art beat: yesterday afternoon, Rito y Recuerdo: Day of the Dead, National Museum of Mexican Art (1852 W. 19th St., Chicago; through December 14th)
*****
onstage: last night, Happy Days (Samuel Beckett), Theatre Y (2649 N. Francisco Ave., Chicago; through November 23rd)
Sometimes I hear sounds. But not often. They are a boon, sounds are a boon, they help me . . . through the day. The old style! Yes, those are happy days, when there are sounds. When I hear sounds.
I have walked through many lives,
some of them my own,
and I am not who I was,
though some principle of being
abides, from which I struggle
not to stray.
When I look behind,
as I am compelled to look
before I can gather strength
to proceed on my journey,
I see the milestones dwindling
toward the horizon
and the slow fires trailing
from the abandoned camp-sites,
over which scavenger angels
wheel on heavy wings.
Oh, I have made myself a tribe
out of my true affections,
and my tribe is scattered!
How shall the heart be reconciled
to its feast of losses?
In a rising wind
the manic dust of my friends,
those who fell along the way,
bitterly stings my face.
Yet I turn, I turn,
exulting somewhat,
with my will intact to go
wherever I need to go,
and every stone on the road
precious to me.
In my darkest night,
when the moon was covered
and I roamed through wreckage,
a nimbus-clouded voice
directed me:
“Live in the layers,
not on the litter.”
Though I lack the art
to decipher it,
no doubt the next chapter
in my book of transformations
is already written.
I am not done with my changes.
music clip of the day 