Today during training we were playing music in the studio and all the cows in the paddock came over to hear it and they were running around the paddock happily like it was a dance. This photo is of Younghee and Hoyoung communing with the cows earlier in the day.
Driving to Albury/Wadonga with Dave and Polly and singing in the car to Michael and Janet Jackson. Our 8 person team has a residency to spend two weeks staying in Hothouse Theatre’s farmhouse and working from their studio to do the first creative development for the Korean play we’re adapting. I’m happy and sleepy and eating jelly snakes. I don’t know if there will be anything other than mobile internet there but I’ll be posting photos on Instagram (username kathleenjoy) and keeping a diary I might post excerpts from.
Balint Zsako, Series 1, #74 & #72. watercolor and ink on paper, 2014. On view now at Katharine Mulherin Contemporary in Toronto. This is the second installation of the exhibition, with half of the works replaced with new paintings from the same series. Until August 15.
Ordinary domesticity, unpacking groceries and exchanging books to read. Smacked on my ass leaning against the kitchen bench. Mid-morning cock, balls and ass worship. Calming acts of submission. The way his big hands knead my shoulders or stroke my body and throat, making me feel cradled in his frame. Biting his firm ass like an apple. His cum coating my tongue. Fixing my face and hair. Sunlight flooding the house and the vegetable garden. Saying my goodbyes to the dog. Easy conversations, that in our good nature make me simple. Kissing goodbye at the airport. Wiping my lipstick off his mouth with my thumb. I can’t remember the last time I was kissed at an airport, before today.
Alexander Gerst’s view of the rockets and explosions in Gaza from the International Space Station
The brightest stars are the first to explode. Also hearts. It is important to pay attention to love’s high voltage signs. The mockingbird is really ashamed of its own feeble song lost beneath all those he has to imitate. It’s true, the Carolina Wren caught in the bedroom yesterday died because he stepped on a glue trap and tore his wings off. Maybe we have both fallen through the soul’s thin ice already. Even Ethiopia is splitting off from Africa to become its own continent. Last year it moved 10 feet. This will take a million years. There’s always this nostalgia for the days when Time was so unreal it touched us only like the pale shadow of a hawk. Parmenedes transported himself above the beaten path of the stars to find the real that was beyond time. The words you left are still smoldering like the cigarette left in my ashtray as if it were a dying star. The thin thread of its smoke is caught on the ceiling. When love is threatened, the heart crackles with anger like kindling. It’s lucky we are not like hippos who fling dung at each other with their ridiculously tiny tails. Okay, that’s more than ten things I know. Let’s try twenty five, no, let’s not push it, twenty. How many times have we hurt each other not knowing? Destiny wears her clothes inside out. Each desire is a memory of the future. The past is a fake cloud we’ve pasted to a paper sky. That is why our dreams are the most real thing we possess. My logic here is made of your smells, your thighs, your kiss, your words. I collect stars but have no place to put them. You take my breath away only to give back a purer one. The way you dance creates a new constellation. Off the Thai coast they have discovered a new undersea world with sharks that walk on their fins. In Indonesia, a kangaroo that lives in a tree. Why is the shadow I cast always yours? Okay, let’s say I list 33 things, a solid symbolic number. It’s good to have a plan so we don’t lose ourselves, but then who has taken the ladder out of the hole I’ve dug for myself? How can I revive the things I’ve killed inside you? The real is a sunset over a shanty by the river. The keys that lock the door also open it. When we shut out each other, nothing seems real except the empty caves of our hearts, yet how arrogant to think our problems finally matter when thousands of children are bayoneted in the Congo this year. How incredible to think of those soldiers never having loved. Nothing ever ends. Will this? Byron never knew where his epic, Don Juan, would end and died in the middle of it. The good thing about being dead is that you don’t have to go through all that dying again. You just toast it. See, the real is what the imagination decants. You can be anywhere with the turn of a few words. Some say the feeling of out-of-the-body travel is due to certain short circuits in parts of the brain. That doesn’t matter because I’m still drifting towards you. Inside you are cumulous clouds I could float on all night. The difference is always between what we say we love and what we love. Tonight, for instance, I could drink from the bowl of your belly. It doesn’t matter if our feelings shift like sands beneath the river, there’s still the river. Maybe the real is the way your palms fit against my face, or the way you hold my life inside you until it is nothing at all, the way this plant droops, this flower called Heart’s Bursting Flower, with its beads of red hanging from their delicate threads any breeze might break, any word might shatter, any hurt might crush.
Dancing in the dark on Tuesday nights is my church.
History percolates in the face of the bewildered angel
holding a skull under one arm and blowing her apocalyptic
trumpet in the other. There are 40,000 sets of bones in
the shapes of chandeliers, columns, temples. I am thinking
of Jan Hus who used to practice being burned as a martyr,
and whose secret followers I imagine displayed here.
His bones are buried in the wind, his words spoken by
blind stars. None of the bones here remember what bodies
they belong to. It is a hard thing to realize that each of
the bones once loved as we do, and harder even to say it.
Vowels of wind brush across the windows. Hus’s words
and the words of the ground fog are the same words.
Huge snails climb up the sides of the church. The walls
are cracked like old skin. My own words have frayed edges.
Still, I can place you here in one sentence that tries to forget
all this death. There’s a mesh of pine trees trying to capture
some stray light. Here and there a prayer emerges between
inexplicable phrases. None of the bones are listening.
None of the bones remember the hush of insects. With each
death a new day, but the crickets sound the same, the shadows
disappear like yesterday’s shadows. These bones only wanted
to make a difference, not be a part of some grotesque figure.
Hus was burned for saying things not even these bones understand.
There’s a leisurely rain beginning. It doesn’t stop the tiny white
moths that have no idea of their own mortality. It doesn’t stop
the frantic crows from reminding us of our own bones as they
pick at the body of a mole. The light is turning into cobwebs.
The day seems distracted. What memory has in store for us
we never know. There’s a jar of earth here from Golgotha
some Abbot thought (1278) would make this ground sacred.
I am thinking of your own sacred garden. I am thinking of
your robins that rock on the telephone wires like men at prayer.
The air is here mottled with all these dreams. Above me
the swifts write a random history of the soul. Against them,
I put these words for you, a kind of prayer themselves,
a way to redeem the silences these bones announce, something
about the way we live our loves, forever on the verge of believing.
how you can never reach it, no matter how hard you try,
walking as fast as you can, but getting nowhere,
arms and legs pumping, sweat drizzling in rivulets;
each year, a little slower, more creaks and aches, less breath.
Ah, but these soft nights, air like a warm bath, the dusky wings
of bats careening crazily overhead, and you’d think the road
goes on forever. Apollinaire wrote, “What isn’t given to love
is so much wasted,” and I wonder what I haven’t given yet.
A thin comma moon rises orange, a skinny slice of melon,
so delicious I could drown in its sweetness. Or eat the whole
thing, down to the rind. Always, this hunger for more.