people watching Archives

To Break a Wall

Notes from Crete.

There is a certain pitch to plans made in prison, not

like the half-baked dreams of anywhere else. The wings

as real as the wax, and the sun, the son the sum of the

parts you gave, dreaming him. There are flowered

children elsewhere in a field that never knew walls

except on set and you cannot blame them for the

glow of their faces how they won’t age it takes

absorption to do that but to these it’s all water

rolling, the waves the waves the duck’s

back all joy and fun except

for the highlights the chase scenes so

good for ratings so good for saying watch

look what I did. No sense explaining to the scions

of such gentle suns how yours will kill you, quick.

Offer anyway what you have of shelter and an

ear to the running stream of tears. They roll

off the backs of them stop looking for

logic they roll because those backs are

the backs of the sons of the sun,

o child

how I wish to pretend.

Broken white lines follow interstate miles home through the valley of the sun. Before it sets, bring the telescope. Look for Jupiter and let Mars rise above a Mesa into Phoenix until they are each a distant glow in the mirror and dream of rising again. And Joshua trees keep watch. To think they guard us as we fall into ghosts of former towns from when we knew them, still living, still ours and still––

someone stands after forty miles of nothing under a tarp in the place where a porch would be and there is no way not to wonder if the waiting of so many at such distance might be stretching. Something tight like Achilles’ unblessed tendon still reaching––

––for the water that crossed us once a sacred chord ready to play until it pleased the long-haired keeper of the secret ways we dreamed, even if.

All the while, to anyone who asked, most of us were good enough to protest protection, saying instead, just let it. Come. We said with straight faces, meaning to mean the words.

A Thousand Faces

The distance between action and call.

I can be mother, too! he offered, thinking of cameos and not the tedium of tending.

But I can weave! He insisted, stomping the last of the grass.

What about fire? I can make it! But there was no wood.

A sacrament, then, anything but penance!

Purification sounded lofty, so long as the means was anything but silence.

A song! ––His chest swelled to the imaginary chorus. But she had given those already, to deaf ears.

I will dance you to the moon! But her feet were bruised from carrying his weight.

He claimed to want a friend, some unifying vision. At last he arrived, the ever-faithful witness to the glory of his own reflection, and its deep pools went on and on.

The Good Hero

A triumph of confidence.

Over time, people brought their pleas to the hero–––and more than a few grave concerns.

Is there a problem with appearances? The hero wanted to know.

Well, no. Not exactly, the people had to admit, unless you considered the way that these so often seemed distracting to the hero. No, they tried to explain–––delicately, of course, to protect the hero’s sense of himself–––it was more about nuts. They were tired of eating what was casually tossed from the high stage. Sometimes they longed for something prepared, nourishing. It was about bolts too, how everywhere you looked they needed tightening, and the people were feeling anxious with a sense that the fortress, shiny as it was, did not seem structurally sound.

The hero, long practiced in the art of turning deaf ears, heard nothing of significance in these concerns, and was immensely pleased. All really was good, after all. As he had been saying all along, except during moments of panic when his cape was noticeably rumpled. He checked the cape. It was smooth and would flow nicely in the wind, especially at entrances and exits.

All good, he said, and the triumph was one of confidence if not substance. But confidence and an iron were all you needed to wear your cape well, especially when it had been the people’s gift.

How to Do it All

Everywhere. All at once.

Select a large fish with many bones,
and sturdy shoes. Arch support is key.
Fasten the wings so the clasp is tight
and do not modify with glue. Even if
it seems like a good idea at the time.
Remove the lug nuts, affirm intentions
in the mirror, look both ways. Remember
to fasten the lid and check that the needle
is sharp. Remember the eye of the needle
and hold your hands like this. Be sure
your feet are facing and your head, like
this. Mind the gap. Beat well. Always
preheat. Cover with a damp cloth, pay
careful attention to the edges. Wait
ten seconds before you speak, look
both ways. Never forget.

The Experience

Reflections at play.

We mean to be sophisticated in our tastes. But this is absurd. Really. This whole idea of art we step into. The way you demand we become it. The size and height of these rooms, the excess of mirrors, balloons. You invite us in––for pictures, of course. For the experience. Mirror, mirror, mirror, mirror––on the wall, ceiling, floor. Which is which? Wall, wall, wall, wall. And everywhere we look––even out, there we are. You call it the reflection room. We are delighted.

***

Inspired by an experience in one of the Infinity Rooms created by artist Yayoi Kusama.

Wayfaring Strangers

Subway meditation.

That this feeling might be bottled and passed like emergency water. How to describe the taste of this sacrament. It has something to do with the shared steam of this space between stops, thigh to thigh, hand over hand even with the gentle deference of strangers; the false metaphor of personal space, how easy it is to hold at a distance, but impossible here. Whatever territory there might be is no island but an occasional bubble in this sea and we dive from this common reef and back again, open doors take these bodies given up with a nod to this passage, and in between stops none of us are anywhere but here. This is no epiphany, it would not be so bold, it only strains the suggestion of one incubating in the chest, but holding back, too humble to intrude on the next inhalation. Who needs another revelation now? There is only the weight of our bodies, this body, the man in scrubs sleeping on his feet with his hand on the bar above, we know what this is, but Shh. There are meals to make, knots to pray out of, debts that will never be paid, and let’s not get into all that right now, not here. Only hold.

Necessary Departure

Home and away.

In the lens of this longing reach, the soft give of fabric draping over a mother’s head, breast, shoulders––squeezes the chest-bird home like, yes, you will again––someday, even if. Ever.

And the light kiss into bowed bodies in sea, these water-slick skins, fog bedding of hilltops, as if to cushion the fall.

There was––there it was, had been.

You will be––the chest bird strains against its skeleton, not to be kept from that acacia on the hill, blue green in the sunset that is too bright already to be anything you know, and how do you explain this except that it must be all.

***

Inspired by the photography of Ismali Folaranmi Odetola, whose “Necessary Departure” I recently encountered in an airport.

Custodians in Transit

Group on the road.

Warm a face, toast a fool, repeat.

One more time.

Everyone.

Here is water. Drink. No, I mean it. We have plenty.

Check the score. Later, stress how little it matters.

Say, who cares about the score? Say, that isn’t what

this is about. Say we are getting close and here we go.

What time is it? How much. How long this is.

Here you go. Make it better. Do you need.

Do you need? Can I bring you. You should

come with. I can bring you. We have.

We have. We have. Take it, someone.

A Simulacrum

Through the fourth wall.

In the beginning, it was all about the spectacle of the created world. The chopping off of parts, the restoration, like Tah-dah! Over time, it became more interesting to work on making the stage disappear, to discuss how the engineering works and who it’s for. With a great show, the performance is always for a specific member of the audience.

What’s worth examining now is not the tah-dah, but the questions–– how is that working? and what’s next? There can be more revelation in how the problems and confusion play out. When someone struggles in a real way, they are less self-conscious. Something peeks through.

***

The title of this post comes from a play created by an interesting collaboration between playwright Lucas Hnath and magician Steve Cuiffo and the voice is adapted from comments made by both artists in various interviews on their developing work.

Category: people watching