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Tralala: vacuphone & hoses - quiet - vocalizations.

Gretchen: At first there was no word. The sky, not yet sky, was boundless. Dark and light were not yet pulled apart and made to sit in opposite corners. Things were not things, and had no point beyond their non-selves. There where no points, no lines, no nursery rymes. No you, me , it, or i till some one opened up their big trap and let all the names out.

Bob: (intoning) sky, air, sun, moon, footprint, device, wheel, defenistration, method, statehood, organic unity, the concept, lumber, beer, orgasm, process field, time object, socio semantic ramifications, ointment, DW40, heat, cotter pin, impact hammer, mud flaps, guitar string, object oriented programming language, etch-a-sketch, symantics, game boy, leather harness, gun rack, metaphor, regurgitation, the null set, beef jerky, simplicity, garden hose, buick station wagon, winter soltice, polyester, politician, lawn darts, seat belt, wammy bar, vomit bag, pnumatic tube, 3 in 1 oil, yard stick, mother-in-law, boom box, monster magnet, college education, heaven, earth, New Jersey, flotation device, heating coil, wax, x-ray, mandable, mini-bike, litany,

Art: (reads tabulas rasa while bob continues litany)

pre-religon, pre-drunken

pre-trauma, pre-capsized

call me pirate, stealer of names

waver of flags, close-er of eyes

ringer of bells

wobble kneed myth spinner

kite flyer, nail biter

liar or yarner,   least folder of time

gut holder, ('er tighter)

& skater of spells

i sit in a chair

of wheels

in a box of hinges

tip ready, to dive

(but not to drown) and

just 'fore the blue

vast slate of the sea

i am empty, nameless

lunitic me

Gretchen: (while bob continues litany) My father named me Pandora, a name i refuse to go by. A foolish name given me by a proud and foolish father; a maker of fences and later of dictionaries.

I'd rather go nameless but as i live amongst others, i accept that i must, from time to time, be called, called something. But what? It is far easier to know what i do not want to be called. I will not be Mary or Jane . . . or Pandora.

Bob: Music, Jazz, Rock, Fusion,

Tralala: after a tad more improv art queues choral.

Art: Anyone know what the most commonly used word on the planet is? The word that is used commonly by more people than any other word? The word is "OK". Anyone know what OK means? Well i looked it up in the dictionary.

The dictionary - not the bible, or the koran, or the talmud, or the tao se tung, just the good old english dictionary - and if english was good enough for jesus then by golly it's good enough for me.

so . . . o.k. or OK or o-kay. informal. approval; agreement; <got her supervisor's o.k. before taking a day off.> ok'd, oking, ok's or okayed or okinawa or diddly acky nagisaki sea food moma, blah blha etc etc. here we go [Prob. abbreviation of oll korrect. slang respelling of all correct]. slang respelling!. cool.

OK! the most commonly used word on the planet means "all correct". What irony! All Correct? What is? Anyone mind telling me . . .

ALL: (before art finishes his line): THE OTHER WHITE MEAT!!

IMPROV: loud honkidifferous. leads into Bung Laundry

Bung Laundry: with "things to do next" read over it

Gretchen: The big burning question isn't what's right and wrong,. It isn't what this is as compared to or opposed to that. The problem is, we keep doing things - we seem to want to do things - it seems inevitable. So the question is "what to do next". I've composed a list . . .

Art: (reads the beckett way of dealing with things)

what use are words

except for lies

if only i could close my eyes

between not caring and reconciled

is a fine sand line like

what if i could close them 

shut and silent unblinking

unthinking - as looking 

for reason is a form of treason

we went walking over rocks and wet ground 

through wind and blue air and i was walking

slightly ahead and you said away 

don't say away

don't say never or maybe

don't say

what will fall will fall

as with what will rise

if only i could close my eyes

OPEN "FOOTRINT" SECTION . . . art cues:

Gretchen: (reads The Long Island Sound)

I have a brother a little more than a year my elder. Before we were sent us off to boarding schools, we were tight, very tight. We developed a brand of humor that was rather dada, rather absurdist, and rather unappreciated by our parents. It ranged from the serenely idiotic to the sublimely stupid. I believed it was in response to my father's _________ against the Three Stooges. A grave miscalculation on her part.

Anyway, we lived outside the city (though not in the country). My

parents owned buick station wagon, in which we took a fair number of trips to the city, though i can't recall what we did there. Whatever it was, now and again it keep us in the city till well after dark.

Now in those days seat belts were a new thing. At some point my father decided that if you wanted to sit in the front set you'd have to wear your seat belt. My brother and I preferred the "way-back" especially with the seat folding down. We'd lay on our backs unrestrained, with our heads to stern, directly below the rear window. And in this wide curved window we beheld the reflection of countless head lights and countless tail lights superimposed over the starry sky. We ignored the stars; it was the endless stream of headlights and tail-lights that we sought dada trancendance in. We would count them, quietly, for it drove my father crazy.

One night one in the back of the car we didn't vount the car lights. One of us said the word "doody". Yes "doody" meaning ka-ka, poo-poo, what have you. Quite out of the blue. Spontaniously. Then we said it together; "doody". We paused, the sound of it hanging above us amongst the stars and countless lights. Then we started repeating it. "doody . . . doody, doody . . . ". And we kept repeating it "doody, doody, doody" . . . over and over and over again. "Doody . . . doody . . . doody, doody, doody" . . . a scatalogic mantra, till the number of times we said it seemed as countless as all the lights combined. we were in a trance and in our trance the word "doody" slowly but surely began to shed it's meaning. it no longer signified ka-ka, poo-poo, what have you. it became utterly and blissfully meaningless. A sound, it's own sound. "doody . . . doody . . . doody" Perhaps it was the sound of heaven.

doody, doody, doody, doody, doody, doody, doody, doody, doody, doody, doody, doody, doody, doody, doody, doody, doody, doody, doody, doody, doody, doody, . . .

OPEN SECTION (based on "doody" riff)

Bob: "fuck" story.

Gretchen: My father thought beauty was a thing. But i know better. Or no better. But i know. Or don't "know". I defer explination, definition. Still, i know beauty, and it is nothing, Nothing still. Still nothing. Nothing Still. All in all, all and only. Beauty none the less, regardless and irregardless.

Nothing a composer of fences, a mender of dictionaries would know, or think. The top of my head is far better (or no better) then the bottom of his.

All: (chanting very quietly . . .)

Given state X, the state of non- x is all too real.

Given state X, the state of non- x is all too real.

Given state X, the state of non- x is all too real. . . .

Gretchen: It is no flat place, this, this no place. (Given state X, the state of non- x is all too real. ) Some say "I know what i like" just as they are dising some this or that. I could say "I know what I don't like." But every time i do, I find I do. Like it that is; the thing I thought so unlikely, if not repulsive. Beauty hides under rocks, is rocks. Is rock and rock like. Is fragments of rock. Is debris. I am debris.

Thalidamide: (art starts)

As when fences are broken, words made up or altered beyond consensus. Stuff. So much of it. Heat, Light, Dirt, Wax . . . how is it said? As when fences are broken. I am no Pandora. But the cat is out and here I am. I must have started.

In spite of myself I am a history. Oddly glad to be, a history. Histrionic and hysterical. Less than a story, my beginning too gradual. I have to take other's words for it and i will never accept words for it. Words are no substitute. Or that is just what they are: merely, substitutes. See? Quite in spite of myself. So gradual that I found myself with questions already too late to answer, or answers all ready to late to question.

Clearly by now we've begun. This will have to pass as a beginning. Later you may say "When did it start? When did something get said?" or . . . "when did i start listening . . ."

Thalidamide: (bob cues in horns. Tune is played down as per chart, with MIP POK inserted as one of the C secions.)

(gretchen continues though totally inaudible, till bridge. When arthor starts pp riff gretchen should resume speaking where she left off. If she runs out she should start again here . . . ->)

listening. but not to words, words have no meaning. this statement is false. that is the truth in error. ice cream has no bones. i feel the smack of the zen masters stick on my head. the "i am this" and the "this is that" is ground to dust by a bed bound hat.

i'm trying say that words belittle us, though we often find them beautiful, and we belive they "hold" something, or even that they"convey" something, like little ships, or like conveyor belts. i'm trying say that words are shit to a tree, the pope's hat on a bear in the woods. words are not factiods. words are not containers. neither women nor words are vessels. the tao that can be spoken is not the true tao. you can never use too much garlic. see? you can't use too much garlic. jane said that to me. i was in the kitchen. i was recieving instructions from jane sitting in the living room. how much of this, how much of that, what do i do next? etc. how much garlic i wanted to know. "you can't use too much garlic" she said. and i thought to myself, ok, (all correct!) you can't possibly use *too* much garlic. i've never had *too* much garlic in the house at one time. so i crushed up what we had.

later i noticed jane hadn't eaten much.so you see? words don't mean anything. well, perhaps i mispoke. words don't "contain" meaning. perhaps a better picture, a better way to put it, a more robust factoid, a more resonant metaphor would be a tube. language as a tube. we put things in one end and they come out the other. well, perhaps i mispoke. language is a wire. more like electricity. like electrons, transmitting vibration. on each end a diaphram; speakers. here i am going (as dennis puts it) "wa wa wa". i roll up a tube, i form a wave, and the "wa wa wa" goes surfing through wire to all you radio heads out there. and you put it "back together" again. run it through your language-to-meaning convertors.

the tube is shaped by the language i use. the shape of the tube has a profound effect on the "wa wa wa". there is no tube that does not filter distort. there is no wire without resistance, no speaker that doesn not distort.

First there is your language-to-meaning convertors. of various vintage, and nothing personal, of dubious repair. we go on building the machinery of language, maintianing words and systems of words, "sayings" "expression", even stories, myths, etc. etc. we're a software company that never stopped hiring and everyone's in engineering! what a mess. company policy "never admit it doesn't work". you can't use too much garlic! that's not a bug, that a feature!

ship it!

END PART ONE.

INTERMISSION

PART TWO

Gretchen: Half Life & Rat Fuck sit on the edge of a what used to be Cape Cod Bay, now a huge low expanse of land fill. They sit in delapidated lawn chairs drinking from bottles of some clear achoholic beverage. They are chewing the shit, lazyily spewing randon insults which are clearly are meant as endearments.

SAX DUET: (art and bob bring out chairs to front. When duet is over they read through Rat Fuck & Half Life . Bob = Rat Fuck, Art = Half LIfe.)

Bob: So what the fuck Half Life, you white wall tire with a blow out, you is suppose to lay on me the story of Donna Duffy.

Art: Your booted mama, Rathead, her name was Dierdre Dufay. Show some respect, you overheated toster oven. If it wheren't for her my life would have never become so folded over. I'd still be with my loin fruit and garden hose.

Bob: As i might be too. The unfurling of your garden hose was the unraveling of us all. Did you really know Bastissta?

Art: Yes, and I had Glenn Close up the octave . . .

Bob: (smacking his forehead) I could've had an 8va!

Art: But this is no taxi driver yarn Rat Fuck, this was for real. Stranger than friction, stronger then fiction.

Bob: By my great green candle, on with it hornsdoddle

Art: Ok ok, but it goes no further then this here beachead. All correct?

Bob: Fuck you, you beachead, where did your trust go.

Art: With my tryst, asshole, I thought I was omnidirectional. I had things pegged, rationed. This is from culture, this is from hormones, this is from . . . et al, ate all, etc. I still feel i was right. But i came out wrong. Maybe because I was right I was wrong. I thought iwas was wrong, and I was right, I was wrong.

Bob: Still, on with it. give me the juice you bottle neck.

Art: Bottle this you wiffle ball, it's like a poem:

i stashed my head in a bottle

of absolute every day

swallowed 

the screams 

of my od'ed desire

lame and howling

	rock, moon

 	rock, moon

	i won't freak  out

 	i won't freak  out

i let bus dreams wither

and contented myself

buried by never changing

anything but the page

quietly singing

	 skin of the moon

	 skin of the moon

	 i won't leak out

	 i won't leak out

my head's hanging

up in the rafters laughing down

picture me at the cocktail party

hand covers the heart

hand covers the groin

but what do i do with my face?

Bob: . . . huh. . . . I don't know . . . find one you can wear home again? Jesus, Half Life, what's with this "skin of the moon" shit?

Art: It's about getting your feet wet. Too wet. Picture me in the woods. Can't see anything in front of me but the unfolding of folds. I get this idea that i'm a singing pirate. But look at this land fill of a bay. A pirates only got one peg leg, no? I got two hands, two arms. but only one head, if you don't count the glands. It doesn't add up.

Bob: All this lurking in the trees don't sound like you Half.

Art: No shit Rat. Lurking is not my thing. I know honesty can't be contained within words. What is honesty but facts in fancy clothes? Still, I favor transparency. I value simplicity. But I grew opaque. I tried to do what I was told and it made me fold. We even had secret names. I tried to surf over it. Details i told myself. Complications. I was always a coat, but fuck if i'd be a trench coat.

Bob: Out in the cold with only your dick to keep you warm, eh?

Art: Yes. And we all know of little interest to anyone say oneself . . . and not even that after a face full of cold coffee.

Bob: (with empathy) Like half way cross the channel. Too tired to make it. Turning back with cold feet. Then what?

Art: Split me up the middle. Completely deboned me. Pirate into jelly fish. I divided like a lower life form. In fact i got a clone of me running around here somewhere. I better go find him. later with you Rat Fuck. (art gets up and joins the band, starts improv section.)

Bob: Well . . . o.k., but not all correct. No, not quite yet. I'm letting you go for now beaver breath, but next time you're telling all. You toad. You boat chaser. You homing pidgeon. You pencil. You wind chime. Simplicity my ass. You singleton. You bath plug. You half watt.

BARK DOG AT THE DARK FOG (A section only)

Gretchen: (reads stanza's of eye to eye as vocal "solo" over iterations of Bark Dog 'A' loop. We will work out an order of soloist.)

(1)

all i have to offer

is my awareness

which leads us past

dark holes empty

with the dryest blood

of trust suspending

(2)

as my awareness tells me

my timing sucks

and the dark hole grips us all

in it's unawareness

we're hanging

(3)

a mote? entopic speck?

creepy willfullness?

distortions from quivered egos?

whatever, away

before it eats us

and salts

our loved ones.

Arthor: (reads sections of Earless Man with short improvs between sections).

In a parking lot in maine i saw a man with no ear. Just a thinning of the hair behind where the sideburns would be. Maybe one or two nubs; hints at an ear. An ear to be. Little buds like a tadpole's first leg.

This I saw this at the Stop and Save.

Short Improv #1: Steve & Curt

I knew a man who laid himself in parts in eggs. That is, he laid eggs, a feat in itself, and each egg contained a part. A foot. A hand. A nose. Dozens of spare parts. Spare eyes, spare legs, spare thighs, spare ribs.

Only the part that laid the eggs could not lay itself.

This man who laid himself in parts in eggs, he was always on the go. He traveled about in cartons and avoided the tabloids.

Short Improv #2: Steve, Jeff & Bob

I knew a man who cried like a cello. It made his wife sad. All that bowing and weeping. It drove her mad with grief. She felt for him, she really did . . . but in the end she divorced him.

It rained an orchestra for weeks.

Short Improv #3: Steve, Jeff, Dave & Art.

Why do i mention these three men? What reason could i have? Perhaps i'm thinking that the eggman could spare an ear egg. Then the earman could move in with the man who cried cellos . . . but i reaching, i'm pushing my luck. I'm allthese guys really have in common.

Some folks say there is a reason for everything. Perhaps there is. Perhaps it's a shitty reason. Why should a man be born without an ear? Which of us would ask the earless man?

I can imagine why it might be fun and or advantageous to lay oneself in parts in eggs, though i haven't worked out how you'd put it all back together again. Something to do with horses and men I imagine. But fun and advantage are not reasons, are they?

The man who cried cellos. It makes no sense at all. How can we speak of reason when there is no sense?

I knew a man with neither sense nor reason. You have probably known such men. They collect string or inner city transit maps. They need help using the toilet, feeding themselves.

They have ears but do not seem to hear. They are broken in pieces like eggs. And when they cry, no one understands the music.

Gretchen: this is how he wrote:

He'd steal into his mother's room while she slept. He'd move quickly and quietly to her bruaou, to the second drawer where she keep her underthings. Placing his hands carefully, applying pressure slowly and evenly, he'd open the drawer and remove a bra and a pair of panties. Closing the drawer as carefully as he had opened it, he would move quietly out of the room and quietly down into the celler where he had a small study wedged between the washer-dryer and a wall of over-stuffed home-made shelving. He would have been careful to leave the door at the top of the stairs slightly ajar, just in case his mother awoke and came to look for him, although she hadn't to date. He would remove his clothes and put on his mother's bra and panties. He would turn on his pc, and turn off the lights. If his mother ever did wonder down looking for him, it is unlikely she would venture past the top of the stair, perhaps calling down to him. But he would have heard her steps and dimmed the screen. He would sit silently in the dark until she'd give up and go looking for him elsewhere in the house, giving him time to dress. How would he come out of the basement? How could he return her underthings to her drawer? The plan was not perfect but that was part of it's appeal. He was at risk and this the feeling of risk would blanket his skin in the cool basement air. In the dim light of screen he'd start; "now i am vulnerable, now i can work . . . "

Gretchen: This is how he wrote:

He'd undress, pull the covers off the fouton, lay face down. He would pull his penis straight down between his legs so that his whole body could lay perfectly flat. His arms and legs would be extend to form an x with his head on its side in the top angle. He would extended his fingers and ajust himself until he was satisfied that he had as much skin area in contact with the surface of the fouton as possible. Near his head he'd have placed a pad and pen. Thus would he lay with his eyes shut and attempt the impossible: to think of nothing. He would wait until a sentance, phrase, or perhaps a paragraph or stanza would force itself into his mind. Before it had chance to mutate or dissolve he would raise his head and jot it down on the pad. Yes, there where missed opportunities. He might slip, catch himself pondering the meaning of something he had just wrote or was about to write. He would have to reset himself.

He would resume the position.

This would go on for anywhere from one to four hours. Later he'd sit up, put a robe on and cast his eyes over the pad not unlike a fisherman inspecting his net. Often, as might be assumed, he would gaze over a disperate managerie of sundry dreggings. But more often then might be expected a shimmering coherance would glimmer amongst the jottings, though it might be hours or days before this inherent connectedness would become clear to him.

Gretchen: This is how he wrote:

He went to an irish pub around the corner from his apartment. He'd order and beer and mill about. Under a courderoy jacket with patches on the elbows, he was wired for sound. Just inside the cuff of each sleeve he had sown a small but powerfull microphone.

He would eavesdrop. He had a talent for talking to strangers, or rather getting strangers to talk to him. He could inundate himself into a groups both large and small. At times he might even present himself as a writter and ask people quite directly for personal details and vinyettes of their lives. But mostly he was merely the good listener, the gentle prober, the sympathetic ear.

At other times he would sit alone, his arms drapped over the back of his chair the two microphones pointing off in diferent directions sucking in the passing conversation. He might go into the men's room and sit awhile in the stall . . .

Later at home he would transcribe the tapes, the stories and bits of stories. He would arrange these stories as one might pull many small threads into a sinlge length of rope. Invariable a cast of charactors would emerge and from that a protagonist, or antagonist, or a victim, or an anti-hero, someone . . . then it was time to get out the dice.

He had worked out a certain number of things that could befall the hero/villian/victim/anti-hero/anti-victim . . . whatever . . . based on a throws of the die. Double sixs meant a bloody demise. There where specifc combinations for rape, castration, decapitation, paralisis, cancer, insanity, incarceration. Snake eyes and the protagonist won the lottery.

Gretchen: This is how he wrote:

He hated small sharps pains. Small lacerations, paper cuts, split toenails, puncture wounds; these made his whole body prickle with an nausous energy, a disturbing heat. He felt his writing needed this kind of underlying ferment. He invented a device. It had a short length of medium gauge piano wire attached to a high tension spring. It had straps to hold his arm in place. The release mechanism was attached to a the guts of an old alarm clock. This added an element of surprise. he didn't know exactly when spring would release, the wire zinging through its short arc. One application would produce a page or so of writing imbued with the aggitated quality he sought.

Short Open Section (sax duet 2 ?)

(after music stops: Rat Fuck & Half Life part two.

Gretchen: Rat Fuck is lying on his back, presumably where we and and Half-Life left him, mumbling quietly but fervently to humself and/or the overcast sky, which by now is know as sky.

Under this so-called sky comes Half-Life. Picture him with his clone in tow, lead by a dirty strip of knotted sheets which attach to an ornate finger trap holding the index fingers of his clone's hand together. His clone is gagged as well, with a surprising wealth of duct tape.

Bob: (intones until interrupted by Art)

Fucking sky, fucking air, fucking sun, fucking moon, fucking footprint, fucking device, fucking peas, fucking trees, fucking land-fill, fucking wax, fucking garden hose, fucking debris, fucking organic unity, fucking surprising coherence, fucking lytanies . . .

Art: . . . peri winkles.

Bob: What?

Art: Fucking Peri Winkle.

Bob: Who is fucking peri winkle.

Art: How would I know?

Bob: So is this Peri Winkle you got here? He looks an awful, and i do mean awful lot like you.

Art: Hell no Rat Fuck, you drooping pilaster, this her is my clone, as i made mention of a page or so back. I've named him Bottle Neck.

Bob: Bottle Neck? Rather poor moniker, soap scum.

Art: Hey, don't be calling me soap scum, that handle was your skull blossom, so fuck your sour egg nog.

Bob: As I have been doing, just so dearly beloved, ever since your last exit, you mottled egg white. Where in hell did you aquire all that Duct tape. That shit is dear. Spill, why so gagged?

Art: He can't be trusted. He's Bad luck. No trained seal he so i had to seal him up. He lives the life of the mind. He has gone to that place dear Murphy once coveted . . . the third level, where so many of us seek to go but fail to go from too much going.

Bob: Alas poor Murphy.

Bottleneck: murrrpht!

Bob: Hey! What is he saying?

Art: I head nothing.

Bob: Come on you yellow old cod liver, give that up.

Art: He has trouble breathing is all. Don't confuse that with communication. You're anthrocentric, anyone ever call you that? Anyway you are if you think him capable of speech. Trust me, he's mute.

Bob: More like moot, and only 'cause you wrapped his fucking jaw up with duct tape. All that duct tape, it makes may heart ache.

Art: Yes, well, everyday one should do something special for one's self. This is as close as i get to having a self and close to special as today will get me.

Bob: Yes, I see the assembalance, two halfs of the same phone book, tore asunder. Who did the tearing?

Art: You're a vultures arc. I can see you are after me again. Have I not explained enough? All this talk, all this explaining, it's truning us into piles of IT.

Bob: That's a tired old. And you're no oyster. So I copy and paste: speak now of the muscle that tore you apart.

Art: My leg hurts.

Bottle Neck: muuuuuuuurpht! umphalllllllllllousssssssssss.

Bob: Wow! That smelled cognitive to me! Relieve him of his gag!

Art: I'm scared. My spine exposed is like an electron slowed. Somethings cease to be what that are if one seeks to hold them. Where will i be i allow him to speak?

Bob: You've grown maudlin. Next you'll start babbling about left brain right brain shit.

Art: And the concept, and . . . and organic unity . . and the grassy knoll . . .

Bob: Spare me. Spare us all.

Bottle Neck: ummmmmmm

Art: See, he grows quiet.

Bob: Oh, you're too good for me. Here's a smile for you. Stick it up your dev null.

Art: Am I annoying you now?

Bob: You used to tell me everything. Often more than i wanted to knwo, i'll grant you that. But hell, i've got no shortage of heart pills, no thanks to you. I'm telling you, this has got to be one of the best dialouges of my life . . . wasted.

Art: uh, We went bowling a lot.

Bottle Neck: mmmrpht, url, grgrgrgrghhhl . . .

Bob: Oh! What a revelation. You went bowling. I suppose i should ask; candle pins or big balls?

Art: Both. At first the former and later the latter.

Bob: It makes my head to spin to contemplate it. From Beavex to Walex and back again. How wonderful, how exciting. Look, i'm taking that damn duct tape off. Maybe i can squeeze something out of this Bottle Neck character . . .

(he gets up . . .)

Art: No, wait, Rat Fuck, don't, i'll bean spill . . .

Bob: With special sauce and all the trimmings?

Art: I think it ended in the woods. I used the Beckett method . .

Bob: Your pants are ablaze, you're probicus is twisting in the wind. I'm can not be fooled; you know nothing of silence.

Art: Word. Or should i say unword. What are words if not for lies. But i told no lies, though i know some were expect, as my duty, as my heritage, as my acceptance of my humanity.

Bob: So much for simplicity. You go liek the hindenburg. Where is the juice in all of this?

Art: The juice ran dry. Call me taphead. It hit my better half's panic button too square on. No oration could alter it. Busted protocals, tragic data loss, a bee line for the nausea center, her's and mine. So i closed my eyes.

Bob: You closed your eyes. What fucking sense does that make?

Art: I didn't look, i didn;t move. I stood and waited. No, that's not right. Ok. I didn't wait. I Just stood there . . .

Bob: You didn't go on

Art: I guess not, or maybe i did . . .

Bob: Fuck this i'm going for the gusto, i need the eggs. The duct stops here.

(gets up and returns to the band where he eggs them on . . . )

Art: no, shit, wait!

OPEN SECTION (w/cards)

Art reads poem: Unspoiled.

one way or another we fill the spaces,

between feelings, thoughts, and desire,

and bear the temptation of responsibility

there is no answering to it, we try

to feel our way through thinking and think

our way through feeling and may just end

up where we started, though a good deal more wrinkled.

i'm learning to love all my wrinkles; a nervous creature

given to fingering my tender parts, running my finger

over the creases, learning to leave some well enough

unfolded.

in the end i am very fond of life.