Inspiration [Tell Me, Little Lamp!] Who Are You? 1. My right eye meets you-- an illu sion. Things you light upon, I notice them on. 光, reveal yourself until
my left eye leaves you.
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This performance is dedicated to my father,
Kerimujiang Kuerban, January 3rd, 1969 -- May 30th, 2019 Home
There is no beginning nor the end. To come here I have to move my body and un-move them. My dance reminds me what home is. The Completion The girl sits next to the mannequin to recite a letter that she writes for the large plastic figure. The completion. She wants the mannequin to feel how she feels and what she sees in it. What seems complete isn’t a completion. For years, I was looking for Mr. Right to complete my body and I had thought God created me out of a part of Mr. Right. I was looking and seeking, dancing and singing. I tried all kinds of forms to be close to the being who potentially completes the missing part of me. I came across myriad souls and bodies, and none of them had ever completed me, though they all entered my body with the will to complete me.
Then, she came along in my journey of finding another half. She completed me without entering my body. I invited her to my soul, we traveled through each other’s universe through an entrance to the black hole. She is the existence of my universe and she is a woman. She is the mother of our world, yet the whole time, we were looking for a father. Writing exercises:
Third Person Present - Philosophical - who is the narrator? Flesh tatters into pieces as it is on the way to completion. Each temporary union with Mr. Wrong tears a part of their being, yet they still don’t know why. Soul is just another word to them. First Person Past - Close I tattered into pieces as I was on the way to completion. Each temporary union with Mr. Wrong tore a part of my being, yet I still don’t know why. Soul is just another word to me. Second Person Past - Detached You tattered into pieces as you were on your way to completion. Each temporary union with Mr. Wrong tore a part of you being, yet you still don’t know why. Soul is just another word to you. I exit the gate, I come across three young people at St. Marks Place. Two boys and one girl. I think they are around the same age as I am until I hear one of the boys say.
“ I can’t wait to turn 21, yo.” 21, he says. He: You are.. ..
I: I am an optimist. He: Why are you only writing about tragedy? I: This is the world I live in. He: You call this optimistic I: Yes, because I’m still willing to use words to express my helplessness. Her third date with him happens around Christmas. Her favorite time of the year to get lost in New York city. Winter seems to her such a genderless time. It is impossible to tell little boys from little girls underneath their heavy coats and wrapt in colorless hats and scarfs. It makes her look at people in their all-consuming parkas and wonder, what if there’s no such thing as men and women?
“As a gentleman,” he intercepts her glance, “I should drive you home.” They approach his parked Toyota on the street somewhere in Astoria, Queens. The color of my early 20s is like the sky in New York City in late autumn and it is close to the color gray. Though you can still find a trace of life through the washed out sky, but soon it will fade out in the colorlessness of eternity.
在公園的深處,有一處小湖。湖面上時不時出現幾隻慵懶的鴨子會打碎湖面的畫面,城市倒映在湖面上。
因為昨天下雨的原因,泥土稍微有些潮濕。一個長髮的女孩坐在湖邊安靜地看著水中的倒映。女孩低下頭,看到很多躺在土地之間的花瓣。這些花瓣還是去年秋天留下的吧。她撿起來一片紅色的楓樹葉,充滿了潮濕的泥土。她將葉子在自己的眼前晃了晃。 “I can’t see, but I can see everything.” 女孩轉過身激動地向她的同伴表達她的心情,她的頭髮輕輕地掃了掃地上的泥土就在她轉身的時候。 1.
I am ocean to you, and you only see the surface of me. You praise the beauty of my wave whenever you come to see me. You ask me to be gentle with you as you pour your darkness into my heart. You say to me, secrets belong to the sea. Then, you leave me alone amidst your unspoken stories. I consume them all. Am I made of water or tears? I wonder. Existence.
You see what I see. You hear what I hear. Eternity. You, is unreal and I is nothing. |
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