it happened in a house, on a quiet little street in Princeton. It happened to us, because we called ourselves a family. It happened to a black box and all the voices that inhabited it. It happened inside my heart and inside my veins, they popped and squealed and surrounded themselves with shelves, selves and ceiling wax. And I think if I closed my eyes hard enough, I could wake up there. I could feel like gravity machine named home welcome me back into her wooden embers. I could run backwards long enough that eventually my feet would meet up with time.
I remember old cotton wax days in that theatre. I remember the golden light, the fragments of flight when we all flapped our wings wide enough to remember how to fly.
it’s all happening its all slapping your hands your eyes your ears and snuggling into the lungs. Things happen in theatres that cannot be written in words. Things happen in theatres that echo and release and wriggle and relinquish. Things happen in theatres that get stuffed under seats and swallowed my curved wrists and that swing like momentum. People get plastered to poetry of words and people start to exist as words escape their mouths. People listen and people repeat and people resonate inside the stones and throbbing cages of characters. Inflictions of inflections dot the surface of sounds and all the sounds swirl into a whirlwind of a window into a world we all imagine. We all imagined this world. We all created it out of thumbtacks, glue, wood, elocution, dedication, elevation, exaggeration and three thousand drops of devotion. Four part force and five parts participation in the presence. It discovers itself and it discovers itself discovering itself. It comes out of the lightness and it ignites the dangerous darkness. It illuminates itself in energy, ignition and intermissions of intention.
And currently we’re drawing on blackboards and boarding up doors and drawing curtains and cobwebs away from our creative minds. We’re dragging and dangling and coming together. We’re in the process of the process and we’re processing our own productivity and performance. We’re making and we’re bleeding and we’re boning our the cracked ribs of what is beginning to cackle. Of how this theatre is beginning to laugh. At us- our small attempts to take ourselves seriously, and with us- at our soothing soft humor that is humbling and fumbling through the hallways of our strength and sanguine serenity.
And there’s direction. Direction in all directions from the voice of a goddess. From the grace of a gravity wanderer.
My character is named Sandra Samia and Alexa Elixer and Elijiah Elation and Juniper Jack and Chez Chaz. And chingling. The downstage upstage centerstage offstage flipside of the wingside of the sweetside.
I was born here. In a little box. In a big theatre. In a series of theatres all named Nameless. Here’s a secret no one and everyone knows but so many forget. Theatres are keepers of souls. Theatres are graveyards for lost words. Theatres are full of the lost boys finding themselves manifested in stories. Souls seep into cement. Souls surrender themselves to sound and pounce out of performance towards the tune of
So let’s take it from there. Let’s transition and listen and linger inside lists of moments of some meaning someone wrote some matter of decades ago. Let’s story our insides and let our outsides reflect the upside of humanity- that we have things to express, vocal chords to press and best of all- people to listen. And for brief moments of moments, we have reasons to glisten. We have marks to wear. We have souls to bear. We have herenesses to burst into therenesses. And nothing and everything exists and resists.
And no one and everyone will ever find me again. I’ll be stuffed inside a sneeze box and swiveled inside a song fox. I’ll be being an I I’ll be seeing an eye I’ll be treeing my ties, my tries, my absolute sighs. All the surrender I have to give back to the world. All the flow I have to forge through. I followed the following until I learned how to lead my own leaning learning. I listened to the lessons until they lessened the blows of the blowing wind. I erased out my race until humanity raced itself back to the beginning. Until we blew embers on the crying child of Creation and renamed her Frankin-sense, Frankstein, Einstein, Myrh, and Gold. Paprika, dillweed, parsley, sage, rosemary and old. Rosemary, Rosalie, Roxie Hart and a heart full of character and connection. Books and bones and all the wings of birds already broken- taken to the hospital for a dose of flying- that’ll fix them right up. Tunes and tones and all the goodbye-ing of good buys, best buys, best friends, book ends and beginnings.