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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7 posts tagged talking
HUB 306:
There were no nightmares last time, dearest.
It’s just been rough here at home…
My father asked me today, somewhat incredulously, “but why are you crying?”My response, some of it spoken, but written at first:
Because when I try to speak, I always make things worse. Someone ends up uncomfortable, hurt, more confused than when we started. This, this result of my open mouth, my ready words, leaves me in such pain—there in the space between throat and gut, that vulnerable space—and it’s like a wound that persists there from that outspoken catastrophe, a wound marking a sort of absence—like a phantom limb that keeps flailing about helplessly. And yet, I was born with this absence, a lack of compassion or sympathy. I can feel what you are feeling, run it under my hands, through my body, but to understand or care, this I have naught the ability to do. Does this not make me some sort of demon? Does this not deem tears my only place to turn?….feeling a bit better now. Grasping at your hug.
With all of me—
HUB 277:
My old barbies and barbie clothes, cleaned and “laundered” for my niece. These pics scavenged from my mother’s iphone as I gave her instructions on how to use basic apps, mail, calendar, etc. The treasures of a holiday homecoming.
“They got into a conversation. What intrigued Tamira were his questions. Not their content, but the simple fact that he was asking them. My God, it had been so long since anyone had asked her about anything! It seemed like an eternity! Only her husband had kept asking her questions, because love is a continual interrogation. I don’t know a better definition of love.
(In that case, my friend Hübl would have pointed out to me, no one loves us more than the police. That’s true. Just as every height has its symmetrical depth, so love’s interest has as it’s negative the police’s curiosity. We sometimes confuse depth with height, and I can easily imagine lonely people hoping to be taken to the police station from time to time for an interrogation that will enable th to talk about themselves.)”
HUB 197: from “commonplace” pages, loose, found in the studio—marked p. 223, Milan Kundera’s Book of Laughter and Forgetting
