Story for performance #870
webcast from Sydney at 07:28PM, 07 Nov 07

Hard. C’est dur. Obdurate. Solid. Inflexible. Stern. Mean. Difficult. Problematic. Inescapable. No way out. Between a rock and a hard place. Hell. Petrified. Rocky. It’s too hard at the moment to even evoke the sexual innuendo. Erect. Pulsing. Attention! Soooo haaarrrrd. Yes it’s too hard to go that way today. Hard. Obdurate. Mean spirited. Stiff. Unforgiving. Ungiving.

It had begun well. A romantic story of soulmating, crossed paths that wove their way through decades. Decades that were vital, changeful, imperfectly anticipated. An international city on the coast, the new world, a port—a player in their love story. He came to the inner city in the late 70s, she was a local a few years younger.

Hard. Drugs. Poverty. Identity. Pain. Hard to bear. Hard living. Hard times. Powerlessness. Confusion. Hard floors. Cockroaches. Squatting. In rough houses. Warm nights. People drifting in and out. Not knowing what to do or how to act. Young. Risk taking. Trying hard. Really trying hard. Pain, very hard pain.

Both of them were from broken homes, as they say. Not nearly so common in those days but the impact of divorce, bad parenting and domestic upheaval was not so fully appreciated. I mention this because the core difficulties in the relationship could be traced to this common misfortune and its usual attendant baggage. But for me, personally, dear listener, there is some value in understanding human relations in more spiritual terms. The star-crossed lovers.

Hard luck. Hard aspects. Squares. Oppositions. Blocks. Egos. Dark consciousness. Hard stuff. Bad fate. Bad stars. Bad timing. It’s hard. Love’s hard. Destiny is hard—sometimes. Pluto drawing it out, moving you on. Hard to resolve. Hard to fathom. A hard call. Hard to know. If it can be known at all. Hard.

They were young, beautiful and wild. Talented. At risk. Their romance was unorthodox but not for the times, not really—pre AIDS and post contraception anything was on. Both were filled with promise but too sensitive, too otherworldy, too unprepared for the whirlwind times. They both fell prey—confusing the creative depths with a Neptunian world. It sparkled sunlight or moonbeams playfully tripping the surface of clear shallow waters. But seductively deeper, the scene is less playful and quite soon—darkly menacing. Hell.

Regrets. Lost. Losses. Missed. Mistaken. Insane! Unguided. Alone and ill-equipped. So many regrets. Hard lives. Hard lessons. Yes—hard lessons. Slow growth. Fear. Blocking. Eliding. Masking. Everything. The fear of their own potential.

It was a noisy, rambunctious, soulful time. And they met on the street in the hot afternoon, or she would drop in. The old musty houses with layers of human reminders. The Laminex table and chairs and the gang of boys from out of town. He fed her cat and the people came and went. The bands played, the crowded film nights. And their connection gently, resistantly, surely wound itself upon itself and upon them. Crossed and twined. Moments observed together, exchanging looks. Distance and closure. The savage poignancy of it all. Hard. Sad. You know it all. The last time she saw him was at a party in London—and he lay on the floor and sang Lee Hazelwood. And she knew then, something. Dimly.

Hard to know. Hard to risk. To come back to try again. Hard. There was a chance. Slim but there. He tried. Hard. Very hard. Inside. But she couldn’t see. Or maybe she could. Hard. Hard to know what was right. Easy in hind-sight? Easy to say. Easy to hope to pray for love. Easy. To say yes. To be open. To see. To envisage. Easy.

He sought her out a few years later; even then it might have been. Before it was too late? Hard to know. Maybe it will never turn out well. But they spent time together, talked, swam in the tame waters of a rock pool. And they felt it. They really did. But someone intervened, another cinematic moment, hard stars—someone interfered and they went their separate ways. She knew then, she thought she knew. She had made the right choice.

Easy. Flow. Unblock. Soft. Facility. Ease. Gentle. Open. Hope. Let go. Ease out. Breathe out. Practice this. Eeeaasssyyyyy. On the out breath. Eeeaassssyyy. Flow and grow. Ahh! The pain the creaks the hard hard hard pain. Of letting go and letting be. Or whatever the fuck it is. Hard.

And another decade passed. I can’t say it simpler than that. It’s a long and sweet sad story—I didn’t set out to tell it and now I am, but I can’t do it justice. I have to paraphrase if I’m to get a meaningful conclusion. Hard. Hard to know who is writing whom in this story. Another decade passed. They got occasional word of each other, her sister knew him but they weren’t close—none of them were. And then one fateful day she was having a long and late breakfast, doing the right thing by herself. Being alone and being okay—and an opportunity to meet him arose. Out of nowhere, a blip on the timeline, a little light showing a crossing of paths.

Hard. Hard to call. Hard to change. Hard.

But do take heart dear listener—who knows how it will work out? It’s hard but they are resilient. They lie down in safe houses, they drink the cool copious water. And some days they know ease, they know the counter side of hard.

Adapted for performance by Barbara Campbell from a story by anonymous.