A pigeon flew through the open window of an enclosed back room in my Chicago apartment. This space is a passageway to the city, a place where I store things and keep my trash. I call it purgatory. This pigeon sits right by the open window – alone. I thought at first he had come here to die. Now, I’m not sure anymore. “He” could be a “she”, and she shits all over the place- droppings collect just below where she sits.

She comes and goes as she pleases. I thought about cleaning up the shit and I also thought about putting a canvass down below her seat – maybe she could be productive, of some use, and I would let the fallen shit paint a picture about indeterminacy, about shit, about beauty, about shelter, about loneliness.

I flew to Chicago from Cleveland, Ohio. I do this almost every week; flying is so banal. I am a pigeon. Or am I a hawk?
In Cleveland, I do laundry and clean and garden; take the dog for walks and talk at great lengths with my husband about our future and life and meaning. Our conversations have improved with distance, being together is richer – we work independently and collaboratively.

We inhabit islands. Our bodies are islands. Our homes are islands. He is not an artist. We speak different languages. We routinely construct barriers between each other, only to create desire and longing.

Everyday that we are together is theatre. Friday is Act I, Saturday: Act II and Sunday: Act III. It is always the same and never repeated, almost eight years running. If we have a small audience, they typically consist of people who know us, or who have been to the performance before. We are interested in meeting new people.

We both investigate subjects about time/efficiency, progress/process and imagination. He is a productivity consultant. I am in production as well. We both want to make decisions that will be considerate of a long-term vision.
I think this is a political act, because it is void of present fears that will fall away, because it is utopic, because we will not be around forever, because it is romantic.

We are Brechtian formalists and believe that language is not a neutral medium, which transparently conveys concepts, He uses graphs and diagrams to aid communication – and I am an artist who regards the material and it’s form and cultural meanings as important as the concept.

The view to the water and horizon from our Cleveland back yard is obstructed by a huge warehouse-like structure. The structure was never occupied or used and has been neglected for many years. Rodents and other creatures have come from all over the area and made a home there. There were three rats in our house last winter, which we caught with traps and killed.

It was disgusting and there was rat shit all over the basement. I did not see the rats; thankfully the traps cover the bodies so we don’t have to see the gore. I thought about how we don’t have television. Then I remembered that there really is no gore on TV, it’s mostly reality shows, soap operas and celebrity profiles. Maybe not having a TV, forces me to get information elsewhere- is that like opening up the rat trap?
In Cleveland, we have hawk– striking to see a bird like that cleaning itself on the telephone pole in our back yard. There is plenty of food for the hawk, supplied by the critters that have made a new home in the abandoned warehouse. My neighbor said that he saw a bald eagle yesterday. In my wildest dreams, I could not have imagined that a Bald Eagle would live in my backyard. It feels like an Overture. Maybe even a drum solo.

Sometimes when I’m raking the leaves, I wear my I Pod, and select a soundtrack for my life. The neighbors cannot let their cats out anymore because eagles and hawks don’t distinguish cats from rats, or so I’m told.