Collaborative and Edited Texts by Jerry Gordon & Michael Salovaara (respectively) Used For Improvised Performance [Jerry-Text] I saw a woman touch her phone with such dispair, and then affection. A glimpse into her heart flashes upon her face. She reminds me of someone I met in Shinsaibashi or Umeda. I forget which. Years ago, I forget when I think I knew her. I recall another me — some version of less and more of this me. Were we both smokers in front of Takashimaya? Did we both change morning rush-hour trains in Tennoji, or was it Namba? Familiar strangers. I often find being out of place to be the place I belong. A place of self corruption and reconstruction towards some vague idea of redemption. A nowhere where I might arrive completed or feel a willingness to change. A time outside of whenevers. A no-when — not fixed on nexts and befores. When I don’t “look forward to” — resist making my life a logical cog for some future. When I escape Orpheus’ slip and don’t “look back at” — trust love to make it out alive. The door to self-examination and deception is labled “ENTRANCE/EXIT,” the coming and going, the heres that become theres. I’ve always run through the doors not caring what the signs say. Always been coming and going, flowing from there to there to there. Till I find myself back in a familiar room of mass confusion, dinner table set for two sides of arguers. Meals of frustration with desserts of regret. A patina of joy from being winners and losers. “So wonderful to see you all again yes it’s been far tooo long for sure let’s get together again real soon sorry for insulting Uncle Pete again take care drive safe the roads get icy.” Silent fuck offs and polite thank yous, performances of sincerity and escape. >>EXPLOSION<< A child crushes a fire-colored leaf into her mouth, spitting out the bitter bits. A blue dragonfly on a concrete wall awaits its destruction. The shadow of a passing pedestrian sweeps across the insect like a threat of total darkness. It spasms into a hover. She crosses the street and enters Kita Noda Station, checks her phone and catches the train for Namba. At the Namba subway gate, she pauses behind an old woman who has dropped her ticket. She quickly shifts to the next gate. Her expired pass sings a humiliating “ding” instead of the liberating “beep”. Panic explodes inside her brain. Her mind becomes unconnected to pasts and futures. She jumps the gate and starts running. Like a deer. Like a child. She feels so fast. Faster than she could ever before recognize as herself, she moves up the stairs and out into the winter night air. The sidewalk is crowded. The trees are full of tiny lights. Soon she slows to a regular pace amidst the crowd and knows she’ll be tagged next time she enters the Midosuji line. How long can she avoid the subway system? How long will the machines remember her? Should she buy a new PitaPa, using a different name? Should she just confess to the ticket-wicket worker and beg forgiveness? Pay some fine? Promise to be patient for the rest of her life? She walks south. She takes out her phone. The screen’s glow tints her face. 12.5.2023 by Jerry Gordon ><><><><><><>< [Michael-Text] I just finished work and saw a woman touch her phone with such despair, and then affection. She reminds me of someone I met in Shinsaibashi or Umeda, I forget which, I think I know her. I recall a version me who knew a version of her. Standing in an alley after drinks beside Takashimaya; she serviced, but I couldn’t deliver... oh, it was Namba. Out of place, I find often to be my place. A place of self corruption and reconstruction towards some vague idea of redemption. The door to self-examination and deception is labled “ENTRANCE/EXIT.” I ran through the doors not caring what the signs said as long as it was out of here. Inevitably, I return to this room of mass confusion, I set the dinner table for two sides of arguers -- a dinner of frustration and a dessert of regret with a patina of joy. “So wonderful to see you all again... yes it’s been far tooo long... for sure let’s get together again real soon... sorry for insulting Uncle Pete again... take care drive safe, the roads get icy.” Silent fuck yous and polite thanks yous, a blow job is more sincere. A child crushes a fire-colored leaf into her mouth, spitting out the bitter bits. A blue butterfly on a concrete wall awaits its demise. The shadow of a passing pedestrian sweeps across it as darkness descends. She crosses the street and enters Kita Noda Station, checks her phone and catches the train for Namba. At the Namba ticket gate, she pauses behind an old woman who has dropped her ticket. She quickly shifts left to the next gate, but her PitaPa pass had expired announced an embarrassing “ding” instead of the usual liberating “beep”. A flash of panic explodes in her brain, and she forces herself through the gate and runs without thinking - - faster than she has ever run, down the stairs into the winter night. The plaza outside Takashimaya is crowded and the trees are all lit up. Soon she slows to a walk amidst the crowd knowing she’ll be tagged next time she enters the Nankai Line. The IC chip in the PitaPa card records all entrances and exits. She’ll have to return and pay eventually, but not tonight. She knows she can ask for forgiveness and make promises, She walks south and takes out her phone. The screen’s glow lights up her face. 1.5.2024 by Michael Salovaara