« the blog that ate its own head | Main | "Why are you so angry?" (trickster part deux) »


I feel cracked
I feel listening
I feel honey
I feel bees
I feel pouring
I feel golden
I feel earth
I feel skydiving
I feel crooked
I feel left
I feel ruth
I feel horses
I feel women
I feel hair
I feel blood
I feel christian
I feel chicago
I feel gray
I feel brown
I feel quivering
I feel sex

We were to say one word how we felt and the partner was to physically recieve it and then do the same back. Eric and mine felt like a poem, he kept giving me my missing pieces. I think we both kept thinking, "how'd you know?"...how'd you know that thing that I didn't know.

Ruth has that effect on us in general. She talks to us literally, but it is cearly also code. Its not so much that she knows my secrets, but that she knows the secrets that I dont even know. I been around several of these sorts of people in the last few weeks.

After "I feel" we did a cat. Mine sang half the time and then went screaming some where between sex and greif. then two
plastique isolation rivers. but these rivers had banks. the first one was to be about escaping from some sort of container, each time escaping into another container. I worked with my own flesh. Escaping each layer ad each block, pulling at my mouth as though to turn inside out. Throwing my skin like clay. Each container escaped, I found myself deeper in my own skin. it is an awesome paradox.

the next river was about a kiss. Having escaped my skin enough to be inside it, I felt this deeply and beautiful. Other people's rivers turned different ways. Some felt violated. Some were being kissed by kittens or butterflies. I had a good time, and also some physical pain.

yesterday's river had no banks. we followed it where ever, letting our images and impulses travel through our skin. Mine was so different each moment. It did flow me one moment to the horses. A scene that really did happen.

Camilla and I stopped to talk to the horses. She spoke to them in three languaages. Fortunately, the one I was with spoke english. "Can I touch you?" The horse nodded no. The image haunts me and I dream it, too. The unconscious nods, "not yet".

In the river yesterday: "can I touch you? can I touch you?" I repeated it out loud. Maybe the dream drempt long enough will flow to a different answer. This time it did. this river was rushing. I dreamed them again last night, but dont remember.

Eric told me he has always dreamed of horses. Horses and circles and blood.

Last night, Mabou Mines performed Lucia, a play about James Joyce's daughter who was institutionalized most of her life. She was his muse. She was his shadow. She was silenced and appropriated. He was her down fall and her redeption. The play is written in word salad.

I did three massages today. Ive been teaching yoga each morning. Despite of these things (which usually keep me free) my body is hurting bad. I want to cry. I want Ruth to bore into my soul and tell me I have one. I wonder what I am bracing against?

I will keep repeating.
can I touch you?
can I touch you?

until the answers change.

Post a comment