rehearsal photos heyyyyy
Even now, even still, your collarbones stick in my throat.
I want to move backwards, slowly, painfully, undoing the work of all my days until I reach the moment when I burned you. Your pale skin is what they will bury me in.
Okay, we know how many kickstarter projects you’ve probably been subjected to in the past couple months. Your facebook news feed is just blowing up with them. Your friends, and your favorite bands, and your favorite theatre companies, and your aunt, are all kickstart-ing, indiegogo-basing, whatever. Collective online new media abounds! But pay attention for just one second to Sid Branca and her new show, Little Ivory Fingers, because not only does it sound really god damn good, but you can make an actual, real life difference. Keep reading. Or click here to go support her show!
some kind words from the lovely CP//LRS blog about my upcoming solo show!
But you say to yourself, “he was the light of my life.”
Well, I’m starting to think: I prefer the night.
“Luckily, there are people like Hermes Saucedo who create new alphabets and languages as a hobby. His Herami font seems ideal for prop use, with visual cues from recognizable ancient scripts, but enough strangeness to make it unique.”
- http://propnomicon.blogspot.com/2011/08/herami-font.html
thanks to matt hooks for the link. I really want to create a play to use this in…
I’m one half of the props design team on this show. (Which mostly, for me, has involved mime work with the actors, which has been fun!) You should see it!
Chicago playwrights David Brent and Mitch Salm, along with the extremely talented director Jack Tambourri, are bringing a piece of Comic Book Theatre to Chicago like nothing you’ve ever seen, and it premieres this weekend!
Powerless, a play that follows a group of twenty-something…
performing at the First Ward Ball with This Is Not The Studio. photo by Meghan Yeche.
Someone in the audience yelled “did Amy Winehouse really die?!” during this act, and warmed my little heart.
oh wow, you guys, I am taking my solo show to the Chicago Fringe Festival in September. I’m really, really excited about this. I’d really appreciate it if you would hop on over to the Kickstarter page. (and soon there will be a video, and, if all goes well, possibly also a collaboration with with Alesandra of the amazing ASK Apparel)
No, I am not devastated. I am no more torn to pieces than I have been, for nothing has changed. I am a braver woman now than I once was, a person somewhat closer to a whole, but my past drags behind me like a weighted tail.
If the slate were wiped clean, if we were suddenly seen with new eyes, what then? A foolish exercise. My hands on your face are the hands of a ghost–the ghost whose eyes first looked on you. Wine and time can only cause so much forgetting.
And yet–the cheek-burning burden of the one lost, the one never won, this, I am told, builds character. I can forever write to you–no, some crystal image–in a way the ones who love me can never wrench out. The old romantic poet to his lady from afar. No matter how close you get I want you closer. The musical chairs of a childish pining. But what more can I do? Repeat, repeat, repeat with more daring but no more success.
Let’s say the exit sign to whom those monologues were all delivered has a name, and a voice for radio, and all those wires are covered in tan skin and light hair, and all the light poured through those eyes. Let’s just say affections are better left to a crowded house. But oh, how these hands ache. And in my folly, I breed memories for torment, and where I would feel your heated blood, I will douse myself in ink.
Five? No, nearly six? Six years? Really? My god.
Let’s make a conservative estimate. Once, no, twice a week. A few breaks, so let’s say five years even. Five hundred twenty nights of my life. Five hundred twenty dreams about you.
The devil stands beside an idling truck in an alleyway, light rain falling through the streetlight. He leans against the side, he turns to me and laughs. The devil knows I have smoked these three cigarettes just for his attention, the excuse of his presence. The temperature is out of control. The bar is closing. I do not have the courage to ask where the devil is going next. The devil goes home and plays violin alone.
The devil stands next to me in an elevator, my entire maternal family waits on the roof of the building. He describes to me the history of small rocks, pleased at my recall. My brother draws blood with a bread knife.
The devil in a doorway on my birthday. O, Stay, I want to say. I don’t. It took enough pleading to get this far. I can’t will the devils skin to crawl to mine. I am mortal and I am weak. He, too. He, always.
The devil in a window in a cafe. The devil on a train in the country. The devil makes his plans to come home. I would, some old part of me should say, I would like to build a nest in your heart, despite the space between these branches, and the burning brightness of our separate skies.