“give me an empty space, and I have a stage. Give me a man walking across it, and I have a performance.” — Peter Brooks, the Empty Space, or something or other like it.
The refusal to come home — it punctuates both Quixote and Cardenio’s respective tales — the inner Cardenio, and the outer Cardenio — Sal Paradise and Dean Moriarty tilting windmills furiously like Orlando, oranges hanging from trees and shiny new strip malls — wild, man, wild, postwar excess — the V2 Megarocket hanging over our heads like the old damoclean twin-blade razor — after forty days in the desert, I return, glasses broken, bearded, with my axe across my shoulders — Nina thinks I’m boring, a slug, well that’s ok, I can dance the tango, I can twist like the stars.
Terrorists, Members of Congress. Sitting there — put the powder in the spoon, light the candle, bubbles, now breath deep and boom – catch you on the flipside, Jackson / slash slash double slash plusgood — slip my silver key into my electric horse and go rocketing down the highway, into the great greeny beltlands of the American Southland, where Electric Jesus sings and dances, and they’ve got electric chairs atop their steeples, and the deep dark memories of racewars are emblazoned in our jeans and instincts — everything we are, shaped by the simple force of not having died — we are the some total of all those that did not die — I am the Alpha and the Omegacon, I am the transforming biobot, we are the great nanomachine society ringing ringing ringing in my ears – ringing ringing ringing in my ears — nano nano bot bot nano nano bot bot — boom fall up down boom fall up down — sentences, thought, silence, picture walking, the planes zoom up and here we sit together on the water, it’s bigger than a paddle-boat, bigger than a paddle-boat, rise and fall and up and down — paddling through the waters, sprinkle some water on me — oh, let it rain on me, let it all come down —