We Promenade
The Hand of Surely comes out of the sky blue, down to earth and sets direction: decisive, resolute, complete.
Clown roars, laughs, unravels itself, exposes genitalia, runs, runny nose, shoots in subway.
Rabbi hides in back, shoulder to the wheel, carrying on the Great Struggle.
Baker at work, flour dust billowing. Baker squashes tomato over right breast, red juice runs down belly, drawn over fat and curves into groin, accumulates, wets anus, red seed juice down inner thigh, knee, leg, sole, puddle. Lemon in hand, rolled down over right bright breast, over abdomen then across belly, diagonal down, then curving round buttock, picked up by left hand and rolled over back of ass.
With red flower in my hair and red lipstick on tiny lips, my head against a moss covered stone, I tongue and lick and kiss the algae.
Bread of dawn, Sun of endings, Rabbi holds our left hand, Clown our right; together we promenade, in full view, sending and receiving.
Spectacle: Clouds of Baker's Flour float over our terrain. Clouds of Baker's Flour float over bowl of water making dough and paste, glue. We're delayed by the glue's touch, squeezing it between our hands, rolling it over our chest, down our abdomen, over our belly, between our legs. Spectacle's searchlights made visible as Clouds of Baker's Flour pass, illuminated by the fires we have built to attract our muse. Shafts, beams, columns of searchers light can be seen through Clouds of Baker's Flour. Even Nuremberg's architectonic searchlight spectacle comes forth.
Spectacle: Approaching, now, large walls of sound, spheres of sound. Huge rippling surfaces raised and lowered by unnamed operators. Massive projections loom behind us, pushing pushing, forcing us before them…we aren't shackled, but there's no place to go, except forward. There is no respite
The closed hand's resolve.
From out of the sky, from way over our heads comes the Hand of Surety, closed fist, with a single, extended pointing finger. We follow its direction. Gases part for it and our directed gaze. We accelerate forward through Baker's Flour. We stride forward.
Forward, into Rabbi's hat, removed so he could wipe his forehead; sweating in back room with shoulder to wheel; and we fly straight into the Shtreiml's( * ) receptacleness. Moving now only in relation to black hat's gravity, what is its tradition and historical presence. In here, we stumble: the Hand of Surety disappears into the dark receiving. Here we waver against the inexorable struggle: our passion endlessly received by a void made of the struggle's ancient past. Reading, studying, pushing and pulling and tumbling about.
Clown lifts brim and looks in.. quizzically.. "What is all this noise?" Puts on Rabbi's hat, looks in mirror. Vomits. Eats the vomit.
Down the long corridor, then to the right, Clown squeezes our right hand, Rabbi cups the left, Baker shields our view. Together, together, we promenade; sending and receiving.

(*) Round fur hat worn by some Jewish sects. Shtreimel

. . .

Quaint Selves
True theatre has always seemed to me the exercise of a dangerous and terrible act
where the idea of theatre and spectacle is done away with
as well as the idea of all science, all religion and all art.
The act I'm talking about aims for a true organic and physical transformation of the human body.
Because theatre is not that scenic parade where one develops virtually and symbolically - a myth: theatre is rather
this crucible of fire and real meat
by an anatomical trampling of bone, limbs and syllables
bodies are renewed
     and the mythical act of making a body presents
itself physically and plainly.

If you understand me correctly, you'll see in this an act of true
genesis that will seem to everybody much too absurd –
too silly, in fact - to perform
on the plane of real life.
For as of now nobody believes a body can change except through time and in death.

— (Antonin Artaud, "Theatre and Science", from Theater and Its Double)