Last night, I read in Richmond as the rain poured outside with the essence of love-making, flooding the streets with cool natural air and cherry blossoms floating in these newborn streams.
One woman wrote my words on her legs and arms in permanent ink as I read aloud and the calligraphy smeared and splattered across the canvas of her skin as she tried to keep pace with my voice. I had to rouse my audience out of the dream space I had crafted for them when I finished. I sold dream catchers and mixtapes and people talked about how my writing style reminded them of their own painting process.
In DC I led an entire living room of strangers in howling at the mother moon. It happened spontaneously out of a reading of a short story titled, “howling at the moon in SF”. The second time that happened this tour. There was a collaboration between myself and a dancer and a bassist. Together we made the sun rise. A living room with a magical unicorn and an interpretive play, with 70 or 80 concert goers all squeezed in so tight some people stood outside and looked through the windows, even I felt like I was dreaming.
I find I’ve been very collaborative lately, more so perhaps than ever before. A woman told me of this film she’s been working on, a play that takes place inside her vagina and she asked me to be a part of it. She’ll use green screens and other effects to make a stage out of her sex for the performances to take place within. Imagine that…a unicorn playing trumpet in the entryway to the womb. I can’t make this stuff up. A friend gave two pieces of orgonite he made, one for my cellphone and one for my heart and I also got a piece of Egyptian Quartz. And now I’m driving to North Carolina listening to mountain music and feeling more awake, the greener it gets.