• <b> <b></b> her:</b> Seattle is my living room and my back yard. My womb and my playground and my stage. My dreamscape-haunted house. Both my sundress and my sweatpants. My cathedral and my Grover's Corners.<p><b>me:</b> My home is like a broken vase, shattered and scattered to the corners of the room. It's been spread with the ashes of my great-grandparents by the wind. There are places where my dust had built up; a few apartments in Seattle, some old rental houses in Bellingham, a flat in England and a room in Berlin, a loft in between Gold Coast and Old Town in Chicago. There are dustings of me across Montana and up and down I-5. Each geography is too far to touch and each memory too close to forget. They collide in travel and nostalgia and bourbon to create an implosion that flashes and releases brief glimpses of the elemental particles that started the universe: my heart.<p><p>


I can take an empty space and call it a bare stage. Jerry Manning stood with me in this parking lot, pointed to that loading dock door, and said, “If you put chairs here, that’s a proscenium arch.” We went inside to the Leo K, he pointed at the left wing, “I want to show audiences that view of the theater.” We walked to the rotunda, we looked at all vegetation and weeds through the windows and he said, “You can’t buy scenery like that.” I can take an empty space and call it a bare stage. Sometimes people ask me how do you make a theater. I wish I had the balls to not talk about clearspans. I wish I had the balls not too talk about three phase power. I wish I had the balls to not talk about secondary and tertiary modes of egress. I can take an empty space and call it a bare stage. How do you build a theatre? You perform, and a theatre forms around you. And anybody who tells you differently is trying to sell you black paint.
— Matthew Richter’s opening speech last night for 14/48: Outdoors (doing this from memory so I may be paraphrasing or have some errors)
#vitaFUCKINGbrevis #somethingimitatingsomething #doors #writing #latin @peterelijohnson

#vitaFUCKINGbrevis #somethingimitatingsomething #doors #writing #latin @peterelijohnson


regained my sense of scent

     i could smell again
     just for a moment
          a brief 
     of life
last night
     (or was it this morning
     —it was this morning,
          i’m almost sure of it)
     the brilliant freshness of new skin
          the hint of sweat on skin
     humanity, passion, heart, work, breath, press, teeth, eyes, mouth, lips, tongue, squeeze, pull, whip around, slip, another press, release,
and a sigh
regained my sense of scent
Playwrights this is your drink o&#8217;clock call. #1448outdoors  (at Solo Bar)

Playwrights this is your drink o’clock call. #1448outdoors (at Solo Bar)

Tags: 1448outdoors
Either forbear,
Quit presently the chapel, or resolve you
For more amazement…
Music, awake her; strike!
‘Tis time; descend; be stone no more; approach;
Strike all that look upon with marvel. Come,
I’ll fill your grave up: stir, nay, come away,
Bequeath to death your numbness, for from him
Dear life redeems you. You perceive she stirs:
(HERMIONE comes down)
Start not; her actions shall be holy as
You hear my spell is lawful: do not shun her
Until you see her die again; for then
You kill her double. Nay, present your hand:
When she was young you woo’d her; now in age
Is she become the suitor?
O, she’s warm!
If this be magic, let it be an art
Lawful as eating.
She embraces him.
She hangs about his neck:
If she pertain to life let her speak too.
Ay, and make’t manifest where she has lived,
Or how stolen from the dead.
— The Winter’s Tale by Shakespeare
Her natural posture!
Chide me, dear stone, that I may say indeed
Thou art Hermione; or rather, thou art she
In thy not chiding, for she was as tender
As infancy and grace….
As now she might have done,
So much to my good comfort, as it is
Now piercing to my soul. O, thus she stood,
Even with such life of majesty, warm life,
As now it coldly stands, when first I woo’d her!
I am ashamed: does not the stone rebuke me
For being more stone than it?
— The Winter’s Tale by Shakespeare