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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6 posts tagged sleep

HUB 361:
Redeeming my valentine today.  Manufactured ArtifactResidual Artifact

HUB 268.3:

The nook.
I am not alone
They say it’s ok to cry here
But hey look! You’re not crying anymore anyway…

I feel old
Creaking body. bones,
Skin taut, bruised and splitting
along the crease marks.
Someone ironed them all wrong.

Tired. Beside myself.
Bedside manner lacking as I sidle by

Bringing passion to another
for the first time. Residual Artifact

Subject: Thoughts for sleep
“the blackbird’s whistle has this special quality: it is identical to a human whistle, the effort of someone not terribly skilled at whistling but with good reason for whistling, this once, only this once, not intending to continue, a person who does it in a determined but modest and affable tone, calculated to win the indulgence of anyone who hears him.
After a while the whistle is repeated-by the same blackbird or by its mate-but always as if this were the first time it had occurred to him to whistle; if this is a dialogue, each remark is uttered after long reflection. But is it a dialogue, or does each blackbird whistle for itself and not for the other? And in whichever case, are these questions and answers (to the whistler or to the mate) or are they confirmations of something that is always the same thing (the bird’s own prescence, his belonging to this species, this sex, this territory)? Perhaps the value of this single word lies in its being repeated by another whistling beak, in its not being forgotten during the interval of silence.
Or else the whole dialogue consists of one saying to the other “I am here,” and the length of the pauses adds to the phrase the sense of a “still,” as if to say: “I am here still, and it is still I.” and what if it is in the pause and not in the whistle that the meaning of the message is contained. If it were in the silence that the blackbirds speak to each other? (In this case the whistle would be a punctuation mark, a formula like “over and out.”) a silence, apparently the same as another silence, could express a hundred different notions; a whistle could too, for that matter. To speak to one another by remaining silent, or by whistling, is always possible; the problem is understanding one another. Or perhaps no one can understand anyone: each blackbird believes that he has put into his whistle a meaning fundamental for him, but only he understands it; the other gives him a reply that has no connection with what he has said; it is a dialogue between the deaf, a conversation without a head or tail.”
Sleep well,
More soon,
A

HUB 236.3:
….ahhh, just what I needed to send me off to sleep.  smile.. appreciation. Residual Artifact

HUB 223:
“Life with Invisible Illness” Found Artifact

HUB 209: Baby It’s Cold Outside

I slept until 10am.  It’s finally gotten cold outside here.  I can hum my song without it being off-season.  I do feel that making it to that first dance class was a step in the right direction, and I can say that it felt so good and I can still feel it today in my inner thighs—! 

I feel that I have a trajectory with this time here, then Philadelphia, then perhaps down South to tackle football culture and my mother’s choreography.  I feel less consumed about having AN other and more in want of a COMMUNITY of others (as I did once have when running Poor Pony back home).  

I think I just have to let Chicago be what it is, or what it has become for me, and not fight it.  I will be ready in myself and in my work when I leave.  I am working on feeling that as well as thinking it.  Residual Artifact

HUB 47.2:
End to the day.  Long day, good day, day in sustained pain of exhaustion.  Trying to find sleep, but lights flashing beyond my eyelids—closed, my body—tucked in.  There’s a rumble.  Is it the train?  But then it repeats too soon, light then rumble, then rumble and light, closer, faster.  A spring storm brewing and I find respite in its sensory embrace.  PFA

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