Someone waits at my door. Because he is dead he has time but I have my secrets-- this is what separates us from the dead. See, I could order take-out or climb down the fire escape, so it's not as though he is keeping me from anything I need. While this may sound like something I made up, it is not; I have forgotten how to lie, despite all my capable teachers. Lies are, in this way, I think, like music and all is the same without them as with. The fluid sky retains regret, then bursts. He is still there, standing in the hall, insisting he is someone I once knew and wanted, come laden with gifts he cannot return. If I open the door he'll flash and fade like heat lightning behind a bank of clouds one summer night at the edge of the world.
Pedagogy and Performance
Whatever the lesson was, it wasn't taking. We awaited the information in kind of a corporate way and I kept wanting to go up to the whiteboard and write FEMININE MARVELOUS AND TOUGH and ask Is that what you're trying to do. Sometimes it's hard to figure out how to move. When cardinals move, they're as imposing as cows. They cleave pornography from abstraction. But let's also look at us a few weeks ago: a scale model of Seattle with its gleaming library protruding like a jewel from a navel—this was our best self, not the contraption of drawers and cranks that made our work; not the surprisingly delicate bones of Boba Fett, painted the same colors as his armor; not the three tow-headed delinquents who used the contraption in their performance, then went home after disparaging the audience and showered together; not the cast of my life filing into a wooden amphitheater as my favorite band started soundcheck in another country. How would I get there on time, even with half my friends rooting for it, how do I get anything done when as late as last night someone started yelling CARDINAL at the sight of blood soaking my sleeve.