I went to study Language and Literature
and fell like the fool for the rope of theatre,
hung myself on that stage, dangled
upside down: Watched the world
slide by while thoughts in my head
were filled in with the words of others — had they too
hung and spun,
examined the world as if it were frozen
and the only thing that moved
was my desire
as it seeped passed flesh and heart and ear and lip?
I remember Visions.
I remember an apple
and the impulse to say whatever.
I remember the three-way script
spun outwards like a web to snare an audience in ways
I had never fathomed.
I remember I wrote a piece about Russian Caravan Tea
and listened to my words plunge as if I were a well
and (having filled the page) became empty and filled again
by hearing someone else speak my mind.
Once we travelled like beetles to Sydney,
listened to playwrights rewrite their histories
and then there was the tour into the countryside:
There was day in the middle of an oval,
the band through Paul finding a way to heaven,
the kids, the dispersing clouds that spun away
like the old sheets on mum’s clothesline, the sun and I…
I swear if I could I would hold that day forever.
And the time I watched Elena and Neil find and lose themselves
in The Woods
that too I would hold
and the Vowles, the Cliffs…
The very fabric of me
stretched out and tossed by the hands of fellow learners of the craft,
by dancers and singers and lovers and friends,
only to fall back again and cover my skin as if nothing had changed
and it hadn’t and it had
just like the very best of things.