And of course I think of a 1000 useful things to say as I drive away
Am I your strangest friend? You ask me / I ask you if I can use that for writing / I curl my way down the little town street, I cannot escape the poetry of a night sky
I remember at all, don’t you? Don’t you swim through the brine ; through the ratted tufts of your brain? I am sorry for my insufficiencies, for my weakness of heart, for my in firmament of mind, for my recklessness of behavior. I am sorry for believing all the tales they tell us to believe. I am sorry the truth is not a clear set of silver utensils to be shined. I am sorry I cannot even set the table.
we let the notes hit through our chests for the last time ; peel through our sinews for last time. the curtain cast its purple side-long gaze at the shadows in the wings, our false eyelashes bounced gluey-wisp replies. we danced to those legendary notes, the drumbeat hollowing in our ankles, the rhythm curling through time. i peeled through all the energy – the layers of light and vision cast about me as i spun about in circles. the stage seemed to morph around me as i moved through it – the cast glaring and leering and laughing and dancing in hopscotch halter moments – frozen bits alighting about me.
it’s something you get to keep / you never have to give it away; the gift you get on the stage; the one that burrows right inside of your ribcage; the one that becomes part of your marrow; the one that continues to breathe with you / you never have to give it away; it becomes part of your weaving, part of your body, it never dies
there are moments on stage that feel more real than real life – more present, more prescient, more alive. as if all the world were a strange synapse dream and here we have remembered that we are always just playing. and we are giving the moment meaning, and attention, and tension, and care, and we are practicing at being present for it, at having it mean a certain thing. the care for the ever unfolding moment – that sometimes reaches into reality farther than the drip-dried dream of our everyday, profane moments. the sacred is reached towards. the holy cathedral of the theatre – the sacred soul box of memories and words and lineage of ancestor tongues and human reflection of reflection of reflection of what it is to be real. and somehow, in this hallway of mirrors, this art at art at real life – reality is punctured like a hollow cloud – and you find yourself standing in something hyper-real, hyper-present, uniquely beautiful and glowing; stage lights dancing about faces of people you are endlessly putting your trust into, and are endlessly catching you.
i am grateful for the hum of guitar chords that still walk me through my life, tuck me inside moments and find me a home inside strange little rooms in strange little cities. i am grateful for the glaze of beautiful eyes that seethe, for the hurricane of emotions i am still somehow able to feel. i am grateful to begin to feel old; to still feel young. i am grateful for you, and i am grateful for you. let me alight, and continue to burn.