That which
Passes show –
“Show” stands, showing – the very essence of presentation
footlights
curtains
costumes
is it a lie?
But under that
Past it
Beyond it
There is the real pain
The true tragedy
The unrecognizable grief
And yet –
let me see the show
that shows that.
The cry so full of grief
That it seems unlike a show –
Like a window on the very nerves
The very impulses
The very raw experience.
The show that surpasses show.
Author: erainbowd
These indeed seem for they are actions that a man might play.
For the demonstration of grief:
Beat the breast
Fall to the floor
Wail.
Break the voice into little pieces
Pause
Turn the head away
Hide the eyes in a handkerchief
Sniff and shake the head
Place a black band around the upper arm
Moisten the eyes at the corners with saline
Allow it to drop
Bite the knuckle occasionally
Avert the gaze
Find a hat
Or a veil and
Hide the face
That might reveal the truth.
‘Tis not alone my inky cloak, good mother, Nor customary suits of solemn black, Nor windy suspiration of forced breath, No, nor the fruitful river in the eye, Nor the dejected ‘havior of the visage, Together with all forms, moods, shapes of grief, That can denote me truly.
Outside
Working in
Cloak
Suit
Breath
Out
Out – but in
In – but out
Breath out
Through the mouth
In the face
Fulfilling the shape
The expected form
Stepping into the mold
Of an emotion and
Fulfilling it
Like play-doh in a frame
Plaster in a mask mold
Not even a mask yet
Just the thing poured
And shaped
Grief like liquid
Going where it is told and
Nowhere else
A thing unaware of itself
Doing what’s expected.
I know not seems.
Concrete facts
The bone
The spine
The things you can hold in your hands.
The ethereal
The spirit
The ineffable something
That seems to shimmer just slightly out of reach –
No, the unknowable ephemeral is precisely that.
Give me the earth
Give me wood
Give me the shine of metal
The body
The breath
Give me what is
Give me what is.
Nay it is.
Yes it isn’t.
Maybe it’s definite
It’s a definite
It’s a definite maybe.
Antithesis in an instant
Instant antithesis
Like oatmeal in a bag
Just add water
Like tears
Or sweat
No no yes.
Seems madam?
A doubling over of fabric
Where piece meets piece
Seeming like a seam
Stitched together with love and attention.
Seams that seem to twist the fabric in the wrong direction
Will sometimes get ripped out
Unstrung with a seam ripper
Which seems violent and unseemly sometimes
But allows for reseaming
Taking what was patchily connected and
Making it more solid
Making it one
Or so it would seem.
If it be why seems it so particular with thee?
Everybody’s so specific,
So particular,
So entirely their own selves.
What a pain!
It would all be so much easier to manage if we responded uniformly,
Said what we were meant to say,
Did as we’re told.
So much more would get done!
But then – what would it be that got done?
One person’s will? A world of one straight line in a million curves.
Ay Madam it is common.
Ay Madam it is common.
Every day someone dies.
Every day someone’s heart gets broken.
Someone reveals a terrible cruelty
Someone suffers at the hand of another
As common as rain
This sort of tragedy.
But oughtn’t our commonality in the terrible
Bring us more firmly together?
My favorite day in NYC was September 12th
When strangers smiled at one another on the subway
Encouraging one another for just going on
For being there on the train
On the street
With others
Sharing a tremendous grief and
Overflowing with an uncommon generosity
A common uncommon generosity
On the commons
In common
All together.
All that lives must die passing through nature to eternity.
Nature as an intersection
Nature as the Holland tunnel
Nature as obstacle, nay, obstacle course
Nature as labyrinth- but not even
Merely the walking to get to the center
No, not labyrinth
Just – a tollbooth
This thing one must pass through
To get where you’re really going.
Who would mourn someone’s passage through a tollbooth?
Thou knowest tis common.
Grief
Despair
Anxiety
Consternation
Just because we’ve all felt them
Doesn’t make them any less acute.
Every grief is the first grief.
Every anxious moment feels like it takes over the world
Like a black cloud spreading out over the sun
Shading the earth
Filling the sky.
No matter how much we tell ourselves the sky is blue
Under this layer of vapor
Or that the sun is fiercely bright
Behind this veil of dark –
The shadows stretch farther and wider
Edging past our feeble reassurances
Pushing the boundaries
Til all we know is that dark world.
If you tell me
You see the darkness too
Or that you have once watched it spread
Like oil over water
You may poke a hole for light to stream through
Yes
But if you tell me
That it’s no big deal
That this ink
Is just like breath
A digestion
A fact of life
Like any other
I will shape my darkness into a rope and I will be
Tempted to wrap it around your neck
Until you see my shadows clearly.
The Hamlet Project 