if . . .

Current Projects: Crossroads in Istanbul ends.

"That left me wondering, however, what function religion fulfills, and why it appeals to so many people I suspect that it has to do with the human brain; what my late husband Heinz called "the lizard brain." We still dream when we sleep - much as people did thousands and millions of years ago. Our brain associates feelings and images and makes up "story lines" that pervade our unconscious, and powerfully affect our sense of power and meaning. This kind of experience gives rise to religious tradition, and responds to the images, the music, the worship, and the stories we know from ancient traditions." (Edge: THE POLITICS OF CHRISTIANITY : A TALK WITH ELAINE PAGELS) :: note :: . . . hmm . . . last night dreamt a hugh complex dream about renovating an old room . . . have spent the last month stripping and preparing the studio for a badly required exterior painting . . . the job was done in a mysterious sistine blue . . . then dreamt the dream . . . dreaming...

"Kommerell does not go as far as Nietzsche when he talks of the "wilderness of bitterest and most superfluous agonies of soul in which probably the most fruitful men of all times have languished! To listen to the sighs of these solitary and agitated minds: 'Ah, give me madness, you heavenly powers! Madness that I may at last believe in myself!...'"" ( JCRT Issue 4.2 : Laughter as Gesture: Hilarity and the Anti-Sublime)

Ich bin ein Berliner

Farewell Dismounting from my horse            to drink some wine with you, I asked you --            "Where are you going?" You replied --            that your heart's desires were ungranted, You were going back to rest on South Mountain. Then you went --            I put no more questions, The white clouds floats endlessly by... Wang Wei (A.D. 701 - 761) "Accordingly, the book is content to maintain the West's fascination with the exotic elsewhere, and to repeat the unequal exercise of power that enables us to name peoples as the 'other'. . . In fact, this book is primarily about anthropology's history rather than photography's. In that context, many of its contributors do offer trenchant critiques of the ways the West has chosen to represent th...

"Movements encompass floating foot movements and gentle shoulder shrugs that emanate from a flow of breath rather than mechanical lifting of the shoulder. Such movements are referred to by Koreans as "motion in stillness" and express qualities of mot and hung, which Van Zile wrote roughly translates, respectively, to "an inner spiritual quality of charm and grace and a feeling of lively animation or enthusiasm, both which lead to an irrepressible joy or giddiness." "There is so much culture embedded in dance. This is what drew me to dance ethnology in the first place. We can learn so much about a people by looking at dance, which goes beyond being a source of entertainment." "All dance comes from a particular culture at a particular time. Dances don't just come out of thin air. They reflect attitudes toward the body, religion, values." ( Honolulu Star-Bulletin Features )

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. . . have been reading from archival material re: performances . . . this note struck me as pertinent . . . "The traces left behind by performance are perhaps more susceptible to the approaches of contemporary archaeology than methods taken from textual analysis: the documentation of unwritten happening, attested through material trace, is an archaeological project. For certain, performance is inevitably in the past and ultimately enigmatic. It was thus around questions of documenting performance that I was drawn back to archaeology, a discipline intimately concerned with retrieval, recording and reassembling." ( Mike Pearson & Michael Shanks . Theatre/Archaeology .)

::note :: a portrait . . . performing as the demon of lonliness . . . more than twenty years ago . . . fifty years ago I thank my mother for her courage . . .

“Bernhard’s personal investments in his characters’ utterances are everywhere apparent - many plays, for example, include characters whose diatribes against Austria and Austrians resemble Bernhard’s own - more often than not those authorial commitments ar impossible to specify very precisely. In an early novel, for example (Der Italiener ), we encounter a narrator who says, “In my work, if I see the signs of a story developing anywhere, or if somewhere in the distance between the mountains of prose I spot even the hint of a story beginning to appear, I shoot it.” It is the same with sentences: I have the urge to take entire sentences and annihilate them before they can possilbly take shape. “Which is (as Bernard surely knew) almost precisely what Nazis liked to say of “culture”: “When I hear the word ‘culture,’ I reach for my Browning.” A character speaking and author speaking a Nazi propagandist: how does one...

"It was Peter Brook who talked to me for the first time of the Japanese expression, the art tof the beginner . It is the art of the beginner in the Japanese sense, in the sense of the battle, of the warrior, of the Samourai. That is the capacity to obtain a kind of technical fullness and at the same time to drop it completely and to be ready to behave as a beginner. And in the old tradition of the art of the Samourai one says that if somebody uses the knowledge of the warrior and if he does not know how to abandon it completely if he is not really like a beginner when he goes into battle, without knowledge and without consciousness, then he is like someone who is mad or who is asleep and in this case he will be killed. Because only if he is a beginner, only if his fight is the last, only in this case it could be the first in his life. And he can win because he can forget that it is a question of winning, It is in this sense that I talk about the permanence of beginning; To tell ...

"The music begins in speech, rises to a chantlike recitative and often breaks into full-blown song. The style is hypnotic and captivating, though it takes time to attune the ear to a purposefully rough-hewn vocal timbre and the metabolism to a glacial pace. Fear not; there is time aplenty. "Heungboga," at two hours, is the shortest of the five pansori. It is also said to be the most humorous, though the humor is mostly subtle and understated." "In the classic style of performance presented here, a lone storyteller holds forth in front of a screen, wielding a fan in one hand, a kerchief in the other. A percussionist provides spare punctuation, striking the skin or the frame of a drum and emitting grunts of exhortation. (Evidently audience members are welcome to voice encouragement, too, to judge by the hoots coming from a man behind me for a time.) (nytimes: From Korea, Simple Tales Elaborately Told in Song ) "Pansori literally means songs at a place of ent...

Discernment Bathed in a black green cool shade beneath an intense midsummer sun a lone gull cry bids attentive skyward glance. Searing white shapes with black tipped wings weave a magical dance breathlessly disappearing as suddenly as the opening cry, into an infinite cloudless blue. The disarming gentle breeze lifts ideas and scatters them to the ground. As I gather fallen thoughts being as careful at the beginning as at the end, the voice behind the wall whispers: “The way is to the world as the river and sea are to rivulets and streams - darkly visible.” With that I blunt the sharpness, untangle the knots and soften the glare.

Travelling Questions&Answers in Wilds/WaterWays Coda . . .written just before it is too dark to see. . . Five flames surround the white umbrella. A twilight wind rustling sky. A calm surrounds the fingers which hold a sphere. A green world. Toss, turn, bob and bounce. We shape the world consistantly. Call a star and it appears even though there all the time, brighter and brighter strong minding the eye into the night - goodnight. Image seer boy draws a volcano. The spoken for voice speaks like a true little cat. Sad to leave, to let go, wipe the tears, turn, go - we never leave. Umbrella in the sky points to the dipper. Cables converge. Long ago another boy made a telescope to track Galelio’s moons. Grind, polish, measure the shallow concave mirror as the father watches. Focal point over thirty years away. Reflect Self. Good Night. Light morning brings fresh water. The rushing water challenges night dreams into full daylight smothin...

Travelling Questions&Answers in Wilds/WaterWays Afterword The Temple The old one sings. The old wanderer, on the edge of civilization, leans against an oriental vase and sings in solitude outside of time. The seer on the stone sings from the other world. Sings a flamed song with authority of mind and memory about regeneration. Sings a song of sight. The cascading white baby’s breath, the dried miniture red roses, and the two tall peacock feathers listen. Bathe seven times at the threshold. Sleep. Awake. Sleep. Awake. Step internal into the external beyond. The dead escape through the jade disc. See the middle, immanental, transcend the precise empty prescence. A sudden revelation. Do not forget the beginning. No violence. No birth passages. No pregnant potentiality. No fertile gateway. No map. Do not travel north to property woman, known by her curly grey hair, who promi...

Travelling Questions&Answers in Wilds/WaterWays Day 5: Juan de Fuca Straight Fire Bathes Furiously Red in Golden Waves Flee down, run down, secret down with heel heavy haste through deep forest brocade into the open ocean carying and calling fire and light. The sun raises steam anticipating a wild entry. Light curls at the edge of the waves, foetus listening to the dawn and the deep and the distant whale song of a mothers womb. Fire faces Ocean Mediate the directions, stretch full the circle, signal the infinte waves. The beacon revolves in sunless noon day and black night. A still point on an endless wave beaten coast. Fire meets Ocean. Dip to bring red brown sea weed into the air. This healing colour casts a ceremonial bronze invitation. Wave catcher rolls low, rolls with, rolls to peeks of passion. Stance must be altered. Lift be strong supported and free. Dive harpoon like spearing golden waves clutching emptiness. Curl ...

Travelling Questions&Answers in Wilds/WaterWays Day Interlude/The Snake A wrapped staff pokes and prods. Checking for support. Gathering shells, sea weed and rings for unknown reasons. The ever present bear lumbers about at a good distance. The blue opens and behind the face of the rock wall, algae stalagites drip porous green on slimy rock. Sunlight dances to the music of the tidal pools. Other worldly craters and black lava like embedded chunks, perfectly shaped balls, form a crude circle. The wrist wrapping, snapping colours of blue, yellow and green tame nothing but excite the spirit. A grey spotted sea lion lazily approaches. Pause. Long green grass floats. The snake splashes a rainbow mist. The undulations peel away skin to the silent ullalations. The watersheds beckon. Be careful of the trickster squalls. Fall into tidewater. The shells break. Departing soaked the whipping mist and cold rain chills to the bone. Sea pups wave goodbye. T...

Travelling Questions&Answers in Wilds/WaterWays Day 4 - Vancouver Island, British Columbia SalmonRun Snaps alive in salty wind. Orange jelly eggs. On the beach. Breathe the waves. Turn back and listen to the roar. Run the washed, pebble strewn coast line. Wash inside. Wash outside. Touch nothing. Build endurance. Sweep west and east and west again. Listen. Take time. Dance the spine, backbone of invisible cities. A bright sunflower brilliant light shines. A place comes. Smile. You are invisible. It is good to be strong. Prepare to cross over. Other worlds wait. At the portal offer seven salmon berries. They are bitter this early summer. The night brought apocalyptic dreams of vast technological landscapes, desolate cities, wireless power poles crossing endless empty asphalt highways and wind catchers stagnant standing the propellors still. I awake heart racing - need water. Surging waves leap the sky. Gravel chatters in cold rain. ...

Travelling Questions&Answers in Wilds/WaterWays Day Three: Cultus Lake, British Columbia EagleEye The jay vanishes letting me know I am watched. Gold plunges the lake by ancient cedar’s dangling tips. I linger on the rock washed edge. Footstepping warm water. Three tiny steamlets empty shock cold, below the surface. Still wind over the lake. Eye: (soundlessly) Do you see me? The musican’s hand touches the edge of a volcano. Rumbles, shakes and eruptions belch green yellow. Funnels and lightning everywhere. Volcano lady pointed up to three volcanoes in a line. He ran and ran and ran into the storm along the shore. Three unseen though visible light paintings remain. Eye: (sighing) Do you remember me? The actor feels his pulse detecting no movement. Undresses under the ancient cedar. The temptation is to seek advice from the dangling branches. Lake listen to the coffin or canoe. Leave a bundle in the damp, crowded air. Wade in marking ...

Travelling Questions&Answers in Wilds/WaterWays Day Two - West of Calagary, Alberta After the Storm The voice stands wrapped & quivering. The milky Bow River washes orange. Fast fed from glacial run-off, after a night of thunder and sheets of rain, the feet warm the ice cold current waving east. Tiny strawberries clothe the path to the water. Three cricket exo-skeletons close in the eye. A delicate flower disppears soundlessly into the forest where mirrored orange traces rise in lush poppy hearts. Shiny black bear halts all in her bath. The cub blissful and gentle protected sniffs. I’ve seen this bear once briefly before dusk running the waves amoung heavy snowed cedars dripping wet on a brilliant morning in Manning Park. No need for food. Nourishment is found. Thank you for the chantrelles. What do you want to know? The old goat on the craggy rock ledge moves his head abruptly. Despite blended grey silver grey allows himself to ...

Travelling Questions&Answers in Wilds/WaterWays Day One - West of Saskatoon, Saskatchewan. Crow Unfurling the red. A gentle snap. You ‘re at the well. Are you awake? Forget, let all drop, abandon shyness. Water pours through gravel and heat waves. From a distant swing the call squeaks a vibrating past memory. Are you thirsty? The crows remain. Follow father’s black blood line back to grandmother. Past the pass, behind the Crow, where mountain lions cross and mushrooms flourish. Not time to mine the black coal or mime false black diamonds of youth. Let sweet mists disappear the dams and resevoirs of Old Man River. Leave behind the glorious foothills of Pincher Creek and Head Smashed In. Tradition longs for past wanderings. Pass the past, behind the Crow, where mountain lions crossed and mushrooms flourished. Yes I am awake. Yes I am thirsty. The delicate doe stretches beginning her solitary twilight foraging. Day Two - West of Calagary, ...

Travelling Questions&Answers in Wilds/WaterWays Day One - West of Saskatoon, Saskatchewan. Unfurling the red. A gentle snap. You ‘re at the well. Are you awake? Forget, let all drop, abandon shyness. Water pours through gravel and heat waves. From a distant swing the call squeaks a vibrating past memory. Are you thirsty? The crows remain. Follow father’s black blood line back to grandmother. Past the pass, behind the Crow, where mountain lions cross and mushrooms flourish. Not time to mine the black coal or mime false black diamonds of youth. Let sweet mists disappear the dams and resevoirs of Old Man River. Leave behind the glorious foothills of Pincher Creek and Head Smashed In. Tradition longs for past wanderings. Pass the past, behind the Crow, where mountain lions crossed and mushrooms flourished. Yes I am awake. Yes I am thirsty. The delicate doe stretches beginning her solitary twilight foraging. :: comment :: ... this...

... a summer years ago now . . . Felix running . . . Running to Lake Missawawi “walking across the middle of the earth they didn’t know where they were going or who had sent them” my father dreamed these words before he died and I sat at his side then and searched his face where the sweat poured instead of tears felt for his hand on the edge of saying how far we travel into this presence off down the road on a morning in Canada a point at the base of my spine keeps me going, while I think of him, my friends, all of us, building some huge useless machine on holy ground goodbye to his hooded eyes tired at the end, but blue as snakes, goodbye the proud forehead, hawknose and wry half mocking lips curved with pain at the big joke I run by these cleared fields towards a baffling precision of choice in which all, and nothing, is as it should be into a large sky running goodbye to the small friendly lines at the corners of those eyes, acquai...

"This groundbreaking exhibition examines the complex relationship between healing and the creative process in the work of fifteen international artists whose artistic practices promote curative effects. Taking as its starting point the seminal work of German artist Joseph Beuys and Brazilian artist Lygia Clark, this exhibition examines the variety of ways in which these artists have influenced and directed subsequent generations of artists" (ICA Boston: Exhibitions ) :: comment :: . . . artist Beuys certainly imprinted a way of seeing /being during my student days . . . continues to exert a powerful force . . . in the last months a study which became known as Mortal Man unconsciously explored the relationship between healing and the creative process . . . as always the attempt to describe or annotate any work is limiting . . . Mortal Man had many more resources and sources . . . until this moment the connection between Beuys and creativity and healing was dormant . . ....

. . . the articulation becomes more exact . . . ">Schechner in Performance Studies An Introduction identifies Grotowski's Vertical Transculturalism - Barba's Horizontal Interculturalism - Brook's Transnational Theater - Gómez-Pena's Hybrid Culture . . . the distinctions are clear and provide a way of describing work which may touch these spheres . . . here are his definations to be used in the context of performance studies . . . Intercultural: Between or amoung two or more cultures. Intercultural performances may emphasize the integrative or the disjunctive. Transculturalism: working or theorizing across cultures with the assumption that there are cultural universals - behaviours, concepts, or beliefs that are true of everyone, everywhere, at all times. Vertical/horizontal intercultural research: Vertical research seeks original or true universal performaces in the convergence of past cultural practices with individual deep experiences. Horizont...

I sleep. A package dangles from a pier tied off at the end of a washed out bridge. It drops and descends thousands of feet into the ocean. I dive after it. Nameless faces shout after me not to go screaming that it is too deep. The water is cool. A dog swims next to me. ( ">Dagger Child , 1947[^]49. Painted wood, 76 1/8 x 5 3/8 x 5 1/8 inches. Solomon R. Guggenheim Museum. 92.4001. © Louise Bourgeois/Licensed by VAGA, New York, NY.) We enter a cave which takes us up to a hidden city. Atlantis I think. It is an old city - narrow streets, majestic buildings and green parks. The dog trails behind me barking incessantly. Pedestrians give me dirty looks as if telling me to curb the dog. I turn and the dog is hurt. It has been tortured and I am sickened by what I see. There is no blood and the dog’s face is so innocent. I don’t know what to do. A young woman approaches and tells me that I must eliminate all vestiges of arrogance, laziness, selfishness and partialit...

I sleep The green hill. An immaculate, polished, perfect hill. Two tiny streams flow tranquilly down changing colours as they empty into a calm, clear lake. There is a figure lying at the bottom of the lake. At the top of the hill a gentle pulsing begins. A whisper wind in the ear tells me to step back. A giant persimmon rolls down the hill and splashes into the lake breaking into thousands of marbles which skim along the surface. They transform into black balls flying towards me. They seem like eyeballs and they travel straight and true following a barely visible grooved bore. I’m staring into a rifle bore and hear a shot. I turn to see a white horse stumbling in the furrows of a freshly tilled field. I awake.

I sleep. The smell of smoke hangs over me. All night I dream of my father who has miraculously come back to life. I don’t know how to explain this phenomenon. He has been dead a few years now and yet here he is with us in all of the normal family situations. At the supper table, watching TV and working in the garden. A year after his death I saw him crossing 25th Street leaving a restraunt where I went for my first date. I recognized him but was sure it was someone who looked like him. I’d been told we each have a double somewhere on this planet. I’m around 16 years old and running towards the house. I have to warn the others that there is a fire blazing and not much time to get out before the whole place burns down. At the back door I can barely enter the kitchen. The beautiful hardwood floors are charred and glowing embers. On the table is my Nono (grandfather’s) Mass card. A black and white picture of this noble, elegant man in profile. He loo...

Enter a old, dilapidated, second hand bookstore. Young kids swarm the place. I find myself pushed to the only empty corner - the ‘ancient manuscripts’ section. The owner, behind his desk, peers out at me nodding and head gesturing in some sort of silent language. A telephone rings beside me. Hadn’t noticed the booth with it’s almost obsolete dial phone. Reaching for the receiver it stops ringing. I’m here to purchase a book for “Jimmy”, a young, eccentric collector too sick to leave his apartment and whom I’ve never met. He leaves notes and cash in my mailbox. Since I read the books before passing them on it’s a nice co-dependant relationship. The young kid behind me is astounded that the tome I’m buying costs only $22.00. He claims he didn’t even think books in the ‘old book’ section were for sale. He thought they were reference books. As I’m talking to the kid I slip the book seller three special c...