Transformation
Understood
Through the body.
I cannot point to my thought
I can’t gesture at my feelings
I can only show you my head
In a different place on my neck
My neck related to the shoulders
And so on and on.
You will see the change
Or maybe you feel it.
Author: erainbowd
From top to toe?
We painted ourselves from top to toe this morning
We noticed where we wanted to skip
Or rather
Where we did
Because we skip and skip
Our attention
We can’t see what we can’t see
But this morning I saw how I couldn’t see
Into the middle of me
I couldn’t see those bones between bones
I couldn’t see where the top met the bottom
Where East met West
Looking from top to toe
Or rather, from toe to top
One could see what couldn’t be seen
Or at least that I couldn’t see it.
Armed, my lord.
To have arms –
Well, that’s lucky
Arms and shoulders and wrists
And hands
All the territory of arm.
I’m grateful to be armed
Even when my recalcitrant wrists won’t bend
In quite the way I’d like
Even when my shoulder clicks when I turn it forward
Even when the flesh on the top of it
Flops just a little bit and makes me self-conscious
Even so –
I am armed to hold people that I love
Armed to comfort
Armed to gather things and carry them
Armed to carry
Armed to lift
Armed to open doors and windows
Armed to dance.
That’s well armed.
Armed, say you?
A quick turn in conversation
A return
To a thought
To a memory.
If a person weren’t paying attention
One could think he was still in the previous thought
– that is, he could be asking if they’ll be armed when they hold the watch
maybe that’s the question they think they’re answering
but somehow they all understand each other here
or at least give the appearance to
and all the information is accurate because conveniently
both the ghost and the watch are likely to be armed.
We do, my lord.
We are human doings, really.
The spiritual teachers will remind us that we are
Human BEings. They suggest we give up our human doing-ness
To simply be human beings.
Being is good
Certainly.
But we’re born doing
We’re born moving.
I learned today that babies never stop moving
They are constantly in motion
Constantly discovering
Constantly making connections
Between one thing and another
Between a hand and a mouth
Between a foot and the floor
Reaching for a bright object
Learning to crawl in pursuit of a toy
Learning to stand in order to reach up
Even in the womb, we’re told.
They are directing their own direction
They move in response to the world around them
To light, to sound, muffled by the protection of the mother
But they’re
Pursuing something too
Something ineffable
Something only they know.
Hold you the watch tonight?
We take turns
Wednesdays he gets it
Thursdays I do.
I like to warm it in my palm
Letting the metal get brighter, shinier
My hand making its case different than it was
One temperature to another
Transforming a cold metal circle
To a warm extension of my body.
As it ticks along
I feel my own mortality
And the mortality of all those who held the watch before me.
But this troubles me.
The deadening of art with belligerent commercialism
The destruction of artists, nay, not destruction
But diminishment
Watering down to create
Diluted art.
The training of actors to be more and more like each other
So that one ingénue can be exchanged for another
Without missing a beat.
The pressing of dancers into a form
The molding of singers into a copy of who came before
The formulas developed at an institute
For trademarked techniques
To create packaged entertainment
Some of which I enjoy
But this troubles me.
Indeed, indeed, sirs.
People make fun of me
But I often prefer an “indeed”
Over a “yes.”
It’s so much more emphatic
More like a bass drum
Than a snare.
It makes me want to stroke my chin and nod my head
Or take off my glasses
To give them a good cleaning.
A bolder acknowledgement
Of what came before it
“indeed”
gives a thing
some weight.
And we did think it writ down in our duty To let you know of it.
The book, thick, bound twice over, just to be safe.
The leather is soft, though, after years of handling and
Printed in a bold strong font.
The pages have yellowed on the edge
But open the book and they’re white again.
There are chapters and sub chapters
Indexes and tables of contents
With many jottings in the margins
In handwritings that vary according to the year
To the ink
To the writer
Each bit of instruction modified for the owner of the book
It may be a living document
But it is treasured
Held close
Not to be trifled with.
As I do live, my honored lord, tis true.
Swearing by God
By my honor
By my virtue
By my art
By my love
I swear by my life
As I do live
Swearing upon one’s very breath
We give the oaths
Such weighty companions
Hoping to lend them credence
But we don’t have a word
For “forsworn” anymore.
If you swore, on your life,
And then broke your oath,
You might be applauded for doing so
You might be chastised
But it is only for the Gods
To tie your promise together
With your breath
As you suggested.
The Hamlet Project 