WEBVTT

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This also has to do
with another art form--

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this time dance.

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The title is from John
Kelly's theater piece called,

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Maybe It's Cold Outside.

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Later in the program, a man
returns to center stage.

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His face painted red,
singing Bellini's aria

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for a woman mourning her love
as a lament over a dying flower.

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The modern piece is
probably about AIDS.

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It is about a fistful of dirt
falling from a man dropping

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to the boards in his underwear.

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The fact of loss is actually
pervasive in dance right now.

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Visible in ways a man
wearing a t-shirt that

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says, nobody knows I'm gay,
is visible in a crowd we might

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imagine would like to hurt him.

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Will time bring these
children anything good?

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The chorus says, that when we
get up, we will bury our dead.

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When the audience gets up, they
are free to go to the bathroom,

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free to go back
across the fields

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to have quick muffled sex,
or to take their time.

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Maybe it's cold
outside, or maybe

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two or three friends must be
transported to the nearest

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medical facility where
the normal are not

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denied membership,
regardless of health.

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The text would
like us to consider

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that all desires enter
us, as waters enter

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the ever full and unmoved sea.

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The text would like us to
consider woman metaphorically:

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the unfettered frost foam sea.

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The text would like us to
consider that lasting peace

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is never achieved by one
who is not complete unto

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himself, who still
craves worldly things.

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The text would like us to
consider metaphorically:

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woman, a worldly thing.

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In a world where armed
forces kill largely what

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they desire or
resemble, sentimentality

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remains the shadow of cruelty.

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And as for the targets,
survival means a soul.

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A strong container
in which silence

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can be churned like
a pair of hips.

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Did you remember to
ask the pond where

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else we might find anything
so pure, so transparent?

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We inhabited a planet.

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My love, small kisses.

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My love, energetic kisses
and fucking were illegal.

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It wasn't an opera.

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But wherever we travelled,
the libretto read,

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at the end of the
garden rocks, a hammock.

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And the water lilies
of summer are gone.

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