Letters, 2007



Dear Stephen,

I write today with thoughts on our activities of today: a visit to two cathedrals, and a visit to Blackpool.

There were radiators at each church. We found the little seats Matthew had told us about difficult to find. Being the noon hour ceremonies were in progress during each visit. At the first we saw the start of the mass, and it started suddenly, with a sudden rush of attendees arriving just in time. During the visit to The Priory we were there for the middle, the Vicor well into the ceremony.

But at the second, it was being held in a little ancillary area off the main space of worship. I could only see the Vicor and could see none of those gathered for worship. I could only hear the voices, and I counted 4. Those gathered delivered their bits in a way I'm not quite used to hearing people talk: relying on the presence of the other voices of the gathering, a very stripped down intonation lending a relatively serious tone, the words awkward and memorized, the call and response a little performance of thousands of years, the history in the walls resonating with the vibrations of the Vicor's baritone.

There was a bowl of water near the door of The Priory. I expected it to be holy water, but it was not. There was a laminated sign printed from a computer that said something like:

[paraphrased from memory]

Look at the water in this bowl.
Water is interesting isn't it?
It holds the shape of it's container.
Scoop some up in your hand. Watch it.
What can you see in the water when you look hard?
Close your eyes and feel the water in your hand.
Imagine what it is you would like to have the water wash out of you.
Release the water, let it fall back into the bowl and watch the drops hit the surface of the water in the bowl.
What can you see?
What is left?

On to Blackpool. Parking the car in a lot by Mr. Balls' Shoo Shop we proceeded straight to the prom and the south pier. It was daylight still, and the illuminations had not yet lit. We walked along the prom in the day-dark of overcast England. There were signs, there were lights, there were trolley tracks. The beach here is deep. They had trucked in sand they were moving about with heavy machinery. No one was really around. We walked north from the south pier along the prom until we reached the tower, and then we walked around the building at the base of the tower to see if we could go to the top. We couldn't, it was closed, but the signs promised us the Tower Lounge was a rockus good time out, the advertising noting how perfect the environ is for Hens, Stags, and Bunny Girls. Another lounge advertised a "naughty glass dance floor", yet another advertised, "Party Animals Needed to drink large amounts of alcohol whilst dancing very badly, only serious partiers need inquire."

We forged on along the rows of shops to the Winter Garden, also closed. Someone made a joke about the organ. The first Wurlitzer installed in England. Venturing back out to the prom, and through the arcade in an attempt at walking out the pier, we were stopped by a locked gate in a little glass enclosed room between the arcade and pier proper. Remember the sparrows?

The sound of birds was almost deafening. The sounds of the birds were almost deafening, and they came from all sides. The birds were sort of swarming the room, like the Hitchcock film, only not attacking, just swarming. It looked like playing, and the birds further off looked like a massive hyper-active blob, always changing. Like a ballet of a dust storm: particles behaving erratically, violently changing course, movements seemingly at random. But if you took it in as a whole, instead of focusing on one bit, it was a graceful and amore-fus arial dance of community - and it looked like fun.

Leaving, after Alice stroked the raindeer, it started to rain. We couldn't find the motorway. We took a small two lane road all the way back to Lancaster, the A6. We followed all the right signs, but the M6 proved allusive. You tried to nap, despite Alice's driving, and I operated the windshield de-fogging controls. I watched the rainwater on the car, on the windshield, and thought about the state of Blackpool while chatting with Alice. I watched the raindrops hit the windshield and be wiped off by the wipers and thought about the bowl of water in The Priory.




We went for separate walks today. I believe we walked off in opposite directions, at least that's how I imagined it. I walked towards Hoad Hill where the Sir John Barrow monument towers over Ulverston, I thought that this would be a good place to look into the distance from, seeing it was the highest point I could see. I wasn't really interested in the monument, more in being on top of a hill. With my back to the bay, and the town of Ulverston I started my way up the hill. It's a funny thing walking up a hill, especially a steep one, the frame of vision is so focused on the ground immediately in front and under the feet, that one forgets the height they are slowly achieving. It took some time for me to look to my back, and when I did I was shocked by how far off and below me everythingwas , I wasn't anticipating such a rapid shift shift in scale. One moment concentrating on the task, and the detail of the ground under my feet and then the next looking out over the expanding bay and the tiny houses. I looked out across the bay, hoping that I might catch sight of Morecambe, and the ferris wheel, but I didn't see either and I figured that the ferris wheel was probably gone anyway. I came to thinking about how during the summer when I was standing in front of it, looking out towards the bay it framed a portion of the sky, and how now that framing was gone, I chose this as an absence to focus on and wrote:
The ferris wheel came in the summer time and went away during the autumn. Sometimes during the winter when it was gone I would stand on the hillside and look out over the bay for a trace of where it used to be. At times I thought I could see the giant circle in the sky, slowly rotating round with clouds moving through it. I thought about how it would be back next year in a different location, marking off another piece of sky.

I continued up the hill with the ferris wheel in my head. When I reached the top I was struck by a sudden gust of wind, and had to lean into it's force. The wind cupped my ears, I couldn't hear anything other than a static like noise rushing in and out of my ear channels, I felt totally enveloped in invisibility. The sun came out for a few minutes, it's soft light moving through the clouds and touching the rolling hillside pastures in front of me. There was a slowness to everything here, everything I was looking out over in the pasture, it seemed to me like it was a place of remembering, where as when I looked down into the town the pace quickened, it seemed like there was some sort of crazed collective movement towards forgetting.
I made my way down through the hills, along the dirt road, past the people walking there dogs, past the park benches, past the stone walls, past the sheep with their hinds dyed red and blue, and back into the town where my steps became faster as I looked up at the clock tower and realized that I was running late and that my walk had gone on a bit too long.



Dear Stephen,

Today, we listened to a 10 second loop of the ocean until you said it was driving you nuts. Today, we poored paper water out of our cupped hands and onto the ground while pressed against the wall. Today, we decided to cut the surf with our feet, and the surf is paper, and I'm full of dirt, and you're on my shoulder. Maybe I have the record player, that's to be decided. One thing is for sure, one thing we cannot dispute: the record store did not open.

Tonight, it's raining. I've taken a number of photos of tonight's rain on the Lanternhouse. We had a Laurel and Hardy day, the museum, the Stan Laurel pub, and their film in the little theater.

But, tonight: it's raining. It's raining tonight. I have a bed not yet slept in, a scotch spilt next to it, and soon my head will be on the pillow, and the scotch won't be remembered by anyone but this letter and tomorrows headache.

I think we should tread ground. We should walk and cut a swath. Of paper. Of paper, we should cut a swath with our feet. And in so doing, again and again, we should represent the earth and carrying and repetition and obligation.

This is my bed:


And this is the rain:


And this is a photo of a page of Anne Carson's book: Decreation.

Anne Carson's Decreation

It's about sighing, and suggests that if you do not sigh, you do not really know. That if you don't sigh you aren't attaching yourself to IT. Or at least that's how chose to read it.

I started reading an Errol Morris article, or series of blogs, called "What came first, the chicken or the egg" while laying on the couch today. I turned to it after Sebald's On The History Of Natural Destruction wasn't was I wanted after a solid 20 minute nap this afternoon. Thusfar it concerns a couple of Roger Fenton photos, and while those photos are of the same stuff - with the difference being whether there are Russian canon balls from the Crimean war ON or OFF the road- the article attacks a Sontag statement and pursues the statement's annotated origin. The general assumption seems to be that the first photo is the one with canon balls everywhere but on the road, and that Fenton placed some canon balls on the road for the second photo. How else could they get there? And then this is the lesson: assumptions, especially assumed distrust of the thing beget pessimistic views of the thing. There are other experts, who pulling together information from a few sources, dispute that the order was first ON then OFF but in fact say that as the war was ongoing there were British soldiers collecting and re-using the canon shot at them by the Russians, and there are newpaper accounts of sway backed horses carrying collected canon shot. So, then a more trusting assumption could be that the canon balls were there in the first photo, and then collected by soldiers who were commandeering the easiest balls - those on the road - before the second.

Is what is assumed always the way? No! So we should remember that. We should remember that the way things are best represented onstage are not as flatly themselves remade for the stage, but instead as something for the audience to encounter as if it were isolated for them in the world, or something like that.




I feel like this letter might just be me pointing at stuff, but here it goes.

Fisher Bird

On November 7th 2007 a 72 year old bird watcher was out on an outlet pipe looking out at a mud-lark. Apparently he was focusing to much on the bird and fell off the pipe lading in a pool of mud, much like quicksand, in which he became stuck and had to be rescued from. A picture of the incident is located above on the left.

On the right is the bird that he was looking at. The magpie lark or "mud lark" is a medium sized
australian bird. I guess they are found in England because this man was looking at one in Liverpool. That would make it a visitor. The magpie lark is an extremely adaptable bird, who's only requirement is that there be some sort of soft ground to find food in, like mud which unlike humans, it has developed legs and feet to walk on. I think the most interesting thing that I've found about the bird is that it is oneof only 200-odd species that sing in duet with it's partner. Each partner sings about one note per second, but a half second apart, so to human ears it sounds like one bird. The partners sing in duet to guard there territory, and it is said that duet singing usually creates a greater or more vigorous response from neighboring Magpie larks.

I wonder what it was like for the man, to be immersed in his close up from afar vision of the bird, a vision of lightness and flight, and the suddenly to find him self immersed in a world of mud up to his waist, a world where movement is restricted, in fact where movement just gets you more stuck or more grounded. Two extremes in a matter of seconds. I like this image of a bird watcher dreaming of flight while he is stuck in a pool of mud.

A few brief things:

After reading the part of your letter where you talk about the moment just before the dust storm, I couldn't help but start to think about the ruins at Pompeii, where during the excavation they found formations of bodies responding to the eruption of Mt. Vesuvius.
I've also been thinking about the Duchamp Man Ray collaboration titled "Dust Breeding" where
Duchamp let dust collect and settle undisturbed on his studio floor, and later Man Ray took photographs of it.

Here's the photo:


Here's something that I found written about the photograph:
"Dust Breeding acts as a snapshot forever capturing the momentary accumulation of dust in the sieves on the glass." Sheets appropriately terms the piece "a landscape of dust bunnies."

I have more to write but perhaps I'll sit on it, and wait until next time.



Dear Stephen,

Thanks for the letter this morning. And for the drawing I saw later in the day. I think we both have heads full of dust storm right now. I think we both are feeling stormy. I think we are both feeling stormy and dust storms and maybe a little turned around. Or maybe just I am. I am wanting desperately to find my footing in this. I think this is how I often feel at this point in the process, but it is still gripping.

I have mostly questions today, as I may have given away with the above. Mainly: what I'm seeing, what I want to make, is a performance of all the churches and buildings that have been destroyed evoked in a dust cloud over 1930's Kansas. I want to imagine the origins of the dust in the dust cloud to be the churches and houses whose stone has become sand again. And it's a moment: the cloud is about here, we've all stopped our cars in a moment of escape only to realize that escape is impossible; that our reality will be to feel buried, or be buried, by some undescribable cloud of earth that is moving quickly towards us. But just now, before it's on us, it's a feeling of awe before doom. A feeling of knowing now, like never before, what the earth (nature) is capable of, and knowing our place in it surely and resolutely and horribly and finally.

How can we make a performance of the moment all the buildings that have ever been destroyed, ever, attack a few people in Kansas. How can we make a performance of destruction getting more destruction. How can we make a performance that points to everything humans have left in the ground. A penny, or a coffee can with a note, or 1000 people born without power. Is the earth remembering - or a mute system sucking in our pathos.

There was a pub here. People came here, drank, made merry. They met friends, discussed their futures, their past, and made jokes about how their day had gone. They had many drinks, laughs, and misunderstandings... making up with sloppy hugs, red faces, and not speaking of it again.

There was a church here. People came to the church throughout the week, especially on Sundays, and felt together. They felt each other in the pews, or standing, or kneeling, and felt together. They felt together for coffee, in praise of the sermon, song, or message. They felt together.

Your letter gave me the image of a ferris wheel being overcome. There is the Arena Fun Fair, and that's where the music is coming from. It is night. The kids are playing at the edge of light. They're in white dresses, and tiny suits with bow ties. More than a few may have a blue stain somewhere on the front of their clothes, from a frozen treat had earlier. It's beautiful. And it will all be sand. And that sand will bury something.

Why did the monkey fall out of the tree. Because it was dead.




At the heart of this dust storm there is a memory. A good memory. It's there in the midst of everything, sunk in a dried and cracked corn field. Perhaps it's a memory of water, maybe of the sea, or seaside. It's of the sand and the sea and where to two come together, and the pier that wades out from the shore- line in the night, the moons light glistening on the water making the sea look like a television screen with the 3AM dead air static that comes during our sleep. There is some sweet music floating in the air, all the while, mollusks cling to the piers legs as it sways back and forth with the force of the successive wave crashes. Or perhaps it's more like vapor when the water rises to meet the cloud of dirt soaking it, giving it weight bringing it back down under our feet, out of the air and away from our lungs, washing it from our dirt crusted faces, forming little craters in the dry earth. There is a memory of water, its liquid and changing, it's deep down under ground buried, waiting to be excavated or re-imagined brought to the surface in some new form. I remember being there by the sea looking for the water, where was the water? I came to the sea and had to imagine the water.

Here's something else:

The drawing is waiting to be scanned, so see the drawing that I'll pull out of my notebook sometime tomorrow.

And one more thing:

I think we should make a sort of blanket that could be rolled out to cover the floor of the playing area. The top of the blanket can have lots of tiny holes in it, and the bottom would be solid.. or without holes, in the middle there would be dirt, and when we fell on it our walked stomped etc... dirt would fly into the air. I imagine a sequence where the movement becomes more forceful, with greater impact on the ground, a dig/excavation dance or something, and essentially we create a dust storm with our movement. Now I'm thinking of Pig Pen from peanuts, but I don't think he really fits, I have to go get him out of my head now, sometimes I wish I had a more serious brain.

See you,


Dear Stephen,

It's raining tonight. The earth is getting wet. In Chicago. I've decided it's ok for me to write things I think are only pretty sometimes.

This morning I met my car outside my house to go to work, and it had a flat tire. I, being a newish car owner, called the "tire repair" emergency service... which wasn't emergency like or repair-ish.

I'll skip the rest, and say that I spent over two hours in my car, and was quite satisfied with the experience. I had the book I'm reading, Tree of Smoke, and read for most of the time. I also had a print of the personal statement I had written for grad school applications, a print of the version my folks had marked up during their breakfast this morning, scanned, and then emailed to me. I was excited to read it, and reveled in being able to hear my parents conversation over it in the difference of their handwriting... mostly because knowing people well enough to imagine their voice with some detail through their handwriting is pretty sweet stuff.

Anyway, I enjoyed the time. Viewed it as a gift I did, and in so doing realized (as we have previously discussed) the car is a nice place to sit for awhile. I had my book, the radio was at my finger tips, my morning coffee in the cup holder, a really big tree was just outside my door's window, and a steady stream of passersby passed by. I read for an hour or so, and then guiltlessly stared out the window for another hour. It was lovely. I didn't get tired. Anything I wanted was at my fingertips. Ok, not really... but as close as one gets at any one time. Maybe cars will get so small that someday grocery stores and bars will be riffing on drive-ins. It was a thought that amused me, but like fiction is amusing.

Let's go to Lancaster, let's go to Lancaster and perform a show we know is good. Let's hope Simon and Steph are as good and on it as they seem.

Cheers. You think the Water Witch will let us make a star hat there? I'd order a cheese plate.

T yler


Dear Tyler,

enclosed is a picture.


The Spirit of Manifest Destiny, John Gast


Dear Stephen,

I'm enclosing a picture, upside down on purpose.



Upside down



I found this Ted Kooser poem today:

January 17

Dark and Still at 5:30a

some mornings, very early, I put on
my dead father's brown corduroy robe,
more than twenty years old, its lining torn,
the sleeves a little too long for me,
and walk through the house
with my father, groping our way
through the chilly, darkened rooms,
not wanting to waken our wives with a light,
and feeling on our outstretched fingers,
despite the familiar order of each room,
despite the warmth of women sleeping near,
the breath of emptiness.

And finally, I wanted to again mention the something from the Zizek book. About how in 1930's Russia, there started to appear statues of the New Man placed on top of flat office buildings. A worker, strapping, strong, able bodied. They started putting this statue on top of most new buildings, buildings people lived or worked in. As time went on the statue, relative to the building, got bigger and bigger which had the effect of making the building beneath it more and more like a mere pedestal for the New Man. The statue celebrating the common man becoming more and more majestic; slowly crushing the space where the actual workers worked and lived. The perfect analogue of how the state was using the fantasy of the common man to oppress, somewhat literally, the common man.



PS: Also, I wanted to bring up this drawing again:

Machine Schematic


Dear Stephen,

I insist on very little, but I'm going to insist on this: WE have to finish Sebald before we leave because it's knocking my socks off. I just checked the last batches of pages and couldn't find a paragraph break. I'm absolutely thrilled with how it goes.

Tomorrow, I've decided to make a case for some Ted Kooser poems. I think that some poetry will really clean up our act, make us presentable, some good credibility. Poet Laureate too, from Nebraska.

Which reminds me: the Dust Bowl. I started out looking at the Library of Congress' WPA photo collection, and I came across a few great things.

1. photo of buried wagon and house
2. Dr. Pierce's Golden Medical Cure picture
3. Dr. Pierce's Golden Medical Cure editorial

Later, looking for first hand accounts of dust storms I found the same library's collection of WPA sound recordings. There are some absolutely remarkable recordings of folks, good folks, talking about a number of things.

1. why they moved to California
2. what a dust storm looked like in the dust bowl
3. why they moved to Oklahoma
4. why they left Oklahoma for California

I'm going to keep listening, cause I think there's a gem in there.

Cheers, again and again,



Dear Stephen,

True it was difficult getting through only half of Twain's What Is Man. Funny because it seems very un-Twain like... usually he would crack jokes about needing to include facts and lessons out of plot necessity, and if he'd had his druthers he'd with lack of learning.

It doesn't seem edited. There is no editor listed, and the book was published only recently without a forward, introduction, or the usual marks of thought. Maybe someone bought up the rights to some strange bits and pieces and sought to publish them for simply the sake of publishing them.

Anyway - I can go on about nothing sometimes. An excerpt you picked out: "And so on and so on, picture after picture, incident after incident, a drifting panorama of ever changing, ever dissolving views manufactured by my mind without any help from me - why it would take me two hours to merely name the multitude of things my mind tallied off and photographed in any fifteen minute stretch ... let alone to describe them to you."

Is it possible to make a show in which one of us is always doing some sort of sinking? Physically sinking, or sinking in words, or sinking in mood... in some way something/someone always sinking? Your fake horse with segmented legs idea is funny, slowly segments removed, but we also need a drowning of text, or a text of someone drowning... perhaps a more dramatic, mourning version of the Twain excerpt above?

Cheers, lots,


Quicksand schematic

August, 07

Dear Tyler,

Morecambe Bay walk:

The sea, until she nears her limits, is a simple thing, repeating herself wave by wave. But you cannot approach the simplest things in nature with out a great many formalities, the thickest things without a bit of thinning out. This - and also because he resents
their oppressive immensity - is why man rushes to the edges or intersections of the great things he wishes to define. For reason, plunged in the bosom of uniformity, gets perilously tossed about and run into short supply: a mind in search of concepts must, to begin with, lay in a stock of appearances. (Opening Stanza to Seashores by Francis Ponge)

Step Bay Scheme

The hills in the distance, hold a distance that is revealed only when we move towards them. We keep moving towards them and the view seems unchanging, the proportions still what they were an hour ago, the same look as the look from over there. Maybe it's just that I can't remember what it looked like from over there. I was expecting water, water like the sea, but it's far away, out beyond our field of sight. The only water we encounter are the rivers that rush out to meet the sea and the small pools that are marked by sticks to remind us that the sand is not so kind, it could steal your shoe, or hold onto your leg for a
while, just long enough for the tide to rise high to meet you, and reveal that it wasn't that far away after
all, it was always there on the other side of what you can see.

I'm struck by the thought that we are walking over hundreds of years worth of sinking items. Horses, buggies, bits and pieces of boats, motorcycles, walking sticks, trees branches, soda cans, sea shells, but mostly I'm thinking about all of the letters tossed out to the bay when a passing mail train was tipped over by the great gale of February 27th 1903. All of those lost correspondences under our feet, the incredible news, the maps to important places, the mundane description of a day, notes to fathers,
mothers, sisters, brothers, lovers. All of these voices swallowed up by a unique mixture of sand and water, or perhaps they were brought out to sea by the retreating tide, only to be coughed up again on some distant shore, the words no more than ink washes on torn paper. I imagine these letters were never replicated in a second attempt - a days worth of mail lost , and lots of, didn't you get my letter?



Dear Stephen,

We've walked the Morecambe Bay today with Alan Sledmore. He was a jolly man with a 4 wheeler and two slim walking sticks. He didn't speak loudly, didn't speak clearly, but was obviously aware of his responsibility and didn't take it lightly.

I think the back of your leg's, the part just below the knee where your rolled up pant stopped down to your sock line, are more red than mine. Next time we'll know better.

I want to remember what we were talking about on the sand. About the disorientation of having no near geographical feature against which to judge one's movement. It makes me remember that I never think much of walking anywhere in Chicago because it's straight and flat, whereas anywhere hilly or with more necessary maneuvers than Louie, Roy, and Dead Ahead multiplies my sense of how long or hard a journey will be. This is different than the bay or the salt flats; where the complete lack of ANYTHING makes all distances seem absolutely small. Wherever you're going, it's usually the only thing in sight - and because it can be seen, it seems within reach. LIKE A MIRAGE Alice noted, but different because instead of setting up the illusion of something desired; it BETRAYS the truth of the matter.

I was able to keep my wits about my spatial whereabouts on the sand a bit, but the Big Wheel (Ferris wheel) threw me. I've never been on one like the one we rode today, with that whacky spin the car like it's hanging on a stripper pole thing while it's already moving on the wheel bit.

The Arena Fun Fair in Morecambe is really enchanting. To picture what it was, how glorious it once was, and imagine a night there, some special night, a variety show... a comedian, a little kid doing something cute, a singer or three. A warm night by the beach in the summer, everyone in town is there, a special entertainer is up from Manchester, the adults are having drinks while the kids are chasing each other around just outside the brightness of the lights. I wonder if this is a place or imagined event we could use?

I just hung my laundry outside and it's gotten all sandy in the washer.




Since we have been here in Lancaster, I have felt a sensation that I usually feel when I'm in new and unfamiliar places. It comes to me early in the morning, it is as if there is a weight upon my chest, or something is pressing into me. I know perhaps it is simply because I am in a new place, and I'm itching to get out of
bed and start the day. That aside, it is something about time passing, and it has become physical here, like I said, as if something were pressing into me, and the only way to stop the sensation is to get up and move about the morning. This morning with this feeling upon me, I found myself half awake wandering around the streets of Lancaster looking for a specific coffee shop that I swore was by the bus station. I walked up the hill where Cromwell set his cannons, and down through the pasture where the sheep were laying on the ground sleeping, then worked my way down along the canal, until I was forced up into the streets because of the pedestrian walkway ending. I got to the bus station easily, but the coffee shop was no where to be found. I self consciously looked at the map, started walking and proceeded to unintentionally walk in a big circle until I was at the bus station a second time. The frustration of walking in a circle was added to by the fact that a group of people had been standing outside waiting for a bus,
and had witnessed me walk up the same road and pass the bus station twice, all this with my trusty map in hand.... This time, intent on at least not arriving at the bus station again, I set out to find the coffee shop. Eventually, I made a correct turn somewhere, saw the Kings Arms Hotel, and it was then that I remembered the correct location of the coffee shop. I made my way to the shop,
bought some coffee, walked back past the canal where the ducks were sounding out the morning , and the sheep were slowly waking in the pasture, standing up to get back to the task of trimming the green. I arrived at the house, it was still quiet, I sat at the kitchen table and went back to Calvino's essay Exactitude and read:

A naked silence and a most profound quiet will fill the immensity of space. So this marvelous and frightening mystery of universal existence, before being declared or understood, will fade away and be lost.


Here's what my walk sort of
looked like---------------------->

Step Walk Map


Dear Stephen,

I can only write a few things. I'm not feeling as confident as I normally do, there's something about me - or being here - that makes me feel like a freshman again. Something I'd rather not remember. But, I'm a trooper. I am. I'll come around.

I'm excited to try and hang each other from the foot next week. A short list of the first things it makes come to mind:

1. A person in a trap
2. meat
3. paratrooper
4. prisoner
5. etc

That's about right, yeah?

Everyone here says, "isn"t it", after every statement of opinion or fact. It seems like the upward lilt of how I make a statement. Both serve the same purpose, asking for affirmation, and both are equally as habitual, but it makes me wish I didn't ask a question with every statement.

I've been thinking more about the disorientation of being upside down. Is there a way to make an audience upside down? Seems to me there are only two pragmatic (English/American) answers to that question:

1. No, but you could make the performance upside down
2. No, but you could make the audience empathize with someone who is upside down (this is to less affect, but could be mined perhaps.)

I want someone to crash through the ceiling and land on the floor and be immobile for a little while. Naturally, I think this is a beginning, but again we have the problem of how to make more physical action - how to activate the space in a way that wakes the audience out of the dream we've induced. And yes, we do need to wake them, lest they lose trust in our delivery of their dreams.

I've found a picture of a farm after a Dust Bowl storm. Dallas, South Dakota. Not a typo, it's real, Dallas SOUTH DAKOTA. It's like the sands, it's like what we've already talked about a bit: the earth taking things, or the earth preserving things. The dust bowl era has been called, in book titles none-the-less, the worst hard time. Is it a fantasy that the Dust Bowl crowned an era that could already have won the prize?

I've too much more to say. I'll sign off for now.