There was a feeling like there was a door, and behind it was you, and outside it was the sky, the
whole world really, and I couldn’t breach the interior or find a way to stand such that I was both
inside and outside the doorway.

The doorway seemed to exist in a vast, pink field clouded with mosquitos and gnats and a kind of
fragrant burst of floral energy.

It felt like I could arrange a sculpture or a play that could illustrate to you this problem I was facing
and trying to describe, of my interior life’s relation to exterior.

I was always wanting to explicate my problems via art, and this was one of the problems I found
myself desiring to explicate via art.

You really could, if you had enough money, and time, and I want to say confidence but maybe I
mean courage, arrange people on a stage and make them do whatever you wanted, limited only by
the constraints of the medium: time, space, the human body.

This could be my play where I am watering my sibling’s tomato plants in the morning and the play is
me thinking about you watching me water the tomato plants, which you aren’t doing.

Sometimes I can only bear my life by thinking of myself and the people in it as characters in a novel,
all their charming foibles described by a knowing, omniscient, third-person narrator, who is also me.

In a play the narrator is silent, the narrator is the stage upon which the action, gesture, speaking,
silences, rearrangement of textured objects, take place.

There needed to be some kind of container, I text Sam, for people at the outdoor sex party to
mingle inside of, like a big tarp on the lawn, she suggests.

I have a sex dream where I’m just rehearsing a sexual act, playing it through on a loop with my
partner in the dream, who is no one, and I get no real pleasure from this, we never finish, but we
take it again from the top, readying for the real event.

The real event always seems to exist elsewhere, this was what I meant by the pink field I couldn’t
quite find my way into or out of.

The tomatoes were in the field and so was the piano where I played through the bars of a waltz,
turning paper into sound.

This was when I saw my hands were stained yellow from the tomato plants which could be a turning
point if you had a very loose concept of drama.

Truthfully I knew very little about drama or narrative but was always making elaborate arguments
about their limitations, like if I refused narrative I could hold all the doors open at once, could
subvert the very notion of doors and limits at all.

When the moon rose like a pale spotlight in a pink sky, that was part of the field and also the
backdrop for the play about the field.

There are many historic rituals which I now understand are designed to produce feeling, rather than
simply contain it.

Some people have to work themselves up to cry, like having an orgasm, while for others crying
descends spontaneously, unpredictably, like rain.

My eyes fill with tears at the sight of a small boy undoing his shoes and this is part of the play, where
I am watching the play and feeling moved by its subtle actions, and offering this well of feeling to
you.

If I could just get you to come into the field with me, so we weren’t so lonely.