(unknown, Alexander McQueen, unknown, Mui Mui)
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Sunday, June 6, 2010
Thursday, May 6, 2010
Barfly
And as my hands drop the last desperate pen, in some cheap room, they will find me there and never know my name, my meaning, nor the treasure of my escape.
This is a world where everybody's gotta do something. Y'know, somebody laid down this rule that everybody's gotta do something, they gotta be something. You know, a dentist, a glider pilot, a narc, a janitor, a preacher, all that.
Sometimes I just get tired of thinking of all the things that I don't wanna do. All the things that I don't wanna be. Places I don't wanna go, like India, like getting my teeth cleaned. Save the whale, all that, I don't understand that.
You're not supposed to think about it. I think the whole trick is, not to think about it.
Don't be sorry, just put on some new underwear.
Why don't you stop drinking? Anybody can be a drunk.
Anybody can be a non-drunk. It takes a special talent to be a drunk. It takes endurance. Endurance is more important than truth.
Hey baby, nobody suffers like the poor.
Nothing but the dripping sink. Empty bottle. Euphoria. Youth fenced in, stabbed and shaved. Taut words propped up to die.
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Dream
I find it incredibly dull to read people's dreams. Why waste my time on something that didn't actually happen? But in case you feel differently...
It began civilly enough. Our side had gathered, flash mob style, to hear a speech from the other side, and we can only assume that is why the other side had simultaneously gathered. Had this situation begun due to one too many assumptions? The moment we arrived, it took only one member of our side to throw the first item, an unidentifiable conservative journal, clear across the meager, threadbare rope that divided us. In an instant it was a free-for-all, and soon members of both sides were buried deep in the sea of paper, and some other items, such as smoldered soldiers boots. We chucked The San Francisco Chronicle to their side, they hurled The Washington Times back, we tossed articles detailing the massive civilian casualties in Iraq right over the border, and they kicked it back. Headlines bearing "Global Warming Hoax" soared over my head, and I scrambled, clutched it for a mere moment as if it would poison my hand, and sent it right back. We could not throw far and fast enough; they could not pick up our "trash" fast enough. Though we both labored, none made progress. Though we spit curses, bent and stood hundreds, thousands, of times, neither was ever able to empty their space of unwanted paper. Soon I, and I assume others, began throwing personal items. I carried my bed duvet and handed it to a member of the other side, who only tried to give it back. We went on like this for eternity.
It began civilly enough. Our side had gathered, flash mob style, to hear a speech from the other side, and we can only assume that is why the other side had simultaneously gathered. Had this situation begun due to one too many assumptions? The moment we arrived, it took only one member of our side to throw the first item, an unidentifiable conservative journal, clear across the meager, threadbare rope that divided us. In an instant it was a free-for-all, and soon members of both sides were buried deep in the sea of paper, and some other items, such as smoldered soldiers boots. We chucked The San Francisco Chronicle to their side, they hurled The Washington Times back, we tossed articles detailing the massive civilian casualties in Iraq right over the border, and they kicked it back. Headlines bearing "Global Warming Hoax" soared over my head, and I scrambled, clutched it for a mere moment as if it would poison my hand, and sent it right back. We could not throw far and fast enough; they could not pick up our "trash" fast enough. Though we both labored, none made progress. Though we spit curses, bent and stood hundreds, thousands, of times, neither was ever able to empty their space of unwanted paper. Soon I, and I assume others, began throwing personal items. I carried my bed duvet and handed it to a member of the other side, who only tried to give it back. We went on like this for eternity.
Monday, April 12, 2010
MONGER
3 Sections from Barak Marshall's new work MONGER. Premiere: October 25, the Suzanne Dellal Center for Dance and Theater, Tel Aviv Barak Marshall was the former house choreographer for the Batsheva Dance Company under the artistic direction of Ohad Naharin.
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Fortune's Bones
"Fortune was an African American man enslaved by Waterbury physician Dr. Preserved Porter in the late 18th century. Fortune was probably born in the 1740s, but we do not know where. Dental analysis may someday reveal if he spent his childhood in Africa, the Caribbean or North America. Upon Fortune’s death in 1798, Dr. Porter, a renowned bone surgeon, prepared his skeleton to serve the study of anatomy. In recent years, Fortune's bones have provided scientific evidence to document the circumstances of his life.
The rugged bone structure, especially where the muscles attached to the bones, suggest Fortune was a powerful man accustomed to the heavy work of a farmer. Fortune’s bones indicate that he suffered several injuries during his lifetime, which had healed before his death: he had a broken lower back and other injuries to the bones in his hand and foot. These injuries, which were not unusual for agricultural workers at the time, did not kill him. He was generally in good health at the time of his death, at about 60 years of age."
"Marilyn Nelson has written a series of six stirring poems to honor Fortune's life. Part funeral mass, part freedom celebration, her spare words are clear about the harshness of his servitude and what his remains tell about his backbreaking labor. In the climactic poem, "Not My Bones," Fortune himself speaks: 'You can own someone's body, / the soul runs free.' "
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