Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Sometimes, you are not in the war. I am always not in the war but only sometimes remember it, and remember war is bad and not far away for everyone, not even for everyone here. My son, home from school says to be sad for his kindergarten classmate, not a good friend, name not often mentioned, because his dad is in the war. Pressing, I ask, just left for? or is maybe hurt? I don't ask the worser one and my son doesn't know except in the war which he wishes hadn't been invented. I've been seeing many dead children from Gaza, and photos of Lynndie and others--our tortures too. I am outrage without outlet and then a stillness that is a sickness I think is ubiquitous. Everything is closer since yesterday, and also harder to touch. A man who choreographed for me died Saturday. For awhile I didn't know him anymore and then he said beautiful things about my work. On a page about a scholarship fund instead of flowers, it says he also wrote poems. In a piece he called "Forgetting Birthdays" I threw a fallen tiara offstage like it was meant. I would like, I think, to read some.
Posted by kirsten at 8:32 AM