. . . he'd been doing the stretch for over 25 years . . . well before the tensegrity magic passes of casteneda or grotowski's motions or the yoga class sun salutation . . . just a simple centering stretch . . . ruben, the slight argentinian with handlebar moustache and mischievous eyes taught him among many important lessons the stretch . . . died of aids a decade later in vienna . . . yet not his face that at times materialized in the doorway during intense work sessions and it was that face . . . the face he called godot which appeared at the window by his bed . . . lips imperceptively mouthing an unknown language . . .

. . . wait and watch . . . it'll dissolve into a fog of nothing . . . always does . . . not this time, coalesced into the eye of a hawk or some bird of prey . . . a cloud passed over blocking the sun darkening the room an eclipse of the . . . paolo was dead . . . partner, shadow, double, mentor whatever was . . . that's why the police had been there last night and she was calling and the face and . . . a certainty beyond intuition forced out an agonized moan: "No, it can't be." . . . the river . . . a drowning . . . I would examine the last moments days later entering his room . . . this morning nothing but complete emotional paralysis . . .

. . . the metallic red 'haulmark' was still parked in front of the express hotel . . . recalled noticing the shadow of the beast while locking the door . . . don't recognize the plates . . . what do they haul . . . needed to tell someone . . . maybe just wait for confirmation . . . cradled the edward hooper mug from the art institute of chicago . . . thick espresso black . . . 'Nighthawks' was the picture on the mug . . . discovered that on a blog regularly visited . . . ahh, lifted the ibook lid, hit remote access . . . should update and leave dial-up . . . time didn't seem too precious . . . scrolled down to image Self-portrait as a Drowned Man . . . mouse click: ". . . thus missing the opportunity to be recognized as the inventor of the medium. In 1840 he responded to this injustice by creating perhaps the first example of political protest photography . . ."

. . . a code, no an oracle . . . paolo lived the last year in amnesia . . . a synthespian . . .

. . . close eyes . . . afterimage of the multi-coloured kite hanging like a calder mobile over the bed fades . . . where . . .

. . . she was in berlin . . . back from istanbul and the bus ride of hell . . . accosted at the cheap hostel and street pursued constantly she wondered if it had been worth . . . where is he? . . . there was the amazing church . . . locked gate, under construction yet somehow they received permission to perform . . . expectedly enough she had fought with p . . . shouldn't have . . . knows nothing of the work . . . wants to direct of course . . . everyone does . . . said he was "helping" . . . feel sorry for him . . . not his fault . . . wants to be capable and thinks he is . . . hopeless and helpless . . . a grey smog hangs around the buildings . . . choke near vomiting . .. soulless and crying black tears . . .

. . . still no answer . . . she caressed the burnished glass nerve beads following them down to the silver metal tassels and was sure he would love them their myriad earthen shades each a mystical world dipped into a enigmatic rich turkish coffee . . . maybe he could stop biting his nails . . . she'd keep them in the tacky speckled blue container . . . he seemed to like all things blue . . . she screamed . . .

. . . does berlin have a river . . . always felt better by a river . . .

. . . that had been, what, two years ago . . . he could retrieve the emails . . . had difficulty deleting anything and made multiple backups after losing the first years of contact . . . crashes and panic had taught nothing is reliable . . . twisting onto his side, fumbling for the remote threw it aside before pressing power deciding to forgo the numbness that comes with radio drone . . . sun has warmed even this north faced room . . . "You with the darkness- slingshot, you with the stone: . . . how did the rest go . . . celan . . . ok time to smell the coffee . . . tongue flicked to the chipped molar not checking for any more damage just delighting in the touch . . . getting quite used to the the sharp fissure . . .

. . . cop in the head said do your stretches . . . that's where you are . . . in a stretch preparing intent . . . balanced, feet square distance equivalent to the shoulder's width . . . knees slightly bent, back muscles of the leg tensed . . . arms kept slightly bent and thumb locked . . .

. . . the dream . . . cold, minus forty prairie night . . . brilliant clear sky, stars dazzling the driifting, deep snow . . . on an endless highway, maybe the yellowhead, driving a white suburu sports car . . . Imprenza . . . not really white . . . a horrible mint green the sales rep called 'new' white . . . speeding free and easy . . . northern lights dance above like that black and white picture on the fridge my dad took in the fort churchill days . . . on the right a deer runs parallel with me . . . fast . . . snow isn't as deep as imagined . . . wow really fast . . . then see the wolf tracking right behind her . . . take eyes off the white line to watch wolf close in and leap teeth bared . . .

... I'm careening out of control . . . car hit a patch of black ice . . . off the road into a telephone pole . . . through the windshield flying . . . blood . . . Awake . . . jeez that's not even my dream . . . my son shared that dream while on a greyhound bus travelling the 401 from Toronto to Ottawa about this time last summer . . . he recounted waking up at night and recording his dreams on a sony mini voice recorder . . . often couldn't remember recording the night dreams but what scared him even more was in the morning playback couldn't recognize his own voice . . .

. . . ten am . . . jackson pollack died in a telephone pole car crash . . . this summer feels like1965 . . . free from school with nothing to do . . . secluded . . . ferociously reading, riding my bike, writing, planning life projects and being hassled by the police . . . sometimes late night tv . . . only forty years later . . . could listen to the same music if i wanted . . . read the same books . . . parents kept everything . . . an easily accessible box stored in the basement with assorted pre-teen and teen books . . . harry potter in forty years . . . black panthers, crawdaddy, hesse's glass bead game metamorphosis into al-Qa'ida, rabble.ca, rss and pattern recognition . . .

. . .ten-ten . . . back pain . . . can't get out of bed . . . can't shake image of kafka police invading . . . can't . . . cell tones text message delivered . . . reach over to flip open: "Where r u . . .

. . . paranoia . . . at 3:30 am, in a deep sleep, am jolted awake by voices shouting "Hello" repeatedly . . . next moment at my bedroom door flashlights scan and blind me . . . two police ask who I am . . . "I live here." . . . "You live here?" the belligerent younger skinhead male, his blue shining form taking shape as I flick on the lights, asks incredulously . . . "Yes!" I shout back heart pounding barely realizing I'm out of bed, confused and . . . "Can we see some identification?" . . . stumble around, find my wallet and hand over a drivers licence . . . why am I thinking I should find my passport . . . "Someone reported your door wide open and we came over to take a look." . . . the tone is still belligerent . . . maybe that's just normal hostile cop talk . . .

. . . the little dick is feeding off my bewilderment with a tone of absolute authority . . . actually he seems scared . . ."Ah you see I just did the laundry and since there was such a nice wind thought I'd open the door to speed the drying . . . Guess I forgot to close it". . . the female officer asks if I'm not worried someone has broken in . . . her partner is already going down the staircase to the basement . . . "Mind if we look around?" . . .

. . . follow him . . . I mind and wonder where the police were the past years on the other five occasions when six windows were smashed and graffiti was sprayed on the wall and my car was torched and mail was stolen from my mailbox and . . . yes I mind but mumble, "Sure take a look around." . . . flashlights splay the darkness like all those CSI shows . . . sure glad the musician friend, a guest camped in the basement for a little while, is gone with all his uh . . . recreational sedatives . . . but then the door probably wouldn't have been open . . . they enter closets, invade the furnace room, assail the bathroom and head back outside . . . "Better close your door." . . . "Have a good night." the female says in a cheery salutation . . . she tries to swing the door shut but it shakes the railing . . .

. . . undo the latch . . . the door drifts silently into the frame and lock it . . . am stunned . . . try to sleep and eventually do . . . not before twitching at every slight creak from the floor boards or rasp from the tree branches rubbing the rooftop . . . suddenly a scratching metal on pavement shatters the early dawn light now brightening the room . . . someone is shovelling . . . snow in July . . . vaguely recall the caretaker from the apartment next door . . . shovels the walk at five in the morning during winter . . . it's him cleaning cigarette butts and fallen leaves . . . loud, methodical and passionate about his job . . . sheesh this is crazy . . . the dog across the street barks . . . her name is annie . . . still a pup sometimes she barks at nothing . . . close all the windows . . . pull the goose feathered duvet over my head . . . curl up clutching pain in the lower back . . . body has not appreciated bolting out of bed from a dead sleep . . . maybe need some advil . . . no . . . breathe slow and deep . . . sleep follows . . . dream . . .

:: note :: . . . this happened the night of the 25th after posting searches . . . paranoia is a cultivation of hunches, lateralisms, frank anomalies . . .

"Producing the sort of society which values music is more than critics can achieve. It goes to much deeper values built up over time and is particularly complex in a modern metropolis, which, of its nature, has several powerful forces which are somewhat antithetical to art. It also has the critical mass to enable diverse artistic activity to take place but, as we would all be aware, there are also many deadening effects. In the long term it is the art that is important, not the critics. Criticism is a good measure of social a democratic health but that doesn[base ']t automatically imply artistic health."(Critical Conversation II|Word without thoughts never to heaven go by Peter McCallum)

:: note :: . . . powerful forces that suck from the meaning of artwork/play turning it into a commodity . . . shoving to the periphery of survivial or manipulating the product for desire . . .

"State clearly that you do not consent to what the police are doing."(NYCLU |Know Your Rights: Stops And Searches On The MTA)

:: note :: . . . the stress of searches . . .

. . . deep blue sky
strong warm easterly wind
open all windows & doors
blow out the end of something
era? paradigm?
everywhere, the signs of closure. . .

(from Tackling terror: five principles for a better future|openDemocracy)

:: note :: . . . attacking personal demons . . .

"So, in the final ROM scheme, none of the steel will be left exposed. All of it will be disguised behind massive amounts of drywall or an anodized aluminum roof. There's too much to distract an audience looking upon an integrated truss system whereby 3,000 pieces of steel (each weighing about three tons) have been miraculously joined together. . . Not one piece stands in a perfect vertical line. Chaos and disorder have been bolted together."

"For Toronto, backed by the intelligent engineering of Halsall Associates, Libeskind is delivering the Spirit House, a towering, gyrating central void that begins within a basement exhibition space and rises up several storeys from the main entrance court. Libeskind wants to control the way that we think, and, ultimately, how we behave. Thoughts -- whether they be exhilarating or sanitized -- are easier to contain within drywall. . ."

"What's more, the strategy of wrap and hide -- the dishonesty of contemporary architecture -- is a concept that has grown tiresome for certain architects operating around the world."(globeandmail.com |Raw metal)

:: note :: . . . wrap and hide . . .

"I would say what I do is [long pause] investigate human nature within a form which also provides a degree of entertainment as well. Or absorption as well. Entertainment in its broadest sense. But to write a novel is to set yourself on a journey of investigation of our condition, where we stand at this particular time in history. Or whatever particular time you want to set the novel."(The Morning News | Birnbaum v. Ian McEwan)

:: note :: . . . entertainment = absorption . . .

"Filmic kineticism attempts to bridge the dimensional divide between screen bodies and stage bodies. Consequently, in the work of a few directors, camera operators and editors they bridge the divide between the visual and somatic. In these cases a new spatial and sensual performance environment emerges. One that make intimate the act of choreography and dancing. In no way can this experience replace the live stage event, nor does it try to. Instead, another genre forms made of flesh and tape, of light and sweat. Physical theatre lends itself to such collaborations due to its extreme kinetic language and individual accessibility of performers. Each film bears the unique stamp of director, choreographer, designer and dancer. It is my attempt only to expose moments of collusion and empathy."(Filmic Kineticism in the work of DV8 Physical Theatre, Carbone 14 and LaLaLa Human St)

:: note :: . . . need to work on this . . .

""My philosophy is that education is a cornerstone of democracy, that we must support education as much as we can in every way possible, and that we must also be able to give our children the best education possible to develop their talents (and) maximize their opportunities to become very successful in society," he said." "In far too many places, teachers find themselves under attack, where curricula are imposed and . . . instructional practices are challenged by politicians and ideological fundamentalists," he said. "We must always be ready to face these challenges to advocate for our professional interest and be persistent in demanding the preservation of a public education system for all."(TheStarPhoenix.com |CTF honours Sask. teacher Garritty )

:: note :: . . . a powerful colleague . . .

"Selina, her husband, and four children are among the 1.2 billion people in the world living on less than a dollar a day -- what the United Nations calls 'extreme poverty.'"(AlterNet|Living on $1 a Day)

"MY FAVORITE" WILLIAM GIBSON NOVELS ... Well, not that I've gone back and re-read them recently (or, really, ever) but I seem to be fonder of COUNT ZERO, from the first set, and IDORU from the second. COUNT ZERO because the ace cyberspace cowboy turns out to be, initially at least, a completely hapless teenage dork, and IDORU because I love the idea of a little girl from a Seattle suburb getting on the plane to Tokyo, having crazy adventures there, and coming back without anyone even having noticed."(William Gibson Blog )

"My intention is to not leave people who come into this world in the dark. Obviously we can't give voice to everyone, but our culture demands that we speak only of things of obvious importance, or of those who leave the completed work of art. But often - I could say always - whether it's a painter, writer, sculptor or musician, there are others who leave traces within any given work. You bring up Michelangelo; there had to be an apprentice who was moving the cans of paint or producing landscapes off in the atelier. Then the master came in, painted, retouched his assistant's work, and signed his name."(José Saramago by Katherine Vaz)

:: note :: . . . reading these two side by side . . .

". . . for the foodstuff never undergoes a pressure greater than is precisely necessary to raise and carry it; in the gesture of chopsticks, further softened by their substance - wood or lacquer - there is something maternal, the same precisely measured care taken in moving a child: a force (in the operative sense of the word), no longer a pulsion; here we have a whole demeanor with regard to food; . . ."(--Roland Barthes, chopsticks)

:: note :: . . . to take time to reflect . . . a gift . . . love using chopsticks . . .

fished forty hats from the cellar scattering them in the space at the temple
hung fifteen pieces of fabric from pole to pole
placed three baskets side by side against the wall
tossed one pair of mukluks into a corner
dangled a set of wings on the door frame

recollecting is gathering all the loose ends and bits of memory to compress them between the seer and the seen

a blinding stillness

"Urban Improv turns learning into play - play that can quickly shift from raucous humor to a sober exercise in making good choices. Serving about 6,000 students in grades 4 to 12 each year, workshops have been built around the potential pitfalls of adolescence - bullying, peer pressure, substance abuse, teen pregnancy, violence.

Educators have long praised such role-playing methods as effective, but only recently has research started to back up their intuition. A study by the Trauma Center of the Massachusetts Mental Health Institute, currently under peer review, found that fourth-graders in Urban Improv workshops avoided the sharp increase in aggressive behavior exhibited by a control group over the course of the school year. Participants also showed more cooperation, self-control, and engagement in class."(csmonitor.com |Practice scenes for the tough choices of adolescence )

:: note :: . . . too many believe playing encourages activity . . . failure to understand the function of theater . . .

last night on the corner of Ave. B & 25th
a drunk sreamed
"hit me again"
removed his shirt
pounded his open palm
smashed a ghost to the pavement
& stood defiant snarling like Ali
a car speed by shattering the twilight
the shirtless dark haired fighter
rocked uneasily between the cracks of the world

i couldn't watch anymore
wondered if he would go to the corner
where his shirt hung on the green picket fence
the nights are hot and getting hotter
the sun dries even the deepest recesses of the basement
the river flows mightily
after a relentless month of rain and run-off
sand clogs the water treatment plant
a water ration is ordered
no showers allowed
imagined being smashed to the floor while showering
instead wipe myself down with a cold wash cloth

in the morning the shirt is gone
the dusty parked blue car
a witness to the entire incident
is still there
the wild grasses grow tall between the fence planks
an empty bus screams by
it is midday
the sky darkens
how do we prove ourselves worthy of love

"That's why I don't really like to use the words avant-garde anymore. I don't really believe in them right now. They don't take in enough variety.
Avant-gardes get middle-aged; they become the establishment. When one goes to the Brooklyn Academy of Music, for instance, one is likely to see the work of artists who belonged to the avant-gardes of the 1960's and 70's and early 80's. Some are perfecting what they've already done. A few keep on experimenting, while some are being better paid to calcify than they ever were to innovate."(NYTimes.com|The Avant-Garde, Rarely Love at First Sight)

:: note :: . . . excellent primer . . .

"Our culture no longer bothers to use words like appropriation or borrowing to describe those very activities. Today's audience isn't listening at all - it's participating. Indeed, audience is as antique a term as record, the one archaically passive, the other archaically physical. The record, not the remix, is the anomaly today. The remix is the very nature of the digital."(Wired 13.07 |God's Little Toys Confessions of a cut & paste artist. By William Gibson )

:: note :: . . . now must read the fictions . . .

". . . terms of boundary crossing, this means that civil discourse has not occurred if boundaries that define spaces of sound and spaces of silence have not been recognized and honored. Both sound and silence are crucial if the city is not simply to degenerate into a place of violence.
Finally, and most emphatically, city speech does not avoid argument. In fact, the rhythm of crossing, recognizing, and honoring boundaries is descriptive of the discipline of argument. (Remember the formulation at the beginning of this essay: liberal arts are concerned with discovery, appreciation, orientation, and application[~]redefined here in terms of crossing, recognizing, and honoring boundaries.) Where there is no argument, there is no civil discourse, and there is no city. Such a place is likely to be defined in one of three ways: either it is surrounded by an essentially impermeable boundary that excludes difference; or it is marked by violent struggle for control of turf; or (most likely) it is a mixture of both, with enforced homogeneity near the center of power and violent struggle for control of turf on the fringes."(Radical Pedagogy (2000)|A Laboratory for Civil Discourse Steven Schroeder )

(via the daily read wood s lot)

:: note :: . . . speak but always be prepared . . . a speech act = resistance . . .

"By now, the actors are so familiar with their own lines that they started listening to each other. It sounds crude, but that's essential."(arts.telegraph |My week: Peter Hall, theatre director)

:: note :: . . . crude theater advice . . . life lesson be familiar with your words & start listening to others . . .

"In other words, a more detached and deeper reading of what lies behind the information already in the public domain will enable us to develp a grotesque, a tragic or an ironic approach in areas where live communications will never reach. It is our duty, or, if you prefer, our professional task as writers, as directors and as theatre practitioners to devise a way of talking about reality that permits us, with the chemistry of imagination, with the cycnicism of reason and with irony, to smash standardised schemes. In the way, we can encounter the programme and the strategies which the powes-that-be bring forward, and that is to teach people never use their critical sense; brain dead, imagination zero. "(from Dario Fo. The Tricks of the Trade. 120)

:: note :: . . . the next paragraph is more startling . . . wish it were on-line . . .

"The photograph defines the space between image and object, between imagination and reality, between now and then, between space and time, between truth and fiction, language and silence and indeed between life and death. This is indeterminable, abstract space, the space of metaphor. If we remember that when we see photographs we are seeing metaphors, we regard them far more critically than we would as if they remained 'images'. News, documentary, advertising and other photographs in the public domain become exposed as a metaphor for our collective memory, which raises concerns about the potential for a subtle epidemic of viral mnemonics. We would sooner believe a photograph than we would a coin. "(new dentist|The Matter of Life and Death |Part 1: Metaphors and Memory By Ashley Whamond )

:: note :: . . . image as metaphor . . . image as memory . . . the conflict between memory & metaphor . . . whenever attempting to record with a camera not only is the moment altered but what is being recorded . . . how to see . . . what to look for . . .

mystifying alien landscape renovated inscriptions abandoned massacres inert mourners with absurd delusions

a secretive drift of transients with a shabby conscience compensated in a dogged survivalist creed

be a problem