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hum, accounted, then into a wave
to bind another crashing twin to
be which would have sprung her from the mind
for stepless path, who tireless and trace
a live and ticking tone left unexplained
your fluttering and kicks, this celebrated
solstice falls/the heaviest of clicks, which
indented there to indicate the bones
and here irreverent all our mutterings ignore
the world outside’s forecasted winter storms
you unseen who have guided us to these
the furthest reaches of the night where we
are clipped from short to stubs/an understated
irreversible and transformation

how do you assemble stones
from titrate saturated sediment
all in one whom eroded from
no pail no motive foundation

you your hands your voice you look
so alien in your reflection/as though
why tried&failed arrived against 
there washed out lines gate shadowed tines that 
knell wasted oblivion

and how do they feel exactly
how were you made this way
how does this thought move through you to the surface
passing up through your stem like a stone/your look
the ever un diluted cell/such walls were drilled 

for marcus in his lifetime/and then this fellow with these sleeves 
tornadoes, aeolus, amidst the churn 
                           of soldiers, they swarm the pillar up
whose surely chapter here is over
how did they once assemble rome?
they now face death together. 


 

the above was part of a poem chain, where i’m working with sounds and words based on another poem by someone else which i’m not posting. 

one of the many monuments mary led us to and explored with us was the colonna di marco aurelio, which depict the danubian wars aurelius waged. 

i’m leaving rome tomorrow on a tiny plane with katt-matt where we have to reduce our luggage down to a 10 kg bag. ryanair is the enemy. i do truly wish i had left my three pairs of pants, my long sleeve shirt and my jacket and my two button up shirts at home. while i wore the shirt and tie one day in milan and on the train to padova, it’s been in the 90s here most of the time and i scurry from one shady stretch to the next in my shorts and tshirt as we walk through rome.
this has been a good reminder to me that i’d like to get rid of most of my things.
a lot of folks seem to hate ryanair and their staff and their policies. folks online say their staff is determined to bring you to tears. our friend mary warned us a few times, they literally screwed me both ways. never again.
matt discussed a this american life episode about a guy who cried only when seeing movies on planes. something about the whole emotional situation.
matt forgot his mini tripod in milan. matt hasn’t brought a guitar for busking but a microphone for setting down material. an impressive rode that attached to his iPhone. i think i might want to get a microphone like that now. i’m not sure what i’d create with it exactly. all of it. music recordings, like sara’s cover of ambulance. talking and patching together sounds for shows. making new songs myself. art. record it all and store everything outside of your head. but i also want to be wary of talking myself into buying new things. i want to be wary.
i remember getting david a zoom h4 years ago for his birthday. i sometimes wonder if he still wants to create a radio show. to become beyond the next ira glass. but he doesn’t, he’s pretty clear with his path these days it seems. move to somewhere and do that thing.
on the lovely airfrance flight on the way over, kat and i were excited. sure, i’m excited on every flight. but this is one of the airlines where they’ll share in it with you, feed you serious food, pour a champagne toast included with your ticket. she said, let’s watch all of the movies, there’s so many good ones. i wanted to watch the new muppet movie. not the jason segel or bret mckenzie one, but the newer one yet that people say is bad. it’s what they had. we started and it was a mess and i apologized a few minutes in and we switched to watching frozen which neither of us had seen. about ten minutes in something set of something in me and i started crying. kat looked at me and i couldn’t stop but then i started laughing because i wasn’t sure how this happened and it signaled to kat that it was okay to laugh and that i was sort of okay. it happened on and off throughout the movie and finally at the end credits and i never had a full handle on why. i don’t want to analyze it too much.

kathryn and matt and i are in milan visiting with our uncle rich, aunt luisa, and our cousins zoe and filippo.
matt visited with david and others about eight years ago, and they made a bit of a bigger splash at the time. word had preceded them about the blonde american cousins who were coming to visit and they came and it was filippo’s 9th birthday and everyone in the neighborhood came out for a huge game of dodgeball in which the american cousins maybe injured some of the smaller bambinos.
kat and i kept a relatively lower profile. rich/luisa/et al are the consummate hosts. an immediate connection as family and so much to talk about. matt arrived yesterday, zoe and kat and i snagged him from the train station. 
tomorrow we’re taking a train to venice. i’ve contributed at points, but i’ve so often gotten comfortable with kathryn handling the logistics of things and being the person who is good with those details, and that i am the person who is not. matt coming in and keeping pace with her in booking things is a reminder to me that it just takes doing. just making the effort. he’s a great addition to the team–we’ve been a low stress high activity traveling group. it’s been good to uproot myself from my carrboro espresso and library brooding. 
milan is wonderful, of course. yes it is in many ways a run down hurting city where we are hearing each day about how the little money left has been embezzled by some pinstriped papa. but i’m an american kid, and while we have plenty of pale imitations, it’s powerful to see a cathedral or a monastery where every stone has been carved by an artist and it took hundreds of years at that to do it. it makes me slow to sit and scratch down some lines in my pad to feed my head humming. art is inspiring. kathryn can feel this bubbling up if we’re walking together and she’ll nudge me so lightly it seems like it’s my idea. talking with her teaches me how to listen. 

where are the songs the muse so sweetly sang
to shakespeare, sullen, through his darkened hands
onto the page of lives he never had? the years before us
on the spinning earth hold their abundance
through that which they don’t say (they know our names)
their shadows flung across our path, their wind
that blows the form of death, drinks from our lips
as in their gracious hands appears a gift—
but we don’t know our faces through the mist.

At the library on the sunniest day, with plans tonight with some of the best people. I’m mostly at full again, after last week’s sickness.

 

1

affect yourself from this analogy
invert a wording rounding out the edge
a sharper jagged tone that deigns correct.

 

2

myself which are a thousand breaking waves
(a movement not a being or collect)
such phrasing would with welts to then sustain
of faded fragment an irrelevance
that clamors in its cadence of expect.

 

3
the equinox would writ a breath for us
the children of complaint a hoarser voice
a noisiest to splay our axons through:
now what’s a shyer season here to do?

We’re here in Philadelphia for family, it’s a second event for me meeting a separate set of families on her mother’s mothers side. Great Uncle Art’s 95th birthday. Kat talked me through some of it on paper for me.
This is Judy, Art’s daughter, she kept her name. This is her husband, Fred. Also, Fred loves theater.
Oh, is he a performer?
No, I don’t think so but he loves theater.
In my family it was different. It was just my mom and my sisters and I. We might talk a little about the folks we would never see, but they were separated by years and miles and the stories were hardly plausible. Who would be capable of such things? And my mom was busy and we were difficult. I’m still difficult. It felt like some funny chosen chance that we ended up here, and that the others only lived in stories.
I bought a book in the airport on the way up, Oh My Gods. I don’t like the title, but I’m very excited about the book itself and the intent, the market niche it fills. Kathryn had told me once that she wanted to learn sometime about these myths again. And I thought about how I had learned about these things, and I said oh yeah, you should check out Edith Hamilton or Bulfinch or whatever. When I checked them out from the library, I guess I had forgotten before how boring they were. Maybe my parents or Ms Glekas at Culbreth had filled in the gaps for me. But I had seen this book Oh My Gods at the library before and eventually checked it out multiple times and appreciated its intent (and execution). Basically Hamilton and Bulfinch are whitewashed family friendly versions of the stories. While I wouldn’t characterize myself as having a craving for violence et al in my entertainment, I think it’s worth noting that in all of these–its kings, gods, and even the incipient concepts at creation, every step along the way involved some horrifying violence or forcible incest and beyond. I don’t argue that this signals these to be part of the natural order. On the contrary, I believe that the genesis of stories was born out of a deep grief and alienation: from family, from concepts of justice, from everything. I believe these things were present and buried in the pasts of the early storytellers and they had to set them to symbols. The stories are as much a survival tactic as discussion repression or medicine.
We are talking about names, we’re talking about what we are.
Not Kathryn and I. We came to an agreement and called it an engagement, and now the details of discussion don’t feel terribly urgent. At least not when it comes to deciding on a name. Something uncolonized, something aside from property agreements, something individual and aware. An acknowledgement of what we’re doing. But this moment isn’t about us.
Anyway, we are talking about names. No not a name, but an aesthetic. Or maybe both. My friends are in discussions about what we are upon a realization announcing itself to us that we’re actually capable of doing all of the things that we want to do. The biggest realization, I think, more than us being any sort of more ready, is that these are a people we want to spend all of our time with. This had partially started during Iphigenia rehearsals. Somewhere between “is this going to be a show? But we’re doing this…” and “we’ve struck on something special and i don’t know how we can recreate this experience but I can hope.”
I want to protect these things, and so I don’t talk about it too much. I keep it to a couple simple sentences on the surface. We’ve realized we love doing shows together so we’re planning on doing a lot of shows together and we also love meeting so now we’re meeting all the time. What’s more to say?
I met Art at Fred and Judy’s house. I think Art stays nearby at a retirement home that looks like a hotel to me, but I’m a small town kid. I wasn’t close to him for most of the time, until he beckoned me and said very clearly and deliberately
Are you finding people to talk to? There are many people here. A lot of branches.
I smiled and told him yeah, I, absolutely, folks have been very welcoming.
The doors are huge. Walnut, like the street. The bannister too. I wouldn’t know if they hadn’t told me. I went up to the room where my coat had been taken to, and I saw the walls of plays up there, and I saw names I recognized. I saw almost everything I looked for. Some new contemporary ones I hadn’t been able to find on my own in Davis or Perkins. The Flick by Baker. Mr Burns by Washburn, Jerusalem by Butterworth, The Coast of Utopia. The only one I thought of and couldn’t find from these Playwrights Horizons playwrights (he had some subscription it seemed, with preview editions) was Belleville by Amy Herzog, but he did have The Great God Pan and also the 4000mi/After the Revolution that I have. This was the best collection I’d seen and I was impressed. I usually think it’s frivolous to buy plays, as I haven’t finished the ones at the library yet and inasmuch as it’s frivolous to buy anything. But I loved this, I wanted this, just to hover there. Fred saw me up there and we started talking. I complimented him and soon he told me I should borrow The Flick and he was explaining the train to take to arrive at what should be an excellent production of Circle Mirror Transformation in a town where he tells me there isn’t much but their productions have been just terrific. I told him we’d try and that I’d love to borrow The Great God Pan, if possible. Of course of course, just do bring it back.
I wanted to escape and read it right away, but I understood that there were events and families and a beautiful day out and it was good to be walking. It was a beautiful weekend still at that point and with so much to do and so many people to see we would have pushed ourselves to exhaustion. Perhaps we did.
I vomited early that evening and after asking Kat throughout dinner if she was chilly, my fever started to spike. I went back to the hotel room that night and stayed through the next day. As a benefit of the house arrest that evening, I read the play. Kat came home an hour or so later and I only realized she’d caught it too when she was up in the night.  Somewhere in all that I finished the play and was spinning in a fever logic processing it. Her clear structure internal to scenes, the tines that it all pricked in me like Celebration had a few weeks ago.
Herzog doesn’t read the reviews of anything. I know others who are obsessed with any press. My mother, fortunately doesn’t work towards reviews, she hardly knows how to make that direct connection as some other chefs might. Oh but every word that’s printed is something else she has to carry. Trying to ascribe meaning to these emotional outbursts in yelp reviews, much less design a restaurant system around it, and the problems are all with something outside of her jurisdiction at the restaurant anyways, but god knows she’ll try. I don’t think she should read them either.
Walking through a minefield set in place by our own traumas. Seeing Celebration and reading The Great God Pan. Celebration is for my dad and this one was for S____, so Celebration was harder, but reading pan helped me see that these zones will be there to walk in between and over and detonate for the rest of our lives. 
I have a character in a story who sees this and has a plan to unearth the mines. Sure, we’d expect for people to be hurt by this. But this is truly the only way to live responsibly. Dig up the mines. 
Dig up the mines. Is that what we’re doing?
An interviewer asks Herzog, but why not? You get only out of this world reviews (by “only” he means Isherwood, which was enough). She doesn’t find any of it useful, the positive or the negative. I’d agree.
Two mornings later I’ve survived the fever and I’m sorting through notes and scripts and stories and emails. Trying to parse out what we’re doing. It’s snowing here. From the hotel room I just compared the walk to this coffee shop to the walk I’d taken two days ago in a perfect sunny day, but now the air is sharp and frozen. It’s amused at us, and the reasons we decide to walk from here to there in a morning one day, while yesterday we were in bed recovering from a fever and stomach flu. What are we recovering for? What are we doing? Our flight is delayed anyway, so we walk to a coffee shop.
Coffee is combustible. It’s a good consumable gift, the way that it swiftly degenerates. We found this shop, Elixr. My computer keeps autocorrecting it to Elixir, and when I tried searching for it online, I searched for Elixir and they said it was closed. It’s good to try these things in different towns.
Like maybe for centuries people searched for an Elixir. They named a thousand things they were convincing people to sell as Elixirs. But people kept searching. Maybe there was a spelling discrepancy. Maybe it was improper marketing.
I wonder if I should bring some coffee back to my coffee friends. Or to Scott or others. I imagine that to these folks, having coffee in a gift bag in a world where they can be drinking free coffee forever because they make it, test it, throw it out and talk about it. I applied for the job for the friends anyway. I do think about them when I try it, comparing the elixir to the piedmont espresso. I certainly appreciated Ultimo yesterday, and it had the sharpness of one of our own single origins or Cocoa Cinnamon’s. But I think in the end I’m looking forward to the piedmont blend when I get back home, and its comfortable contradictions. This Elixr isn’t too dissimilar. Maybe with a splash of the Sumatra and some of the Ethiopia.
I’m not an expert on this. I can pepper in some words but my indonesian-tastebuds are unpracticed. Most of smell is vision anyway. Imagine bleaching out all the fruits and candies in the supermarket. It’d be criminal. All you’d taste is bleach.
I want to tell him sometime. Consider a new website design. Look at Elixr, it’s beautiful. Talk to Randy, everything he touches is perfect because he is pure of heart. Allow this website to provide for easy distribution, like for other companies who have a guest espresso slot to want to offer you. For it to be more convenient than ordering from their own sister shop. For us to change our offerings more regularly. Even if what we have is good, i think people are excited about that. About having a different espresso each month. Ultimately these are details, though. A shop’s concern should be the emotional experience of the customer. What do I know? I don’t know him that well. I collect these phrases from nowhere. I should really be working on the restaurant. Or our company, my adaptations and plays.
We are talking about an aesthetic. How do you tell a story from the spine? How do we parse out and acknowledge what we’re doing?