HUB

the archive and movement laboratory of conceptual dance theatre company A House Unbuilt... spending at least an hour a day, making space, marking time,—making enough room to feel, tremendously, again.

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HUB 017:
Daley Plaza — in SKIRTS

HUB 016:
spent some quality time with this one. oh yeah.

HUB 015:
argyle. pho. jess. plotting.

HUB 014:
Skirts, from Jess.

HUB 013:
Footloose for the evening.

HUB 007-012:
Starting, say, four or five days ago when the snow was really falling, I went outside to make a snow angel because—lo and behold, I had never made one before in all my life! …so I climbed up into my back yard—climbed, because the yard had grown to about a three or four foot snow cover, planted my feet and free-fell backwards into the snow. poof! it wasn’t as soft a landing as I had expected, but well, it was exhilarating. Then the angeling commenced, arms and legs flailing about, staring up into the crisp grey sky. feeling the cold try to penetrate my warm coat. It was marvelous!  And so after a pause for stillness, I delicately stood back up, trying not to muss the angel, and took some big steps back toward the house. I took a few photos and went back inside. Now all this was well and good, and it’s not until a few hours later, when I wanted to run those last minute errands before the vortex-imposed shelter in place began, that I realized the folly of my angel-making… You see, I keep my train card in my right hip side coat pocket. It’s like a credit card in a way, or a debit card, —I pay a flat fee each month which is automatically deducted from my bank account and credited to the card, then I can ride train or bus at an unlimited rate. Well, you see where this is going… Obviously, when I stood there in the snow, feet planted, preparing for my free fall, my pocket was not zipped, and the velocity of said fall must have forced the fare card out of my pocket into the snow where it got sufficiently packed in during my angel arm and leg flailing, not to mention the continued snowfall in the hours that passed before my realizing my folly. Ah! Stranded… well, not really, but kind of.

So, I took that as my cue to begin the shelter-in-place. Walked down to the nearby grocery, grabbed some wine, cheese, bread, olives—you know, staples (ha), and spent the next few days hanging out with my roommate, working on a revised version of my portfolio, watching Downton Abbey (seasons 1-3), baking muffins, cookies, biscuits, oh, and yes, doing SOME work.

HUB 006: playlist

HUB 005: today’s space-making

Mark Z. Danielewski (author) - Voice Recording: Page 5

HUB 004

HUB 003: Customer Assistance is Needed on the Outbound Platform

Last week I came undone. It started at the Chicago Red Line stop—I thought I might throw up… nothing but phlegm this time. Got on the train.

By the time I made it to Belmont though, I felt worse. The marquee said 10 minutes for the next Brown Line to Kimball. I leaned over the blue edge of the platform and vomited onto the snow-covered tracks below. I looked up and a train was coming right at me, so I shifted to the other side of tracks and vomitted again.

My body was starting to shake. I could barely stand. The only thing that felt good was the cold air against my face.

I looked up and caught a woman’s eye. She looked away indifferently. I turned back to the tracks, vomiting again. Turning again, the woman, same indifference stare. So I looked past her to a railing I might could lean on.

I stumbled over and my bags dropped abruptly as my body slumped. I tried to breath. Or was I crying. The pain was increasing in my limbs.

And then I felt a tap on my shoulder: “Are you ok? Can I help you?” from a stranger, a woman—not the same as before—young, unusually nice. She said “lean on me… give me your bags… let’s go sit down on the stair… your body needs rest.” 

I did as she said.

"I’m right behind you," she said as she was on lookout for the next train. As it approached the nausea came back, something fierce. But we made it onto the train, me slumped over in my seat and this kind, stranger woman asking aloud to everyone in the car whether anyone was going to Kedzie—my stop.

No one, it seems, was going there. 

But neither was I… on the heels of her request, I made my own—calling out for a plastic bag. Had quick response from many on board.

I threw up once and the stranger woman decided we’d get off at the next stop and get me a cab. I collapsed onto the platform, vomiting three more times onto the ground.

"Customer assistance is needed on the outbound platform" resounded—Oh, for me, I realized.

There came the CTA officers—”does she need an ambulance? medical assistance?” I said NO… a bathroom…

They barely got me down the elevator and like a magnet I followed the CTA jacket into the door saying “authorized personnel only” to see an pen door with toilet and sink.

I dropped my bags, tore off my coat, and well, my body seemed to turn itself inside out.

After numerous “you ok? you still ok?” calls from the stranger woman, I finally found myself splayed out on the floor of the bathroom writhing in pain, saying please please do come in.

She had to get a key and made it in—I just wanted to stay on that cold floor, she wanted to get an ambulance. I insisted no, so she helped me on with my coat, grabbed up  my bags, hat and gloves, and helped me into a cab. 

I think I yelped and yawped all the way to my apartment. Twisting in my seat in a vain effort to soothe the pain.

She said, “you can lean on me,” and so I did.

She asked if I had anyone. I said no. She said what about a friend, a roommate—I said he’s at work. She asked can we call him… I paused, then took out my phone and handed it to her, said “Ross,” and she called.

"He’ll be home in 40 minutes to an hour. He’d like me to stay with you until he gets home." I said " no no, that’s alright, you have done so much. Thank you. Thank you so much."

We got to my house, cab pulled over, waiting as they walked me to my back door, unlock, and goodbye. Up I went. A short dance ensued… collapse, bathroom, collapse, bathroom, meds, collapse, writhe, pass out.

Better home in my bed, though, than at the Belmont stop.

HUB 002:
Two weeks ago I had a dream about diving—off a  high platform, into a pool, with my eyes closed—over and over again. People were watching me, I think, and I had on a sort of official, ie, non-pedestrian, swim suit, cap and goggle ensemble. I would close my eyes, raise my arms, and jump. Each time it felt like slow motion as my body tilted in the air against the resistance of wind and stillness. My velocity making way, trying to direct my body perfectly straight into the water like an Olympic diver seeking to make an invisible splash. I kept doing this over and over again—vaguely recalling a climb to the top of the platform but never remembering coming up for air after hitting the surface and going under.


twiistedsister:

jump on 3

HUB 001: yes, I watched some flashdance recently.

HUB 000

HUB 691:
Have I been hiding? —It’s possible.
Have I lost count? —Almost.
Have I still been spending an hour each day, making space, marking time,—making enough room to feel, tremendously, again? —It’s entirely possibly not so.

Is this a mea culpa? a confession? —Perhaps…
Do I feel guilt? —Most definitely.
Is failure an option? —More an inevitability.

Do I mean to rationalize my absence? —God no.
Do I intend to explain it? —I think not, but do you really want my life’s intimate details? Haven’t I already burdened you with enough of those over the past nearly 700 posts.

Will I continue from this point forward? —I do not know.
What do I know? —That I am working differently today than I was nearly two years ago.  That as I continue to move and make space, to dance and document, I need new systems for that work as it grows up and out.  And right now, this system isn’t quite home in the same way it once was.

Am I abandoning HUB? —No, of course not. But right now I can only visit on occasion, and share things more peripheral, less deeply probing of myself and my process.
Do I still want to share? —Yes, very much so, and if you want to be a part of my work, my process, my life, my thoughts, my dinner parties, my dancing, and so on, just call me (3 3 7 7 9 4 8 2 2 2).  Let me hear your voice.  Let’s schedule a time to skype (v e b m o o r e) or meet if we are in the same vicinity or keep a written correspondence or something (1802 W Berteau Ave, Chicago, IL 60613), something more tangible, more responsive, than this. 

HUB 682.3:
Fast broken. And sudden realization that late night yoga, when done in candlelight, can be the very best kind.  Knock on wood, but maybe a new routine has begun.

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