invisible ink

Lesson from a mega-city: however much I accumulate in life – in terms of anxiety or abandon or crime or comradeship – it will, when summed up, fit neatly into perfect anonymity. And on an interplanetary scale, human history will fit that way too. Sands on a beach, so on. Trite, but a liberating meditation. One way towards meaning is to form a feature – to aggregate with affinity and make – a beach, a galaxy, a boggy, fern-flagged theater network. A play doesn’t count as much as a bog of plays? Or – doesn’t count the way a bog, a spiral jetty, an eyebrow does.

 

Plays are written in lemon juice – you have to burn them (with rehearsal) to read them, and then – you read the trace (the writing having burned away faster than the paper).

 

Race is just not real. Nationality is likewise too vague to be of use as a category. There are some cultural differences between groups – but there are so many overlapping circles of culture that the lines are more vibrations than inscriptions. Theater as a manufacturer of actions can repeat the ethic of observation – follow what people do – what we are is people, what we do is our submission to the test of being. Another travel commonplace, but wakes up again that weariness over a politics of weirdness – pandering to an us vs. them paranoia. I really can’t see anybody but us.

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