Monday, February 16th, 2015
KINK’s ebook edition is just released from Roadswell Editions, available from Amazon and B&N. But the story’s as old as desire.
Jess and Sophie. And Lena.
Jess and Sophie and Lena.
And Sophie and Lena. And Jess.
“And Sophie calmed by Lena’s cool amusement, one hand on Sophie’s shoulder, rising to brush at her hair. ‘They don’t know us, they don’t know anything about us.’
‘I guess you’re right,’ and she was, we all were, as right as our conjoinment, the heart of the game because as we were the way we saw the world how the world saw us could not affect us, what other people thought could not matter at all.” - from KINK
Sunday, February 15th, 2015
We make consensual art.
One of the four nerve precepts, goals, and pleasures, is that making: sharing the idea, then making the idea come real, together. Not just something you watch, but something you do.
Jim Leach knows how to make all manner of things, and he’s never afraid to plunge into a new idea. After he and I discussed the constructed characters at THE HEIGHTS – below, Hindley Earnshaw, and Edgar and Isabella Linton – he took the figures and some costumes pieces, applied his imagination and creative effort, and . . . Now they’re not just figures anymore. They’re Hindley, Edgar, and Isabella.
And the Victorian-era nightgown above (donated by John Monaghan, another friend of nerve) now embodies the ghost-lights of memory: Heathcliff’s memory, of Cathy. More memories will come into being, more consensual art.
We love it when you come to play with us.
Thursday, February 5th, 2015
This image is Art, watching War from the windows. War is hell, is a bore, is a sausage machine, is “Just people murdering one another.” War is a show put on for its faraway producers, none of whom – ever have; ever will – act on its stage.
Art considers this information carefully. Art considers flight – every night, every time a bullet passes, every time a body is wrapped in a plastic tarp; which means all the time – Art in its antique motley and defenseless, weaponless, stateless state. Art could leave anytime. No one here has force enough to make it stay.
“Tickets were free and there were hundreds of people queuing . . . People were upset they couldn’t get in. In the end we had people sitting on the steps, standing in the wings, we crammed in as many as we could. Two old ladies were in tears, on their knees and kissing his hands in gratitude that he had opened the season.”
Art adjusts a costume fastener. Art smiles, a small, dry, wry immortal smile. And then Art goes to work, for the queue and the two old ladies, for the dead in the streets, for you and you and me, for itself, world with and without end, amen.
Sunday, February 1st, 2015
The gorgeous cover is by Tomasz Alen Kopera, with design by Vince Haig.
Michael Kelly of Undertow did the heavy lifting, reading and vetting close to 2500 submissions.
The writers wrote, oh did they ever.
And I read.
Many thanks to Mike, and to all involved – it was a real pleasure to be part of YBWF2!
Saturday, January 31st, 2015
Like rust dust on your fingertips. Like the soft grit of dead leaves, drifting the way memories do through the mind. Like a caul made of candlewax.
Like old silk. Like new tears.
Like a face glimpsed through glass, obscured by time passed in an endless present, waiting for the one you love to come back, back, back and take you away.
THE HEIGHTS is all desire, experienced or denied, like a tide that cannot be overcome. What a joy it is, to work with, through, inside this material!
Thursday, January 22nd, 2015
Everett Shinn‘s image, Osip Mandelstam‘s poetry, both on my mind as THE BASTARDS’ PARADISE begins its journey to this fall’s release from Roadswell Editions.The POPPY trilogy has taken Istvan and Rupert on a very long, very private, very passionate journey; and offered to its readers a play, I hope, that’s worth the sharing . . . Act Three, then, and bring the gentlemen home.
. . . as he climbs to the fourth floor garret, one room with one washstand and one bed, where by the bare window, in a wooden chair to watch the hidden stars, Rupert turns his head to greet him, smelling of good whiskey, drowsy to ask “Did you find them?” and “I did,” shrugging off the jester’s jacket, setting down his case to sit atop it, beside Rupert’s chair, sharing the cigarette in careful puffs; their hands link.“The place isn’t half what it should be—and the puppets, Christ!—but one gathers times are hard.”
“Very hard, looks like. And we’re foxed, messire, the papers here say playing’s no longer allowed—”
“Really?” with a little smile; someone curses, down the stairs; someone else begins to sing, a drunken, circular song with no words and no end. Mr. Loup waits, eye closed or open it is impossible to say, as in the corner, on drab hooks meant for hat and coat, Misters Castor and Pollux hang silked in silent tandem, returned in reprise to this city once their home, past a journey still unfurling in the twinned shadows of war and the god of the train station, his theatre now nameless, yet an outpost of paradise all the same.