Anna Halprin says that before she became sick with cancer
she ”lived to make art,” but when her cancer went into remission she “made art
to live”
My father had to have imaging done on his prostate today, to
make a 3D model for upcoming surgery; my mom’s school system is being gutted
again, as it has been routinely since I was in elementary school
These austerity plans ‘bring the war home’, evidence of how
we don’t choose to live, how we have chosen death over life
Thinking of the opening shot of Andrei Tarkovsky’s The Sacrifice, I wonder what it would be
like if everyone cared for just one thing every day
A tree, a little plot of land—one can imagine this on a considerably
larger scale
Home care for one’s parents is becoming more common in our
current economic climate
Conversely, in increasing numbers adult children have been
moving back in with their parents
Halprin diagnosed her cancer through imaging, drawing; she
exorcized it through dance
Can the poem also diagnose?
The only thing bourgeois about dying is that we presume our
life to be more important than anyone else’s, more worthy of mourning
(Hard not to feel that way obviously with friends, lovers,
family)
There is nothing “banal” about suicide, Cassandra writes me
When I met with Bruce years ago he told
me about how he cared for Philip Whalen in hospice, and how Whalen had a dream
about “Clorox,” which he interpreted as the old Taoist “uncarved block,”
returning him to a state of being before experience, all his bad
feelings cleansed
Against myths of autonomy, patients of history, the world
could be our hospital
Wanting everyone to die right so we can all live right
Replacing the pronouns isn’t the only problem
It is a symptom, like discourse fails to encounter
Like it can't understand how we feel our consent
Write like you are in hospice—imminently cared for.
—composed spring
2012-present, for my parents
