Gong

Today I am a gong rung seven times.

In the morning I prepared for Eugenio. I had assembled a book of Odin blog posts, and brought a copy of Himalaya, the astounding photos on which my play Nanda Devi was based. "These are very unusual," he said, looking slowly. "Nothing like what you imagine when you think of a mountain." "Truths," I said. "Truth on every page."

I saw

- a film of Grotowski's Cieslak, training Tage
- a film of Iben training in front of Eugenio
- Tage training Mia, using techniques of Cieslak, Iben, & Grotowski
- Iben speaking to Mia afterwards, clarifying a step

Bam. Bam. Bam. Three generations of lineage; four with Grotowski, five with me.

This afternoon I got my time with Eugenio. I came on this whole trip to speak to him, I realized.

I knew tons, right away. I couldn't write fast enough. I fell for two hours into deeper and deeper sleep, before staggering back for Cities Under The Moon. Where I knew more. And more. And more.

It doesn't do any good to list it, when miracles and thunders come so fast.

I am supposed to leave tomorrow. I need to paint.

I need a huge canvas, tons of paint, and days and days to get lost in. Green, it whispers, emerald green, glitter green like that Byzantine cathedral, put the cathedral on top of his head, gorge on detail.

I am stronger now. I rise farther into the indigo sky. I don't even try to keep up anymore, I just shed and fall toward Saturn.

When the old ways can't get you there, use new ones.