I thought it was impossible. But here you are sketching the outline of our abstract beginnings, mixing the words and marks to freeze events, to verbalize thoughts.
I never knew hands can be much more graceful than turning on pointe. But your hands make typing appear to be a perfect pas de deux routine. The rhythmic clicks accompany the swift and accurate movements of your fingers. Beneath your stained blue-green blanket, I watch your performance. But you wouldn’t have to know. With my eyes three-quarters closed I take pleasure in memorizing your moves. My God, what else can those hands do?
Shush everyone, every object, every idea, every distraction, every pain, every dream. Let the performer claim his stage. But can a poet be a poet without reading his verses? Can a poet be a poet without sharing his works? If you’d never let me read what you are writing in this ungodly hour, can you still be my poet? When does a poet become a poet? Is it during the conceptual process and negotiation with his MAC or when readers turn the pages of the published works of his creative mind?
Better yet, what is a performance? Does performance always have to be physical? Even in your absence I watch you perform hour after hour. Should the performer be kept aware of his audience? My covet viewings will never be revealed to you. And still, I am a witness.
The proscenium of your work area, your silhouette formed from dim streetlights escaping through the fibers of your ochre canvas curtains, the streaks of highlights from your monitor – damn such scene. Damn the blocking. Curse the stage direction that disturbs my sanity. I’d have cursed you, my remarkable performer, if I’d known you are aware of this enslaving act. But you are not. You perform without you knowing it.
I am getting used to sleepless nights in this marathon of secret performances. Sometimes you would even try to converse with me. Once you even moved closer to pull pillows I used to cover my face with, to check if I was still awake. A couple of times you glanced at me and smiled, seemingly so sure I was still up and seemingly so sure I was observing you.
I thought it was impossible. But it happens. I am stiffened by your performances, my poet. Stiffened, but not out of awe. I wouldn’t dare move for I know at one touch… the wooden furniture, the MAC, the graceful hands, and the outline of my poet with his eyeglasses will all instantly disappear. The stage will be left empty except for dim streetlights escaping from the fibers of my pink floral cotton curtains. At one touch, I know my spectator eyes will be staring at the sturdy wooden side-table with my pink-striped wallpaper as backdrop. Then I will be wrapped in my own pink sheets.
I’ll never let you know I take the best seat in your every performance. I’ll always keep my eyes three-quarters closed. I wouldn’t want it any other way.
No other way than to watch you enchant me, under my own direction.
