. Your materials become your thoughts and emotions and memories. Your body and its sensitivity are tools that help shape material. A measure of goodness becomes a measure of authenticity, honesty, patience, proximity to or distance from your self. The work becomes a self-knowledge and development of tools to bring you to an improvisational state.

The simplicity of chaos blew through my window last Sunday

Now I'm moving slowly out of necessity. I have rediscovered an indefatigable fascination with time. Faith in the visibility of moments surrounds me. I am looking at darkness as merely an expression of that particular moment. From this place pure confidence and self-respect arise. 

Giselle Mad Scene Libretto, Natalia Osipova version

An auditory signal
Everyone knows something is not as it appears
Perhaps someone
What is happening? Where is how you are? Where is who you told me you are? 
“I’m right here. Of course.” And lying, and plastic. 

I see this. 
And no
I’m soaring
I’m behind appearances where I thought you too were. 
I’m behind appearance
I am now what’s behind

I am behind reality. I’m beneath real
I’m above real. 
I’m not here
I'm not somewhere else either

I de-costume myself starting with my hair. 
I slowly turn my head and walk forward.
Seeing an entire year pass before me. 
Wringing my hands through my hair and possessing a pose for a moment
Muttering to myself everyone sees. 
Clutching my beautiful love. 
Dancing my beautiful love that love that was upward and beyond of reality. Beyond this here. Beyond my smallness
A promise lingers and I see lingers
I am lingering for a moment as you touch me. 
Then my chest remembers the promise of death 
I drag a promise along the tip of the ground and pierce myself
I sear through. Suicidally bound
I fall to the ground and take solace in someone for a moment as they lift me to my feet.
I am seeing beyond. I am seeing beyond. 
I am seeing my mother’s hands in mine.
Distracted by something above, something floating high in a parabolic shape.

It was just a bird.

Ah. Now I dance with a circle of my wrist. 
I turn and do the same dance on the other side, forming a geometry with my legs a coupé that jumps and  travels backward on a diagonal.
I turn and from b-plus tendu pas de cheval step tendu on the other side pas de cheval, step through, hand slides down and points as I speed up on this pastoral slant, a jump that halts me. I almost remembered joy. My hands clutch my chest, wrapping myself. I almost remember what’s not happening. 

Then I devour space, touching everything. Someone tries to collect me. 

I see my mother. I finally. I embrace my mother. I run to the appearance. I fall finally. 

I am finally absent. I fall into absence as the world ends around me. My absence is all I am, it’s all around me. It’s in your embrace. My absence is finally visible. I am complete in this absence. Every demand is met. 

Wait

 Written in collaboration with Angel Zinovieff

24,000 light years away

Seeing 24,000 light years away

Forging 24,000 light years ahead

Large vegetables fall from your one ceiling

Waiting happens to be

Purplish and never accusatory

One body purports an entire existence

Slowly end

One body slowly ends

Another body begins to wait

Forty thousand light years away

forty thousand years of bodily waiting

You want one thing as if a gesture were possible

Body’s wait

Perform waiting

Gymnasium full of waiting

Precious waits

When you beckoned that one time 

Do Not Impress

 You must let people know your vulnerabilities. That you know the causes of and causes of your pain. So that they can see what's true of you and what's afraid of you. In hopes they can distinguish them to see the true you.  Or a true you.