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What’s a Tree to You?

I saw time lapse photography of a tree seed sprouting and growing into a seedling.

The roots spread down, then out the sides.
The sprout formed at the top of the seed and nudged its way through the earth’s crust.
Growing straight up, a curved frond formed and from that two leaves formed.

This is the moment that woke me up. The frond went into a waving motion to unfurl the leaves.

Wait a minute? Does this mean that the tree is waving while it is growing.

I thought of a tree as a tree. A standing and stationary thing that I looked at.
I know they change by changing color, losing leaves. I know that in Spring their new green is fresh and surprising.

But every moment a new tree? How could I have missed that?

Oh my, my. Do I think of myself and you like a tree? Something stationary.
If I really you were a fresh new group of cells every so many hours….how many hours is that?
Tim Hurst k05/13/18

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Three UT MFA Concert

ONE  Chell Parkins
Open Points to Life
Beginning Pulsating Power

TWO  Ellen Bartel
Center Points to Life
Wishers Intersect

THREE  Alvin Rangel
Fin Points to Life
Yearning Union  Tangential Tango

ONE Chell Parkins Points to Life

One dimensional bodies powered to life.  Wake to it.  Climb to it.

Call out to electrified alternating light for dimensionality, curve into it, live into it.

Call out where stillness presides, shaking habituates, where fingers intimate mysterious capacitors within themselves.

Call out to princess wailing morning stories from towers hidden in foggy bays, surprising all bodies with waves of blue and orange and green and purple and red.

Call out to the power of death and roaring all waters ending the thinness of dimensionality, interweaving every spectrum into the bodies light.

Call in the decisive moment of bubbling movement, limb and life forever.

TWO    Ellen Bartel Points to Life

Metroline.  Escalator line.  One lies; One rise.  Both scream a stationary line.

Trains and rains and birds ripple to washes of guitars and bells.

Personages skooch in doubles and singles.  Personages pile upon personages without condiment.  Wishers decline ladders; gapers pass doorways never waiting even for port’s fog horn.

The brilliance of not wishing pulsates life’s baseline.  Singular man states foot, slaps chest, searches hip.  Singular woman slips into ice until one person digests metroline screams into a personal melody, until one person’s body draws endless escalator lines into one hug, maybe two.  Then one body deserves a spin by another and all personages can now enter a rise and fall of the cavernous breath of life.

TWO AGAIN

The roar stops.  All doors open as an echo.  I step in alongside the many.

Something about the Metro, the Underground, the A, the C, the L, all leaving only one lingering screech that drowns out a lone person’s song.  Yes, there’s something about the sub-way to nothing extraordinary, to nothing connectable, to everyone leave-able.

My sadness resonates to the length of the subterranean cave, something like a long guitar line, neither untractable, nor subtractable, certainly not subtle, and definitely without a leaning toward hilarity.  Yet when the moving platform jolts and I am still standing, life is imminently breathable.

THREE   Alvin Rangel Points to Life

Man to man. Tango to the death.  Flags fall.  Man covers.

Spin a story of punctuated violin and high pitch surprise.

Yearning union, fingers embrace earth, grip scalp, seek infinite spectral caress.

Three Points to Life, UT Dance MFA, 03/09/12, By Tim Hurst