Unbelievable, brother. Thank you, Bill T. Jones.

I just happened to turn this on in time for Marissa’s call, and I’m so glad I did. Her story was phenomenal, and so was the response from Mr. Jones. These were words I needed to hear today, essentially (but less articulately): “We can become strangers to our deepest feelings.”

Just hearing Bill T. Jones voice makes me want to do an elegant exercise from my old beginning dance days–which, alas did not conitinue–the stentorian elegance of it causes a deep reaching within oneself to see how I want to move.

My mother and I saw Bill T. Jones’ and Arnie Zane’s dance company at Jacob’s Pillow some year’s ago. The performance was such a clear physical expression of the feeling of grief to me that it was a transformative experience. I went from viewing dance foremost as a physical expression to seeing the soul of the art first. I loved remembering sharing that experience with my late mother while listening to the program tonight. Thank you Bill, and Tom, for the program tonight and congratulations on being a Kennedy Center honoree.

“near-atomic intensity”

I am still processing it…

Who wants to process my haikuish prose ?

Haibun for My Tenants

While I stayed abroad my two bedroom condo had been rented.
As a matter of fact I cannot even afford to live in it.
My friends found a tiny basement for me.
The landlord upstairs sings sometimes,
“Every mole has a hole”.
I love my basement. Irises stick their purple beards into my window.

one eye open:
on the pillow’s wrinkles
light of the new day

I get notices from my tenants via e-mail.
They ask for a new stove, complain about creaking floors
and banging heat pipes.
And they slapped me with bills for endless repairs.
So I pick myself up and schlep to my old condo apartment.
The streets are empty but half way on I see some road workers.

it goes into the pit
with the old sawed off roots—
a slender sapling

The warmest radiator in the hallway shows some rust.
The entrance door is brand new with a characteristic cheap American look.
The light green color of the living room has been replaced with a peach hue.
Birch logs in the fireplace have been long turned to ashes, I suppose.
Plasma of subatomic particles…
The mantel is adorned with anew clock, beer mugs, candles and a bunch of artificial sunflowers.
The large bedroom boasts a poster with sunflowers larger than life.

cloudy noon
yet all sunflowers turned
to face south

The tenant makes her grand bed in the corner where my bookshelves were.
Where my beloved belly dancer Rosina used to practice a smartly organized computer station is installed.
There is the most pleasant scent in the bedroom. It does not seem it is coming from
an artificial deodorant.
The kitchen is kept very spotless.
My Russian tea kettle is nowhere to be seen, my peasant pots have vanished and curtains removed.
But the ceiling is still peeling and the patina on the antique brass handle on the porch door became darker in crevices…

late afternoon
our shattered street light
bursts forth with sunshine

WOW Look at his muscles!!! I want to work out!!! GOD BLESS HIM… (I have about 7 magazine interviews in the last 6 years…)
He came to USF, where I am finishing my Int. Studies. Incredible.

-Breakdancer of 16 years.