same canal, but

exhale, little girl, exhale. let the world drain through you / pipe dreams, river songs, musket fire of mosquitos on the lane /

same canal, but the greens have been sapped and the oranges pulled out of luminance – the yellows curl inwards from the edges and miniature piles begin to curdle themselves on the top of the water. things beginning to pool, to flesh themselves out onto the top, to come to fruition and reminisce together. to bask. to release. always, to release.

am i ready for what’s happening in my life? no, almost certainly not. will i rise to meet it? i will try. i will try to release in to it – like the brave piles of leaves that let go.


how can i possibly begin to place these moments in boxes and send them down the river? do i have to? do they flow inwards, towards the ever-present me, perhaps/ and not outwards – endlessly away, as our imagery always seems to say?

the show ended and we hung our coats up and i placed an orange peel on a beige mantel and we peeled our pictures off the mirror (careful not to break the tape) and we wrote out thank you’s scribbled in jibblejargon pen speed and we gave gifts that fit sweet memories and we toasted lines that we were glad to let slip back down our throats and i cherished a few that i loved to spit out of my tongue and little green grapes got gobbled up and bang-crackle doors got closed. and i am grateful once again. grateful for the laughter, for the words, for the challenge, for the spitfire brain focus, for the growth, for the gift. for the gift. always grateful for the gift placed before me.


and michaelmas too – a swing of gravity pulling autumn light towards me – fragile light, dappled, angling, subtle, cool // the marigold dipped silks hanging limp and dancerly on the string tied between two oak trees. the ground splattered in acorn halves, children’s feet and the first few leaves. golden all around, golden all around. and laughter and little eyes clutching at golden light. and apples halves and quartered – and wheat flour floating in petaled clouds under the trees – bread dough rising in the morning – cobwebbed oven burning bright with captured light (fire or glow or autumn heat meeting october in the morning). and child hands rolling balls of dough into beads of bread. and family hands holding graceful lines from sweetness to sweetness. golden light, autumn breath, windly twists of trunks of trees growing tall, little child hands, little child laughter growing tall, little child hearts growing thick with golden light. plant a heart, water it with light, let it turn golden in the oven, let it rise, let the dough rise – do not fear; the days will always glow warm inside the light.

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autumn hands

and now the fall crawls towards me ; autumn hands like bedsheets, like linen and ash and muscle contracting. stone bones curl inwards, hurricane eyes flood skeletons of summer hammocks. the sunlight starts to shiver. the weight of color begins to hunger in the green canopies. bumblebees and busy-ness ; the buzz of horizons burning black. embers now, embers now. remember how to shiver ; remember how to clamour for heat. how to tap your feet together like dorothy in the chilled reminiscence of bare feet.

new words take tumorous shape within my brain now. new play to open, new theatre to prowl, to inhabit, to listen to. and moments and mistakes and retakes and gamble feet talking into focus.

new children who gaze at me sidelong and wide-eyed ; infant-handed and perfect-mouthed. little fears tucked behind their ears ; little dresses approaching their scabbed summer knees. little lives splayed out in front of them like a game ; like a memory ; like a toy ; like a play.

and little me and little you, and little story still hammering at my life like a memory ; like a game ; like a play // like a song.

keep singing to me.

and glow little fire, and burn fast in the shadows of my heart.

i feel sad. profoundly sad in a way i didn’t expect to. i feel touched in a way i didn’t expect to. i pummeled my heart onto the stage in a way i didn’t expect to and was unbelievably grateful to the way my castmates pounded their souls into the floorboards. the way they all gave it their all. left it all out there. sang their hearts out and pounded the ground with rage and sorrow and beauty. it was a magic coming-together of a thousand moving pieces. and it came together. and it took everything i had from me. a great chunk out of my heart and gave me back sevenfold in spirit and fire and spark. it opened my ribcage and let a tidal wave of light pool out of my chest in blues and violets and reds. it filled the shadows, it stung the lights. it is everything theatre should be – vital and real and harrowing and thick and inspiring and poetry and pounding and violins and cellos and blood and sweat and tears and honesty and touch and tenderness and meaning. meaningful words, meaningful chords, meaningful darkness. fire and grace. i am thankful. i am thankful for purple summer, for commitment, for creation, for being inspired. i am thankful for the rituals. for bogad’s words, for bogad’s direction. i am thankful for the starlight sparks of stage lights bouncing through your body, hiding in my skeleton, shadowing up my spine, curling my soul out of my mouth. i am grateful for the music, sliding around my skin, cupping my hands in movement. i am grateful for the joy, for the cast, for their passion, their power, their endless talent. i am grateful to be in something serious, with people taking it seriously, that is seriously effecting people. that rises audience members out of their seats. i am grateful for every single time my castmates hit it hard, grit their teeth and poured out venom. for the gaping, open wounds they laid bare. for the ribcages they spread wide to let everyone see in. i am grateful for the vulnerability, the trust, the strength, the sadness, the joy, the laughter, the creation. i am grateful, and i will let this blue wind blow through me, and try to grasp the gratitude as it whistles through the lonely wind; the long blue shadows falling.

i am grateful that this show exists. for the profundity and poetry of this show. and that that it was accessible enough, meaningful enough and beautiful enough that it caught fire. that people at large could sink their teeth into something deep. that something profound and deep could be beautiful enough and good enough and touching enough that it gained mass appeal. that story matters to me. the little poetic engine of a meaningful piece-of-art of a show that hit it big and captured a generation’s hearts. that something that was dark and profound and real and poetic could speak to so many people, could bridge the gap between popularity and real magnificent art – that has always been an incredibly inspiring story. one that grabbed me by the throat and dragged me through high school. on fire for something meaningful that was so fucking good that it reinvigorated an appetite for real art. that spring awakening ever became popular, that it won the tony and changed a generation – that is one of the most satisfying stories of my life. people have the capacity to engage with meaningful, poetic, artistic craft. people have the heart for it, and people reach out when you reach towards them. that is the deepest truth that set my heart ablaze when i was 16 watching the forest fire catch. people get it, people get it. if you give them profundity and beauty, they will consume it. they have the appetite. you just have to be brave, and punch your chest to let the demons out, curl them into song, and sing them straight out of your soul. sing it out. sing the song of purple summer. and people will hear it. and people will get it. and if you reach out, people will reach back.

and we can all be better than this. richer, deeper, thicker, more connected, more engaged. and spring awakening reminds me of that. people get it. at their core – people all get it. people are so much more full than we let them be. so be brave. make art that strums that chord. that splays out the soul. that sings to the core. that fights for the fire, the light, the shadows and all the starlight in between. do that. it’s the only good fight there is.

and all shall know the wonder.

little word wizards

goldenfire hot rod light – pummel me, little photons. courage me out of my skin and let us glow, let us glow around this theatre – hunger voices parading about the stage, let my ribs catch the hollow echo of my own voice. let us wade deep into the light – let us wash clean the ghost voices that sit in the bricks. let us make our bones into magicians – little word wizards for an hour or two. hungry my heart, hungry my words/fire my cavern of a chest that cripples itself with ribs and cages – burned ash and tenderness. i keep loving the world, i keep loving the walls of a theatre, i keep loving the spin of a spiral staircase in a satin dress, i keep loving the swell of the sea that hunts me across a stage. the world is touching between my heart and the air i still have yet to breathe. the world is watching, i am waiting. waiting to explode again. i love breath, i love light, i love catching fire in my skin and racing it around in circles until the audience claps. i love this fire and i’m not ready for it to go out. even the embers, i think, will still keep my skin aglow. so let it burn, let it burn.