25 May 2013
Andrew brought me tea in bed this morning while he made breakfast. I stole this tigger mug from an apartment I lived in when I was here in 2009. I just couldn’t leave it. It brought me some comfort. Even now, it is heavy and substantial — more than a mug of tea, almost a mug and a half. It anchored me this morning to have something I could hold completely in my hands, the pure weight of it in between my palms.
I’m borrowing your words from yesterday: [Love] is holding on, even if we have to grip each other so hard that it leaves both of us wounded.
I woke up from a dream at about 2:40 this morning, arrested and torn. It has stayed with me all night as I tossed myself back into sleep, and it’s muting my morning. I’ll have to leave it at the door so I can focus on work at rehearsal today. It’s a long weekend. There’s not much room for anything outside of rehearsal besides collapsing into sleep at the end of it. I’ll try to tease out some more time, if not to explain to you, then at least to myself.
I carved the bones of a poem from the awakening last night but there are spaces in the poem that are waiting for more than what I have to give them right now.
Some amazing passages about Rudi, the dancer from Dancer:
“Victor dreaded being one of those people suddenly left by Rudi, forced to carry the sheer weight of having once been his friend…” (252)
Victor climbs into the rear of a truck — Who knows, the world might very well end before sunrise! — he looks up the cobblestoned street and sees a lone man walking towards the truck, disturbing the globes of lamplight, moving with certainty and grace, the volume of the walk turned up so that Victor’s attention is arrested, and instantly he knows, because he recognises the leather hat, the bend of the brim, the lean of the body, and Victor feels a rush of emotion like wind over grass, causing the hairs on his arms to tingle, and Rudi shouts, You Venezuelan turd! You left me there! and he is laughing, his whole face worked into happiness, showing his fine white teeth, and a tremor runs along Victor’s spine as he watches Rudi approach, thinking here comes loneliness applauding itself all the way down the street.” (259)
“It was impossible to get angry at Rudi for becoming what he had become. Something about him released people from the world, tempted them out.” (334)
To Friends Behind a Frontier
I wrote so meagerly to you. But what I couldn’t write
swelled and swelled like an old-fashioned airship
and drifted away at last through the night sky.
The letter is now at the censor’s. He lights his lamp.
In the glare my words fly up like monkeys on a grille,
rattle it, stop, and bare their teeth.
Read between the lines. We’ll meet in 200 years
when the microphones in the hotel walls are forgotten
and can at last sleep, become trilobites.