October 19th, 2014
“They don’t know,” she said, “nobody knows.”
“What we know.”
… From then on it was something we knew we were doing, understood now, felt as conscious play: vision once changed is changed forever, you could make magic of anything and we did.
Because there’s more than one way to immerse yourself in play, in life, your life.
Because we all know who we are, deep down, And way deep down, we all – all – have our kink.
KINK is on its way from Roadswell Editions …
[Cover art: Rick Lieder.]
October 12th, 2014
“… a darkly fun meditation on identity, a fantasia about authenticity and the sorrows brought by its lapses …
… the poignant moment when the Hare bids farewell to Rabbit ….
The truest antidote to such atrocity was the Carpenter’s poetry, a few chance lines muttered in the dark.”
There are no innocent bystanders.
[Rachael Harbert, John Denyer, Marisa Dluge photos courtesy Rick Lieder.]
October 5th, 2014
Grey and black on your back at the curb, small body lost to “traffic,” those who never look so close
To the ground where your life progressed
Will not see your death.
In the trees, your other habitat, they could not live, would require
All the helps and and holds against grave gravity
That they will not grant
To you, against velocity.
Now you (so many of you, now) are gone.
But your quick determined life, if brief, was worthy of its breath
And death will take us all where you are now.
Here’s a stop sign for you, motorist: look down and see yourself,
And the squirrels above, unhurt and curious
Why one should be so eager to be lost
By falling, without grace, down to that ground.
[Photo courtesy Rick Lieder. Poem KK, for all the little ones trying to get to the other side.]
October 4th, 2014
Performative fiction starts when the text is chosen.
To turn it into a world that can be inhabited and explored, we first have to turn it inside out.
Components, signifiers, toys, and symbols have to be selected, decided upon, put into place.
And then the serious play begins, to make the ground for you to play with us, too, with your energies, your humor, your curiosity.
“All play moves and has its being within a play-ground marked off beforehand … temporary worlds within the ordinary world, dedicated to the performance of an act apart.” – Johan Huizinga, Homo Ludens: A Study of the Play-Element in Culture
[All photos, including Marianne Brass, Marisa Dluge, John Denyer, Laura Bailey, Steve Xander Carson, and Egla Kishta: Rick Lieder.]
October 1st, 2014
Do you have your ticket to Wonderland, are you coming to ALI<E?
Then please peruse the ALICE playbill!
It tells you everything you’ll need to know for your visit, including important information about our venue, attendance age restrictions, and tips on immersive performance, if these events are new to you.
You can also meet our cast and learn who’s who, and tip your Hatter hat to the creative team behind this edition of Wonderland.
Please feel free to print out if you like – there won’t be a paper version available at the event. And if you have any questions about the performance that the playbill doesn’t answer, ask gonervenow AT gmail.com.
[All photos Rick Lieder: Marianne Brass as the Tweedle, Egla Kishta as the Cheshire Cat, and Marisa Dluge as the Carpenter.]
September 27th, 2014
I recently got a Facebook message inviting me to join a musician’s fan group: a well-spoken, friendly invitation, ending with “I’m sure you’ll agree [the musician]‘s a sorely underrated talent.”
“Underrated” – I’ve heard that about my own stuff, more than once. More than twice. And even when it’s said, as the musician’s fan said it, with honest admiration for the work, it really used to bother me: as if, in the making of art, there was a contest of attention that it was measurably possible to lose or win, and my work was falling short.
So: value. Public recognition (praise, reviews, invitations to speak, etc.), is one way to keep score. Influence – on other artists, on the wider world – is another. Sales are the most trenchant way, because sales mean that people are buying the work, they demonstrably want it. (Unless people are buying it and not reading it, but that’s a meta thought for another time.) Which is the reason to write, after all: so people can read what you’ve written, what the muse or whomever has given you to say.
So does being underrated mean that my books won’t be read? That’s an honest worry – I want to speak to everyone who can hear me. But is that everybody? Every possible reader? My voice is a singular one (every writer’s is), and the ones who have receptors for it are its natural audience. Having receptors for something doesn’t mean you’ll automatically love it: you might very decidedly not. But you will hear it. And hearing it will make some difference for you, in some way. Further than that, any writer, any artist or maker, cannot venture. We are all mysteries, and our receptors are our own.
I do read reviews, and I do read readers’ comments (the ones I see, or are sent to me). And I do find people who find my stuff to be a total run-on-sentence baroque mess, and other people who fall in love with it, and say so at eloquent length. And at that intersection my work’s found, and heard, and rated, and I can be content.