I ran into a childhood friend of mine
several years ago on the Pink Line; I
think some of you probably know him?
Doug Barr? from St. Louis ?
Well, anyways, we hadn’t seen each other for over a decade. We conversed for 30 minutes, it seemed to go
pretty well, and then about a month later a letter arrives in the mail, a
physical handwritten letter on paper from him.
After saying how nice it was to see me and all that, he mentioned that
during our exchange he had made a delicate observation that he wanted to impart
to me now. The operative line was,
quote: “almost everything you said
sounded like it had been memorized from a script.” It wasn’t necessarily a criticism, he
hastened to add, just a simple observation that he wondered if anyone else had
ever brought to my attention. Amazingly
enough, no one had yet. After the
initial sting of his observation, I realized that he was absolutely correct,
and that as a result I could go in one of several different directions. The first and most likely: alter nothing. Just keep communicating like a hollow-eyed
and presumably unemployed actor. Second:
make the conscious attempt to push my day to day speech-acts into a more
spontaneous or unhinged arena- wildness,
randomness, whimsical, indiscriminate, disordered, erratic- insofar as these things are still even
possible for one such as myself. Or
third: look for and seize opportunities, like this one, in which I can literally read out loud from a script- out in the open, out in public,
in a very obvious way, so that the stilted manner in which I guess I speak naturally might finally
be regarded as somewhat appropriate, relevant, justified.
In essence, this would be one of my major life problems solved, or at
least steadily moving in the direction of solved. I would like to thank Doug Barr, who is in
attendance this evening, for his insight and honesty. This performance is dedicated to him.
going to begin with a few spliced fragments
from Gertrude Stein and Federico Garcia Lorca-
act so that there is no use in a centre. a wide action is not a desirable width. a preparation is given to the ones slowly preparing. they do not eat who mention silver and sweet. there was an occupation. there were rumors of an immediate vacancy. ))))))))))))) what is the current that makes this machinery? what makes it crackle? which instrument presents with a wavering pattern of frost? an estrangement? a whole heap of razors and compasses?- what is this current? who drained it? what is the north wind? what is it? )))))))))))))) remains of a clay pot, a sunken armchair, a windmilll, an echo, an old man covered over with ivy, kale and mushrooms, fragile twigs in an emptied garden where the insects are rustling, from the cave come long sobs, his eyes follow the faltering voice, walk on unsilvered mirrors, under a cradle of incense, marco’s shadow silently glides over the anonymous woodcutter, snow, spikenards, tea, salt flats, a cut reed, gestures, blue eyes, preludes, cordoba, clarinets woven in and thru desolate, deamplified balconies .))))))))))))) there was no rental, no seizure, no black boots, no privacy. spoon it up, stuff it in, any way you can manage. signals come in from tattered blankets waved back and forth over the strawberries.
our friend Karl Mistinal, whom I
think some of you maybe remember, was supposed to be up here with us this
evening but last week he had a fairly serious sledding accident in his hometown
of Duluth , Minnesota .
He is still essentially intact as a human being or subject position but
his mobility has certainly been compromised for awhile! Karl, old buddy- you’ve got to learn to be a
little more careful! I am happy to
report that he is back home this evening in his tiny apartment in Uptown
wishing us and everyone else here continued success. And despite what you may have heard, our other friend Gayle Emery was also
supposed to be up here, wedged in with us, but three nights ago the daughter of
her childhood friend accidently slammed a car door on her fingers. This performance may very well be turning
into a bona fide karmic disaster. It
wouldn’t be the first one, by any means- just another to add to the list. I have made several attempts over the years,
as I’m sure you have also, to trace certain inter-subjectified events back to
their or my or our original pre-cellular matrix. I could have used simple word “error”- that
was my original preference- but that word might imply something uncomfortably reminiscent
of a humiliating and painful expulsion from certain mythological luxury gardens
which were never quite as tidy as certain theorists would have us believe. All entirely unstable and virtually
unidentifiable indices, some of which result in a person’s body and sled
smashed to bits and dispersed unevenly over a snowdrift already littered with
body parts. Or fingers rendered
inoperable as a result of somebody’s outburst of enthusiasm upon winning 15
successive rounds of the game paper, scissors, and rock. The very game, ironically enough, in which
finger movements play such an integral role.
In a steady, professional tone of
voice, the bus driver announces over the intercom at the intersection of
western and fullerton that he’s going to just start driving around aimlessly
for a couple of hours and that anyone is welcome
to stay on board and come along for the ride! approximately 9 of the bus’s 15 passengers do
so. the random person sitting next to
you starts to talk about her recent trip to the corner market, she calls
it. not just any random corner market
either, but an establishment officially registered and advertised as the corner market. it’s the definite article, and because of it
she refuses to shop anywhere else in the neighborhood: dry goods, granola,
hardware, linens, patio furniture, cutlery, art supplies, batteries, lotto,
personal hygiene. the bus is indeed
snaking thru random alleys and streets but also public parks, golf courses,
vacant lots, and the lakefront. after so
much claustrophobia from the cities main arteries, the driver understandably
wants to take this opportunity for a little fresh air.
(musical interlude)
he drives right thru the grass, thru
the soccer and volleyball fields, he
enters a cemetery, and points out the section in which he would like to be
buried, but it all depends on whether or
not he can work full time up thru his eightieth year. stewards of the earth, unite! unite and live encrypted by actuarial
sciences!
the sense of symmetry we had
envisioned for tonight’s semi-improvisation was disturbed by Karl’s sledding accident
and then in a strange sense restored
by Gayle’s car door slamming accident.
In this very limited context, the two wrongs have seemingly added up to
the proverbial right. Before the mayhem, Karl and I were to assume the two
speaking voices in conversation with Kathleen and Gayle’s two musical voices. as
it turns out, Kathleen and I have been left
to wander along on our own- without interlocutors, spiraling around, interrogating the medium,
for a certain period of time, much more than either of us really know what to
do with. Sometimes overlapping, sometimes not
overlapping. Different people mean or
want different things when they invoke the term “overlapping.” Their experiences in this realm prove to be
so incongruent that the term eventually comes to signify whatever the speaker
wants it to signify. Overlapping on
command, overlapping around every corner, no escape from overlapping, ever,
overlapping the only reliable process.
It might be worthwhile to note
parenthetically that Karl has been an organist for about 17 years at various
churches around the Chicago
metropolitan area. He is not and has
never been a believer in anything resembling the traditional sense, but he
sometimes appreciates the formal structure of certain traditional hymns. I would like to reveal some those titles but
he expressly forbid me to do so. As
someone who pays little or no attention to the language component of his professional
art form, he was looking forward to tonight for the opportunity to reverse that
particular pattern of emphasis. According to Karl, this spectral Minnesotan
who was injured while sledding and whose absence tonight seems to be haunting
everything that comes out of my mouth, the lyrics to most hymns are simply sick and incomprehensible. Mistakenly seen as commentary on this or that
aspect of religious devotion, when put under the microscope they turn out to be
hallucinations of the most radical kind.
He said that on the sledding hill
in Duluth he
was reaching speeds of almost 55 miles
per hour. He allowed his body to be twisted
into unnatural shapes. The sledding hill itself was twisted into unnatural
shapes. The very terrain had it in for him, his hubris atop an old-fashioned
radio flyer. Apparently the first thing he
told the doctor in the emergency room was:
“Sir, I allowed myself to run empty.”
And when he refused to say what he meant by that or in fact to say
anything else for the rest of his time in the hospital, the doctor took this to mean that there might
have also been some psychological damage.
I’m afraid he may have been right, but thankfully it’s still too early
to tell.
our poets have some interesting things to say about psychological
damage, and I’m going to run thru this section as quickly as I possibly can,
because it is not pleasant, not pleasant at all; not reassuring, not reassuring
at all: control field, control circuit, control
transfer authority, control channel extension, control facility signal, fiber
ribbon, fiber tensile, fiber bundle and cladding, display order, display
element, display surface gradient relay, magnetic trailer, network dialing,
scattering cross-section, filament, reference transmission, level point,
maximum usabilty threshold, orthogonal antenna mount, omni-directional density,
light emitting cathode monster, polarential tele-wave distribution, relative coordinate
data code, pattern recognition technology, path loss, interactive channel
increment circuiting, signal to noise power ratio, interruptions reduced for a
sick and hollow transparency, variable end user processes, reversible pulse
code dispersions- wow- sorry
about all of that. not very pleasant
ideas. not very pleasant at all. not
very reassuring ideas. not reassuring at
all.
as children we all intiated elaborate
role-playing games and as these games grew more sophisticated we started
utilizing what is often called invisibility powder. this is, as I’m sure you all know, a common,
over the counter bottle or packet of powder that a person sprinkles over his or
her body during episodes of massive confusion.
it renders both the person and the person’s clothes and effects
completely invisible. this way the
confusion is able to fade or wither away without the pressure of on-lookers noticing
things which would most likely fuel the fire.
not to mention the decreased likelihood of people coming up to initiate
conversation with an invisible person, a very literally not-all-there kind of
person. the woman I met on the bus
during our ride thru the fresh air locations mentioned that the corner market
carried a full line of invisible powders.
(musical interlude)
“Calm, calm, what do you want from
me? what could you possibly want from
me?”
yes, ask questions, the calm likes that.
“OK, Calm, why do I have confidence
only in you? why do I feel only
connected to you? when I wake up in the
morning and don’t feel like eating my brussel sprouts ice-cream, why and how
and to what degree do you attempt to numb my resistance? I go to the fruit stand and come back with
petrified wood. the local street urchins
taunt me. they pelt me with skittles.
it’s a candy I actually like but they’re not giving it to me in a sincere
or neighborly fashion. I tried to teach
them some basic whittling skills but there didn’t seem to be a whole lot of
honest enthusiasm. some artificial enthusiasm,
yes, but that’s not necessarily what I
was trying to conjure. is it wrong of me
to have expectations like that?
yes, ask questions, the calm likes that.
“ok, calm, what is this role I am
playing? what is in fact expected of me? wasn’t my job as a groundskeeper the best fit
for all parties involved? will I really
take up residence in a forest of coloring books from the 70’s? and if I do, will I still be capable of
contributing to polite conversation? (disruption)
what if my neighbors break down the door and insist that I tend to their
vegetable patch? they seem to think that
I have skills in every matter pertaining to what used to be called the great
outdoors or wilderness education and maintenance, but they’re mistaken,
calm. deeply and most likely sadly mistaken. my pet lion wanted to kill me so I let it
loose in the flood plain. if the game
wardens ever get their hands on my so-called “work history” they will realize that
my credentials were all based on the slimmest of pretenses. “pretty thin air” I’ve sometimes heard, when
people didn’t think I was listening. Or,
now that it’s winter, “pretty thin ice.”
in the warmer months I’m sure I’ll hear the variation “pretty slim
pickin’s.”
yes, ask questions, the calm likes that.
the calm is really into your questions.
“calm, what is happening here? and by here I suppose I mean everywhere,
during all times, and inclusive of all human beings alive, dead, and yet to be
born. how will all the so-called blank
spaces ever be sufficiently filled? I
know you say we don’t need to fill them but haven’t we already been down that
road? the bus driver took your advice
and look what happened to his employment security! his burial plot will probably end up going to
somebody else. now they pelt me with
gummi bears and the plastic coins they get from the laundromat. calm, would it be ok if I just went back to
my room and laid down?
would that be unfair to the others?
If I was in prison would anyone be willing
to guard me for such an unbelievably low hourly wage? why this lack of basic confidence, which in
the morning will have probably shaded over into the most insufferable arrogance? it’s hard to blame those youngsters for
targeting me with their dollar store candy.
sweet little tykes, for the most part.
I thought about leaving town but you
always interfered in some way, usually via dissociative fugue or some form of
hypnosis while riding around on the subway, for all intents and purposes riding
around without a care in the world. these
last 6 words are often underlined or put in italics. let me repeat the statement one more time and
then I’ll let the matter rest for awhile.
but the last 6 words are really important- try and visualize the
italics. for all intents and purposes,
riding around on buses and subways, staring blankly out the window, apparently without a care in the world.
(first performed in December 2010
with Kathleen Baird at the Hideout in Chicago , IL )