Voices on the Wind Voices on Waiting
Waiting To Land by Ken Boe “dancing disintegrates. like a garden. lots of roses come, and in the evening they’re gone.” George Balantine. Off we go to the land of Allegro, a dreamer in pursuit of an ancient madness of the road. Off we go, we say, as though on the ledge of our nest pushing ourselves into an unplannable freedom. What happens mid-air is vaguely important but mostly pounding the road is remembered. Forgetting that the sky is pounded hundreds of miles in just a few short beats of breath. In and out of the turn styles, the revolving doors, the merry-go-rounds, the pin wheels, we whisper. If we’re dying and practicing for sculpture, we bow, if being born and mourning the womb, we’re head first. The road we travel inside a stage is forever, a road movie, turning and twisting in costumes all the way. We dress up for business, so what do we look like? These clowns are laughing and talking loudly. In the next scene we’re hidden in the back of a kitchen, our dirty aprons a fortress against idealism. Later in the summer we hike some mountains. We fall in love, then move back to another crawling city. In the last scene we do a medley of our transactions before a statue with a beard, who wasn’t here last year. The land of Allegro pauses, roses come up wild, and children eagerly jump from rooftops into gardens.