Sunday, July 20, 2014

room on the way

... yellow, pink & orange walls shelter us from the heat as the air conditioner clicks on & off ... a place of contrasts ... garish lights & humble artistic center stretch outside ... clean swept streets & unkempt staircases ... aggressive drivers & exceedingly polite greeters ... wide, fast flowing highways & narrow, empty passageways ... buddhist temples, shaman homes & churches ... the one constant in clothes soaked in sweat is exquisite food ... everywhere in open markets to single small eateries ...

... probably only slightly different than any city anywhere but it is the place I now inhabit to experience the familiar as surreal ... here I am the other ... the naive wave to me shouting out "hi" excited they can use an english greeting ... an elder reaches out smiles & strokes my arm ... school girls on their way home exclaim "foreigner" ... it all happens "on the way" ...

... many are anxious to demonstrate the goodness & generosity of their culture ... others are suspicious if not even a bit hostile ... despite everything it is myself that is opening the door to a dance of distinctions ... a murkiness, a discordant beat, an open wound & entangling mind shadows resolve into no craving, no loathing ... moment by moment enter the unfolding "on the way" ...

... the acupuncture & outpatient treatment of pills & medicine, mindfulness & rest ... the relatively young master ... kind face of childlike purity, a face of decades of patience & practice, a relaxed manner & bright voice ... what is it that decides our ancestral homeland "on the way" ...

... humidy ... scorching sun ... chirping cicadas ... wife's face blossoming with happiness ... "on the way" in Inhwa Iksan Jeonbuk ... "on the way" ...

::Note:: ... Second week begins ...

Thursday, July 10, 2014

First class

You practice the art of healing.
You believe in a tribe & the migration of birds.
You know about the mingling of Christianity & Confucianism.
You tell of the four rivers & the delta waters.

Are the churches, shrines, relics, saints and dyke observation sites of the depositif?

What are you teaching?

::Note:: ... traveling around the region near Iksan ...

Sunday, March 16, 2014


Réunir by Pj Prudat featuring the 2013-14 Circle of Voices is ...

Letters float in ... Are they from the past to the present? From the future as recollections of the present sent to the past? Were they sent by the drum ... The fiddle ... The hanging wolf skins howling silently trapped in a braid of tree branches ... Perhaps the trees themselves  or the leaves of the trembling aspen dropped the letters to the earth

Who reads the letters ... The Kookum listens ... a spirit Kookum, a grandmother to a people ... listens to her daughter ... her sister, her grandchild, her lover, her lovers ... listens to the voices of elders, leaders, oppressors, voices, gunshots, silence, shouts, the heartbeat ... listens to the aspen leaves as they tickle the sky with their stories

Why  ... trembling aspens are relatively short-lived, an average lifespan of up 80 years in the wild ... reproduce clonally by root sprouts to form large long-lived stands, essentially, one large plant ... an early successional tree, meaning one of the first species to grow in a forest that has experienced some kind of disturbance ... The Métis survived all disturbances and weave their story into one infinite strand ... the sash ... a survival

The stories ... the stories appear before us shreds of color & sound, disorganized & chaotic like unwoven threads begging our imagination, our collective memory to weave ... to make sense of ... to shape & see the patterns ... our hands tremble with love & fear, disgust & joy, mourn & hope ... Still the sash will be long & true ... "The truth about  stories is that that's all we are"
Thomas King wrote that about stories and he wrote this:
        "But then who will sing for us? Who will dance for us? Who will remind us of our relationship to the earth? Who will tell our stories?
The one about the Coyote and the Ducks, for instance. Take it. It's yours. Do with it what you will. Tell it to your children. Turn it into a play. Forget it. But don't say in the years to come that you would have lived your life differently if only you had heard this story.
You've heard it now."
Witnessing Réunir I had the sense that long ago a pact had been made ... a pact with a being somewhat  between the devil & wihtikow ... in a time of great metaphorical darkness ... seemed faustian with goethe's eternal feminine ... But that was my witness ... I don't know what those around me saw in the many layers, shifting images & narrative ... expressionistic engaging associations

I have heard the trembling Aspen on my walks on the prairie ... summer or autumn ... it is winter now, spring approaches ... I live in the river bends of the Métis ... I listen to the stories ... I won't forget Réunir ... As elder John Sugar quoted from the program ...  "good medicine"

:: Note :: ... Pj Prudat was a first year student in a class I taught and I saw her impeccable acting a couple years back & now I get to see a powerful play she has written ... What an honour to watch an artist explore ... She will make difference ... Watch her ...

Monday, February 17, 2014


... went to a play last night   not too unusual   this past month   The Cherry Orchard   Ignorance   Our Town    will probably go to three more this upcoming month   try to go without expectation   been often disappointed   take the attitude  "not looking forward to this, really don't want to go but it's good to get out and do my duty, be responsible and see things" ... 

... this last one Love/Stories (or, But You Will Get Used To It) 
Playwright Itamar Moses looks behind the curtain of contemporary romance in Love/Stories    yes felt like a lot about grief     a pedagogical lesson on theater [meta]drama[post-modern]conventions  intellect/emotion

... reading Red Doc > the next night & found this in Margaret Christakos: Slay it Again, Anne which captured the experience 

Carson, through all of her work, writes about love as the atomic leveler of the self. Love is shit that smears us in its radiant nakedness; it can’t really be survived. Yet, humans love. How’s that for tragedy. I really get this about Carson. To emerge from love is to emerge stripped and trussed. That doesn’t mean you didn’t enjoy yourself. No. To enjoy yourself that much is to be displaced, to appallingly suffer in its aftermath, when it’s over.

... the excellent cast after thousands of clever words    & silence
 burns the image:the finality of a head turning to see the other who is looking away & seems will never look back to blackout ...

::Note:: ... self referentially why do i go to theater / to see the playing i don't know / solely / well yes to be in a place where another's complete act of creative imagination reaches out into an opening of shared mystery / the medium is the message / yes the face to face of theater is the medium & the message is selfless / what / the untellable action reveals activates a transformation / you go to theater that fourth-wall, aloof, scripted, unresponsive, audience-ignoring stuff, lights fade up fade down, move pieces of furniture around for that /  [silence]   Yes