"You have just declared war on the artists.
Now, as one functionary to another, this is the second thing that I wanted to tell you: no government, in showing contempt for artists, has ever been able to survive. Not one. One can, of course, ignore them, corrupt them, seduce them, buy them, censor them, kill them, send them to camps, spy on them, but hold them in contempt, no. That is akin to rupturing the strange pact, made millennia ago, between art and politics."
- Wajdi Mouawad in an open letter to Stephen Harper, Prime Minister of Canada
What began as the preparation for a show soon became our entire reality. It was as if life itself began from the most unintentional and insignificant of moments.
A soothing bike ride, me standing upon the frame, as my friend wheels down towards the river valley from the hills on which stand the university. This downward spiral towards the river soon etched in my memory as the outline of a theatre hall. Bike paths smoothed horizontally at the bottom of the hall, near to the stage, which seemed always so distant.
It was there, on the stage, where my wife sleeplessly resides. I receive hint of this as I walk up the spiralling theatre, upwards toward the back entrance atop the sterling balconies. A wild goddess of the Flamenco guitar, relaxed, is winging a song in black straps and fine hair. From her effortless talent, she speaks of the upcoming show, that we’re all to perform at once, together. I am thankful to know of someone who knows.
The washroom opens out from a small door, to a massive room, a two story, in which I stand on the balcony. Below two large pools of water are filled as chlorinated test sites of a kind. I accidentally pee over the edge of the balcony, just a touch.
As I exit from the washroom, I find my mother, dragging on my sleeve; she is restless and sudden in her violent motions, tragically rushing to perceive my personal history. At the same time I practice my Xaphoon with exasperated over-exertion, until my chest caves in a whorl of a meandering tide, flushing me of all extant emotive energy. A wave of cataclysmic shock escalates from my belly, as I seethe in the inglorious aftermath of our parting.
As I descend back down below the stage setting to prepare for the show and find my one and only love, who is also the centerpiece of the show, I abandon my mother, whose reckless desperation pilfers on a dusk-lit snowy hillock. She falls into the snow, beckoning me wholeheartedly, pleading with the strength of her unborn tears. I am silent and turn away.
People begin talking behind me as I descend alone. The shuddering of friends and family bemoan my impoverished distance, as I stand before my bicycle, unknowingly unmatched the painful will of their unending pursuance. “Where is the child?” They call into a wasteland abyss of empty longing. My reputation dances on their imaginations, as successes and failures announce themselves under the thumb of their own figments of high and low, a personified blush with an instance of recognition amid the melting world order.
I breakdown at my bike lock instilled with the inveterate blinking of innumerable eyes. “Where is my Love of always?” She is concealed behind a fortress of her own insistent distance, her own failed bodily doctoring. All the while, I sink in the ruthless pasture of my own blood, and its individuating soul.
"To dream of being at a theatre, denotes that you will have much pleasure in the company of new friends. Your affairs will be satisfactory will be satisfactory after this dream. If you are one of the players, your pleasures will be of short duration" (iDream)
________There are random lights amiss.
Television stares glide into time.
The stolen tool of history, on the back of a vanished piano-man ghost
listens to itself with a destructive attitude.
Famine touches up the spiritual sanity of highway fences.
We board the intuition that fails to comply with the original intent of a country, as idea of land.
And how do we face the sorry array of new experience reaching the faded heads of wealth-derived insight?
Ruminations detailed with a pertinent memory seek clarity as a process of several ordeals,
knowledge imbalances and physical immolation,
to understand with greater awe the only mystery
- excerpt from "An attempt at prose?"