The long blue days, for his head, for his side, and the little paths for his feet, and all the brightness to touch and gather. Through the grass the little mosspaths, bony with old roots, and the trees sticking up, and the flowers sticking up, and the fruit hanging down, and the white exhausted butterflies, and the birds never the same darting all day long into hiding. And all the sounds, meaning nothing. Then at night rest in the quiet house, there are no roads, no streets any more, you lie down by a window opening on refuge, the little sounds come that demand nothing, ordain nothing, explain nothing, propound nothing, and the short necessary night is soon ended, and the sky blue again all over the secret places where nobody ever comes, the secret places never the same, but always simple and indifferent, always mere places, sites of a stirring beyond coming and going, of a being so light and free that it is as the being of nothing.
—Samuel Beckett, Watt, 1943
Clicking Bones
As the poet says,
When you passed on by my tent door
I said goodbye to all the world,
Forgetting how to love forevermore
When you passed on.
If you come back the way you went
I pray you take my body up,
And set it in a calm grave near your tent,
When you come back.
If your dear voice recalls the tones
The sweetness of the way you said my name,
Kneel down, dear love, and say the name;
I’ll answer with the clicking of my bones.
Lady Butchers
"Let’s not go to church here, let’s just talk to a group of rapt six year olds."
- AN Rehearsal #3, ADB
Rock and roll.
"So at that point can I start octopussing the umbilical cords?"
- Final Dress
