harliequin

Don't become too familiar with me the path is treacherous 'on family footing' and you're far more likely to twist an ankle than find steady ground Here, there are no prodigal sons returning home No fathers racing to meet their lost sheep Only the prodigal, the wasteful, the spent inheritance Without the repentance The demons held in thrall to their obeisance disguised as something more permissible to more common sensibilities

How many times until "sorry" loses its meaning? How many times before it becomes white noise? A consolation booby prize. An empty palm at the end of a gumball machine four quarters in. How many times -- despite the actual sorrow behind the word, the amount of change behind the utterance is too disproportionate to make any sense of the sentiment?

Eight hours of "earning" boiled down to maybe twenty minutes of actual effort stretched elongated dissociated procrastinated sedated inundated by mundanity imaginary figures deposited directly the whole of worth boiled down to figurative digits indicative of my "work"

You think it's easy It's not. It's not easy because it leaves me feeling displeased and sleazy unworthy mired in the cycle that hurts me. And surely unearthing patterns matters but awareness isn't enough to shatter these shackles. As soon as I manage to tackle one hurdle another ten grapple me by the hackles and shove me down the same track I'll always keep coming back to.

Before it melts away before it dissipates and fades Let me capture the essence in some tangible way A message etched on ice diminished to a puddle Each character the means to its own demise Oedipus staggers blind Destination undefined The distance between Anywhere and Nowhere merely contrived Compelled by strings only visible to those with eyes Antigone follows but becomes the guide The crutch, the cradle the catalyst. Inescapable degradation Heedless of her defiance Soaked into the fibers, staining long after evaporating

She's got a fire deep inside her stuck behind her coal black eyes that stare intently toward the cement, the carpet, the wall the blinds She won't look directly lest She reveal what you might find behind her brave disguise She's hard but She's wise and there's terror between the lines that hold her together the strings that bind and sever yet somehow tether the past and the present for now and forever She's clever and precise She's steel and ice and She'll cut you to the quick but She can't cut herself adrift from the scars that split her apart into shards held together by fists and wielded like barbs

After the show, I took the recommendation of a program fellow to check out a kitschy coffee spot not far away in Wicker Park called Wormhole Café. I enjoyed a Chicago Smaug – an Earl Gray latte with anise - and an orange cranberry beignet. I sat at a communal table with two people on laptops, and one woman reading an actual book. Luckily, I had my art supplies with me, and I decided to write some reflections about the show I had just seen, while the details were still fresh in my mind. It was astonishing how naturally the words came to me. I didn’t re-write or cross out or second guess any of my words. They just spilled out on the page as if they were destined. And there were so many double meanings layered in the most concise words. Perhaps no one else will ever really grasp the meaning, even if they read it. Even if I explain all the intricate details and hidden connotations. I did, in fact, try to do that with Joe. I explained the show and even the backstory. My description

I often wonder how I got here Fuzzy starting lines unclear Winding branches of aimless lines Paint this picture time defines Ever tighter the path is winding Around the clock and surely binding Back and forth, spiraling around A hectic maze of ups and downs With every step comes several ways To go ever deeper into the maze Is this a peak, a valley or plateau? What’s the next step? Where do I go?