Or, less cryptically: I wrote an insomnia postcard called "nostalgia," dancer and choreographer Brad Landers got his hands on it, then he and a collaborator put it on its feet in preparation for Effable Arts' forthcoming poetry meets dance project.
He passed on a very rough video from rehearsal. The final piece would have the poem read by a female (not that Mr. Landers' droning dry-read in the clip isn't enough to haunt your dreams), feature ambient street noises and sport some really good lighting. Don't forget that lighting. (Angel-headed hipsters under fluorescent bulbs? Everything you've already hated and more. Angel-headed hipsters backlit with a halo effect under a blue gel and chain-link gobo? Affecting. And affected. They're hipsters fer chrissakes.)
Anyway, I think it's pretty swell.
Here's the original poem:
the memory, sliced
bits she remembers: sunset ashing dusk.
an iron ribcage wall,
welded to dust brick.
he remembers: laying blankets down
into upwards ink.
to him: two kids on a fire escape
watching parking garage chemical lights run laps.
to her: two sets of fingers
woven together like prayer flags.
for both: a kitchen table, an open window, a screen--
fresh henna, lemon, smoke.
lips, the feeling; and mosquito bites.
later he: slept
she: leaked tears, happy;
he made her a drive-in
when they had no car.
And here's the poem on its feet, literally.
Much love to Mr. Landers and co.