Well, Jen and I both did. The space of the room the festival takes place in; the space of our dreams. The room is for a quiet reading, or it is for a video by Cecilia Vicuña projected on the wall. It is full of people, or only a few. The audience is on stage with the performers, or sitting in their seats. With his collaborators, Quraysh Ali Lansana filled the room with an Oklahoma landscape, and beautiful, haunting music. Nathanaël read in the middle of the room, space all around. Karen Christopher sang like a trumpet would, then sat on the floor to watch what she remembered. Vanessa Place read against the back wall, in a tunnel of light, and Jen and I read with her, from other far reaches of the room. Christine Stewart read about the space under a bridge, out across the land. A conversation between two writers, audience readings, Gaelen Hanson's selves projected onto the wall-- these things happened too. What do spaces have to do with selves? Where are we when we...? One night over the weekend I dreamed Jen and I were trying to escape from a prison in the middle of a swampland. Then Jen dreamed of prison too. She dreamed of a light tunnel. I don't think we're in prison. Why did we dream that?
Above is a picture of Teresa Carmody reading in the space of the room.