Posted in Uncategorized

Notes from “Ancestral Lights” by Brian Sanders JUNK at ArtYard

Following the Light.

Starting on the lawn in the front “Yard” we go for a walk along the River. Grass to crushed stone. Oak trees and falling light. The Delaware was a quiet, but brilliant stunning sight. 

Circulating conveyor belt. People moving through the wreckage. Silently, a body pushes against the orbit which surrounds her. Seemingly unable to stand bound by steel and centripetal force. Inertia of any kind only governs matter, and not the mind and heart. Arching away, fighting, backing up and hearing, “Microphone check. Microphone check…” and the revolution has begun.

Entering the outside again. A new world.

Minor melodies chromatically invite us closer, and we gather ‘round the campfire while the musicians spin their yarn. The music turns to dance, to groove, to night. Finding our way led by another light to dead ends, and surveying watching we wait, and what was once music now seems to take a turn. Gun fire. Mortar shells. Up above, someone yells, “over the wall! This is not a drill!” Sirens. Should we help?

Suddenly there’s a halt. Scanning, body mapping. Taking record. Mounting pressure. Body contact. Breathe.

Walking more and we get to witness the puppet strings. Bureaucratic tangled webs. Latching on. Freedom yet?

Music in the night. Lighting the way.
Dancing in the light we carry. Each one of us. Within us too? We hold fast and walk on.
And holding on we cross a stream cold and serpentine. Holding on, still, a memory from before? Is she the same or another? Aren’t they all the same? Aren’t we?

Crossfire corkscrews in just the nick of time, not deep enough to kill, is just escaping the push and pull. Tossing and turning there is no end in sight. Climbing, climax, clarity?
From above a pedestal rises the heat of another’s words, uttered loud in the night, but for whom doth the voice speak? It tolls for thee. Lay down your luggage here, and take instead my fire.

Under the cover of night surrounded by city lights. By people. Encircled, we witness. Traipsing traversing travelers need all. Beaten? Balanced. Breathing heavily. Gasping. Grasping. Glued.

Gleefully we continue. The music takes us now. Through nature once more. We are those that stalk by night.

Sirens, whines. Full circle once more. Within the suitcase a whispered memory. A breath of soul, enshrouded.

Conjuring the snake like sensual memories. Carefully unpacking. Slowly breathing life within these things we carry. Artifacts, stories. Stone.

Trail and tales. Tous ensemble.

Joyful coming to. Bringing forth. And welcoming home. Light up the night, for the light is on inside.

Author:

Theatre Maker. Teaching Artist. Student of Life. Poet from way back.