This is a culmination of words acquired via osmosis during ‘stage training’ at the Haus der Berliner Festspiele, noting uncomfortable ends in the form of candid drops. In attendance – one full cast for impending production of global arts. My platz (place) speaking spiritually, is poet of the familia, pivoting the va of belief in near-flung communities as answer to life long creative sustainability, in the bones that is. Past tense one can ascribe musings, encounters as end points, hand shakes and pictures forming new trust in the other. Future tense, kunst, art, will override blood.
There is one grainy pass to stand upon, I will later detail a cliff (no doubt). I expect to transgress the sacred, and bring home my body. The mind must stay somewhat unattached, outside of the platz ruled ‘mine’ by language alone.
Like the mind, the stage is not flat. It is a plane of dark embers, endearing little creatures come unto me, scale my wings, hide, die, live a little. The stage is neither day or night, an abandoned fortress of calmness. Maybe it will make us new, or old and twisted, maybe it will dare us to run and look back often in bright red lipstick.
We are to sign our knowledge of the iron curtain, it has as yet erased no loyal subjects. There is an escalator foregoing prophetic odysseys, we are to keep ourselves safe and out of the light. I remember a boy, he disagreed with me, about almost everything. It was a challenge of water flowing. The limbs, the dance of water flowing. He was just like the curtain. Trying to gather my corners, falling over my luminous doubts.