Cartas Despedidas
Haciendo un recuento de mi vida Mi única falta de gravedad Es no confiar más en ti
Haciendo un recuento de mi vida Mi única falta de gravedad Es no confiar más en ti
How can I explain to a pedestrian the joy of riding my bicycle through the drippy streets at night, my single headlight bobbing, the light sharp on one side, cuts through a tree having a dream of itself, everything tethered to its twin-dark, thoughts cast a shadow, shadows cast a word if you lower yourself to a hush, the word is ordinary like a word, is cabbage. Sometimes smoke.
I do not imagine a theater, because I live theater, breathe it in and out; I dream it. But, if I had to imagine a theater, then I'd like to imagine that the languages that have been forgotten, which are still spoken in many parts of the world, would be part of this new playwriting.
sharing rhythm creates a political question about who determines rhythm and when trio in unison, with the possibility of becoming either backup dancers or soloists open-ended and absurdist and nonsensical shame as part of gaze
It is raw, it is real, it is happening with you in the room and can only be experienced in the “here and now.” It is open to a multiplicity of heres and nows depending on the realities, perceptions, localities... of those present.
that moment before something is about to happen where anything is still possible in between this is where you are stuck
Dangling in mid-air like a thrust-out tongue, an oval-shaped rocky surface extends from the mouth of a cave to form a rough-hewn apron stage in the middle of a mountain.
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when I close my eyes, this apartment is a faded light when I close my eyes, we begin to doubt