This is a A kind of history of this moment and how our comfort offends Even us I’ll start in the middle We are offended by empty rooms and There are just a few responses to an empty room, the best one is to begin, to step in again and realize - again - that nothing is as satisfying as bartering with space for a taxed moment, or the touch of movement or being mis-lead-by the imperfect beauty of bodies in the abusive embrace of a too honest mirror or the thrill of thighs in sweats so worn so strained pass the point of return so wasted on their last legs and struggling to survive dancers in the chase of immediately created histories, that you feel for them And nothing so satisfies as Histories so fragile, so convulsively built, torn, rebuilt and living next to the heart beats that play out futures, danced by others in front of us in this moment and lived in the next ( this time again by us) before more repeated deaths expressed in equivalent spurts of time run out in a few bass beats or a look from, or feel of … time to begin to understand how empty rooms send us into a tizzy and we lose all sense of propriety . the uniqueness of this beast is proven by the sensations it feeds. We move and are moved by the pull of nerves triggered by the absolute allure of ass, breasts, catching time, drowning weight, elevating moments, forcing perfection, going again, heaving bodies insisting on everything at once, joy at the top, kneading tension, a lasting motion’s absence , nothing else mattering, overdoing it, petite excitements, qualified anarchy, undeserved praise, stopping, toppling , veering, exuberance, teeth, hair, feet, chin, back , aesthetics engorged by motion, the complicated relationship to space that changes size and shape each time someone in the room prefers motion to stillness, feeling artists enter without being seen, twinned senses that devour the territory of the other, the language of size that acts as symbol , how the challenge of the space never ends, our comfort offends, the smell of the room, glanced signals and the security of stepping up onto that hard wood floor with nodded permission, negotiating where and how to stand, sit or move when you’re are not dancing , the attempts to live up to the legacies of those that warmed the room and warming it for those that enter next , shared commiserating glances with friends unable today to do what was done yesterday, stepping off a sprung floor, leaving, and being moved by a lift after having elevated yourself for a hour and half, walking into a strange fresh air, walking into a empty world and imagining you can do it out there as well: It starts there. On the floor: we take it in, and fall for every part of its promise, we intuitively understand the possibility offered of spread toes, as slit skin delivers accurate understandings of the discipline’s maiden costs of exploring those well made sensuous bottoms patterned for bellies, backs, and thighs, the variously oiled and tacky sticky surfaces that invite coupling, impossibly beguiling planes of sand, or a mottled grey sky or colored sackcloth, or the press of wood in a single plane stacked one next to the other like side by side overlapped staggered alters, each board a near infinitely retreating temple of parchment grain by grain burnished with flesh and blood, ceded over time and measured in lives. Too much? Yeah, some times we have to reign it in. Let me take it down a notch. I’ll try again Let’s take time. Gone as soon as it arrives and impossible to hold but we have control of it too. We can stop it, snatch little bits, show it, we bend and drop, pick, ignore, and talk to it, learn from it as we wallow in it. We marry ourselves to it. The more we help it find it self the more spent on it the stingier it gets, it is not limited but it is impatient. It will move and we will look back on it and the special bonds we shared with it with a particular sense of loss. Skin, flesh and blood are our ledgers; Bruises, and strains account for our debt and solvency, not as simple as the sweat rolling down our back or the opening and closing of the books of effort, responsiveness, rule dropping, the time spent, or the acknowledgement of another debt. This relationship is a low guttural impulse too couple through a kind of motion only bodies create, felt like a grunt; in this world refinement and impulse are used to get closer to the raw. Impulse’s ability to command to nurture refinement, to illustrate, to communicate, to fire aspiration, fuel awareness and hone your thoughts is crucial. Refinement is a kennel holding a barking dog. Dance is felt as well as seen and done, without impulse and refinement what the music, theatrics, shock, bring is muted by a vague understanding of what was missing. We are citizens of these territories That’s the start. Artists lives aren’t mysterious; they are closed cloistered ritual, offerings of energy, and they are acts of imagination, totems in lands of time, sensation and more. We are in service, on a foot path in the midst of proselytizing pilgrimages to those willing to listen with a look. We are The cryers from one age to another that burden themselves with worthwhile prophecies the have the effect of mother wit wasted on the newly grown. Over time, with each creative utterance more is gained. Each bone lengthening time sapping bit of growth goes unnoticed until second nature tales over and we use all we have on what comes next. At your new height you reach for another rung. And there are no secrets .Only retelling and effort. We are citizens of these territories And so because of this there are daily betrayals of the cloister to others, to those not in the group , to the cafeteria catholics, too non believers: to everyday life. That is as it should be The last thing that should be an obvious part of your art is you. Lie the work is there to teach us about ourselves; it is not. The truth is that through the work we tell what we already know of the world and ourselves. The work is only itself. Artists are and are not their work as we go through this we find Both are true. But the containers we pour from( our lives) are fragile and those we pour into (you and this moment) unforgiving. I will try to remember that part. we cross The bridges of humanity that allow the swapping of civilizing spit. Those bridges are able to hold and bear anything not everything. They don’t fail. They just can’t carry everything sometimes that includes the “point”. ======**************** Vamp I’ll start there. And I hope Maybe you can relate. To this This, this back and forth, this sharing of Then now Of These Wonderings/Ramblings/Metaphoric instructions/Hidden truths/ Of This emotional bartering Of these alternating exchanges, so that these things may pass on As this exchange slips from one remembrance to another, And is treated As if it and I could , slip And Imagine our lives this and My own squabbling, And remember them as if they we’re as vicious as ideas, With Every-one ended by the birth of another, but ideas, like lives are stubborn some refuse to leave after death Imagine That Abandoned lives left, like ideas To begin again I’ll start there. or I’ll pass them on to you, leave them with you. And If possible , I might have a chance to tend to or spend an un-harassed moment in this life, to harvest one Un-harassed moment to see how a single tended thought might grow. But only after… After the ideas have put mileage on like weight, clogged arteries, gotten ready for death, told us what’s acceptable; at the end of this life, whispered in the back of our minds they are still here, that they want to be a part of life since through their decline they’ve been such friends with it. Some ideas drink too much, live to a ripe old age, love the right women, fail their sons, love their mothers, but most of all love themselves and so deserve more than just being gone. With them we engage in a kind of emotional bartering . We patch, remember, look over, reaffirm a love fogged by exasperation. I’ll start there. It’s time, an idea will say after having asked to visit repeatedly. And I say How is it that I can be both frantic and frozen? Well, I am a walking, branching contradiction. You are there spurring and arresting; I want to do this on my own but need your help . I need to involve you, as something more than just an observer or a sounding board) but I resent you for that because you have already been mouthing off and how can listen to my voice with your’s uninvited in head. Now as for you witness and participant And yes you are both, The witness part is easy your here and you admit to that by listening, watching, judging even while I am in your head. You who have called me two half men under your breath, you who told me I always seen with a book because I think that’s how one carries knowledge, you who thought to letter me go from a job with only a dismissal and even though I had a contract The participant part may be a bit harder because you may not want to admit that you have for the moment purchased my voice and body and so have agreed to go through this act with a faux candor. you may have been able to side step all this by not coming this far or you may choose to embrace the self evident contradiction and say my voice is yours but it is too late now to stop. We are bartering. My freedom for the seat you take when you flounce in. So I’ll ask that you keep track of what emerges as we engage in this back and forth, with “possibility” that masquerades as idea and ask that you consider this exertion is as much about what’s held as what escapes, as much about what advances as what retreats, as much about what we share as what I treasure and keep. This attempt at openness is not likely to result in a lasting peace, but if I come to understand what ground I’m on, slackened hostilities will be enough, for now. Tonight, finally those numb-nut warriors will pop and drop seed. At least here in my mind Because I need them too, because I need to uncover what is behind the trade, the devalued currency of those hard worked traitorous failures to fidelity , I need to define the single mindedness that says I am, I know, and I think this and now moved on. this way of stilling my mind is not perfect, but it will do; and it seems to me if I come up with enough ways to recognize the gentrified portions of that volume, (my mind) and the battered miscreants strewn about it ( my ideas, thoughts, proclivities, inclinations, insights that take part in the cranial brawls that separates them from your intrusions I might have peace. At least that is the idea. I’ll start in the middle At forks in the road, at those forks there are bells that ring in the key of an absence that demands action on intertwined paths of yearning and need and necessity. What we learn at each stroke is decipherable by experience only. So We take all the roads. In fact that must be how I wound up here on this page in front of you because this mania needs to be managed publicly, in front of as many people as I can get to uncover my mind’s eye. This, for me, is radical and though it is unlikely to result in a lasting mindful peace it may pay off in slackened hostilities. That will be enough for now and since I’ve made you a part of this at least I will have company. Misery loves that. And it is another kind of start for me. One where I get you to admit you exist, and one where in you don’t have all the retorts ready One where you are not automatically are at odds with me, One where you are in my service And one where I admit I still have a least a few questions that have not been poisoned, one where I get you to admit that you are not just a fellow citizen but a fellow pocher of my mind who when locked in is able come to some sort of armistice. The violence might not stop but let’s begin to set terms for the cessation. How? Let’s deal with the thuggish dispossessed. As if we were couples or partners With the understanding that there are more things at concern here than the ground and pound blood sport of conceptual alignment with its demand for clarity, more than my love of a free thought attempt at an articulated unchained fidelity tied to those malcontents that are trying so desperately to hack at my root experiences, my knot in the wood contentions as turf wars are hard enough to arrest, let alone record, without regression to chickenshit academies so with that in mind I will attempt to reframe my mind’s experience as the hard worked traitorous loss of something unrecoverable, not perfect but the frame will do for now ; and it seems to me if I come up with enough ridiculous conditions we’ll more easily recognize the conquered gentrified portions of that volume. At least that is the idea. So there’s the Judas Hole- or my mind and the question What remains: on being denied the path to a thought lain . One moment you are in a struggle to complete a thought, the next you’ve suduced one, a substantial, beautiful, unscalable barely visible monument.