| weekly shower |
[Jun. 25th, 2015|02:42 pm] |
WHEN I LEFT THE KING I began to rehearse what I would say to the world: long rehearsals full of revisions, imaginary applause, humiliations, edicts of revenge. I grew swollen as I conspired with my ambition, I struggled, I expanded, and when the term was up, I gave birth to an ape. After some small inevitable misunderstanding, the ape turned on me. Limping, stumbling, I fled back to the swept courtyards of the king. "Where is your ape?" the king demanded. "Bring me your ape." The work is slow. The ape is old. He clowns behind his bar, imitating our hands in the dream. He wings at my official sense of urgency. What king, he wants to know. What courtyard? What highway?
[L. Cohen]
ilgi stāvēju dušā un breinvošoju sevi ar stændapu kā žanru.
Rob Newman |
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