Trespassing in Big Sur

Story to follow, all you invisible cyber fans who don't read my blog!

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California Central Coast

17 Mile Drive, Pebble Beach

Hurricangels

Territory

It’s the space we create around ourselves with or without the other people who live in it, too. Do we own it? A space full of busy people, driven by intentions, by desires, by goals. Territory is the space we carry around inside of us, a mirror image of that outer world. It’s a challenge. Do we share it?

What’s going on in your mind as you rush along, in a hurry, late for that appointment, under pressure, maybe angry, frustrated, maybe scared, maybe just mulling over something somebody said to you, and what you wish you had said in return? You don’t have time to stop, to breathe, not a moment to lose. Heads up. Territory is your personal space. Only three feet?

Then there is the whole complex issue of responsibility. Keeping your eyes peeled, waiting your turn. Following orders, toeing the line, getting a grip. Taking matters into your own hands. You’re thinking on the run, gathering momentum, turning, pulling focus, pulling your weight, catching up, meeting deadlines, making your mark, climbing the ladder of success, racing clocks, opening doors, getting pegged, falling behind, caving in, evading, confronting, capitulating, and then there is someone right beside you, doing the same dance. Who is she? A partner?

Fascinating collisions, endless absorbing. You go very deep into them, you’re involved. You become part of something greater. Greater than yourself. Get a handle on it, circulate, say your piece. Find resolution, seek out accountability, vigorously seek it out. This could be convoluted, or it could be something very simple, something that frees you, like trust. It could be letting someone else take the risk of hurting you, know they can handle it if something goes wrong, they have the will to apologize, forgive their own mistakes. The waiting is over.

You’re on your way now, checking things out. Making choices, being decisive, grasping ideas, shaking hands, striking poses, throwing your weight around, taking a fall, being uplifted, arriving on time. Getting caught, giving in, rolling around with the angels, investing yourself, setting up boundaries, holding still. The territory has limitations outside of your jurisdiction, playing games, it’s one less thing to worry about. New horizons.

It’s not just watching, it’s doing. Keeping up appearances, rehearsing, going through the motions, through stages, counting your blessing, breathing a sign of relief. It’s an experience. There’s danger. You might change your point of view, zero in, form new opinions, be dependable, dig in your heels, spin your wheels, stand your ground, stand up for yourself. Function as an essential component of necessity, autonomy, beyond comprehensibility: input, process, output. A state of grace.

Territory is relationships. Threads that weave in amongst us, spaghettified rainbows bouncing off walls like invisible explosions. Tunneling for growth, expansion, hurtling through space, into his arms, catching a glimpse of forever, making a run for it, hanging on for dear life. Judgment Day came and went and you were drawing conclusions, dipping your brush, whetting your appetite. Painting your way into corners, life in broad strokes. The big picture. An intense collaboration, swarming with possibilities, lighter than a breath of fresh air. Yours for the taking. Captured rapture. Jouissance.

Territory is what we make of it. The future? But for now you’re deep in the moment, performing miracles. Paying attention, paying the price. Teamwork. Exceeding expectations, pushing against your own limitations, forging bonds, building your strengths. Something selfless, like kindness, takes over. It briefly clouds your vision, then clear sailing from here on out. Even a list of just two things is far too much to do in such a short time, a heartbeat, the drop of a hat. Every inch a partition, second chances, every second counts. Stake it out. Compete for balance, equilibrium, for peace, empathy, compassion, for a chance to do something noble, something good for somebody else.

A feast of authenticity. It’s the planet. This, and all the other ones. The planet of tomorrow and the one we left behind. The nameless planet.

Program Notes
written for the UCLA premiere of
Territory
Directed by Jaques Heim
June 10-12, 1999

Hurricane (Poetry 1995)

And the winds came.
First in whispers.
Then, in long hollow shouts
that moved much faster than sound.

And the winds came.
Buried in darkness.
Whipped out of hiding by swift currents,
twisting the tunnel’s deep secrets.

And the winds came.
Sweeping avalanches of thought
onto the heart's bare branches:
leaves tangled in a storm of invisible waves.

The earth was breathing.
Come back to life and seeking
her killers. Snaking into lonely back streets,
tasting the sleep of the homeless wishes.

The winds moved each infinitesimal atom of air,
shaping it anew.

Photo Credit:
NASA/Jeff Schmaltz, MODIS Land Rapid Response Team

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Holy Ghost (Poetry 1997)

Morning opens evening blue flowers, beside the green garden.

Light slants like whispers in a white dress, the first communion when she spoke to God.

The father and son, still asleep.

Breakfast, a puzzle, awaits as she assembles
unknown portraits in the choirs of the heart.
Deep in the closet, her dress falls in places
where meanings hide meanings, nesting like birds.

They gather. Their faces. It all fits together.
You see something familiar, a trick of the eye.
White lace, like the dress that follows.

She talks to God; the mirror answers with signs
of aging: hair, make-up, earrings, a necklace, perfume,
shoes slide smoothly onto long forgotten feet.

The ring. God hears her move in the kitchen, matching
colors. Eyes blue as evening, watching through plates,
cups, and glasses; through windows.

Meeting the hopeful patterns, repeated.

She walks her mother’s path, the one without
dances, lined with statues and gravestones,
visited by angels with shadows that sparkle.

Inside the cathedral, each muffled sound
wrapped in a soft package, soothing.
Beside the black benches, book-lined,
Mary intoned in mental sculptures.

The Virgin; her girlhood.

Sun slants in reds, greens, and yellows,
visual echoes, poems like new roses,
petals unwinding in motionless spirals.

Windows, with their stained glass
beauty, kind-hearted like her.

Words slip onto their knees, releasing
relentless questions, a feast of sorrows
resonating the void. Haunting shapes
in ornate clothing, eyes closed, head
bowed, face still as prayer unfolds
its wings in the silence of her soul.

Untranslatable yearning arrested in flight.

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The Perfect Day to End a Friendship

Trying to seize the moment just after the wave crests. Delicate turquoise that vibrates like a membrane between interstellar dimensions. Trying to have a conversation with a once dear friend, who just doesn't care anymore. The perfect day to end a friendship. The sun slants precisely, capturing mystical colors.




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The Lost Girl (Poetry 1997)

The lost girl is sunlight, she’s shadow. She
walks like an arrow in the morning, at night.
She walks straight in anger, in sorrow; sees
things around her, sees nothing, she’s deep.

The lost girl has answers; has words without
meaning, walks alone, has direction, has knowledge,
has truth. Her dreams keep her busy, she’ll know them,
she’ll tell them, will overhear whispers, will mourn.

The lost girl is tender as footprints in powder. She walks
like an arrow, was taken, retreated in silence, in darkness,
with comfort like stones. There was safety, a haven, with
angels and infinite rainbows, where freedom was love.

She was beauty. Her strength was like ages,
like eagles, like bones. Her thoughts were as
wordless as velvet; her secrets like knives.

The lost girl had riches. She had key chains
and lipstick. Her hair was in pigtails,
her fingernails polished, her dress was
undone. Her face was familiar; her name
was repeated in stations, in tunnels, on highways.

This girl was a child, is a woman, was hurt. No one
can see her. I’ve waited these days for the visions,
the movement, as hours unravel, as rhythms combine.
On the pavement her footsteps were sharp,
but they faded. They mingled. They’re gone.

The corners will turn her, the mirror; the moon is her
sister, her savior. The wind moves around her, her dress
stirs, her arms are like branches, like starlight, like clouds.
She walks like an arrow, with purpose, direction, her feet
strike the earth like a drum. Like a song.

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