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When we were little, we died of broken bones. All of our bones shattered inside us. They came out as dust through our mouths and ears. They came out as dust between our legs. They came out as dust through our pores. What was left in our bodies was connective tissue. We were filled with connective tissue that had nothing to connect. This was the cause of our deaths. We were buried on Cloud Top Hill. The funerals were neat and small and the wakes were dry. When we died, we came up to the top of Cloud Top Hill before our funerals. We could see all the layers of the worlds superimposed on one another. We could not pick out our world among them, but we could find pieces. We eventually saw our caskets; they shimmered in and out of being. We were glad, now, that our bones had come out. We were suppler, and in death we could exist without bones. Living people called us ghosts—the way we could fit through a keyhole. We could talk to each other. We were glad we had died together. We could see other people that died. We could talk to them, but everybody liked the people that they died with best. The cliques of the dead are somewhat like the cliques of the living, but they are less superficial. |
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written by B. Brecht/K. Weill performed by W.S. Burroughs |
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It's good to hear your voice, you know it's been so long If I don't get your call then everything goes wrong |
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In 1975, at the of 33, Bas Jan Ader set out on a journey to cross the Atlantic on a tiny boat. It was part of his performance "In search of the miraculous", and it was in search of the miraculous that he disappeared in mid-ocean, never to be found.
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I'm in love with the Morton salt girl. I want to pour salt in her hair and watch her dance. I want to walk her through the salt rain and pretend that it is water. I want to get lost in the Washington Cathedral and follow her salt trail to freedom. I want to discover her salt lick in the forests of Virginia. I want to stand in line for hours to see her walk on in the middle of a movie only to have the film break and watch salt pour out and flood the aisles. I want to sit in an empty theater up to my eyeballs in salt and dream of her. When I go home she will be waiting for me in her white dress and I will drink salt water and lose my bad dreams. I will seek the blindness of salt, salt down my wounds, hang like a side of ham over the curtain rod in the bathroom and let her pour salt directly on my body. When she is done I will lick her salty lips with my tongue and walk her down the stairs into the rain, wishing that I could grow gills and bathe in her vast salt seas. |
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