I
am
the
book
of
my
part. If
you
want
to
know
what
to
do
to
perform
my
part
you
must
look
at
me. Like
the
contents
of
a
book
memorized
to
save
it
from
oblivion,
these
contents
survive
in
the
body,
the
person
who
remembers
it,
my
part
resides
here,
I
am
the
book. When
I
impress
my
mind
with
the
patterns
and
talk,
the
pauses
and
direction,
the
contents—unconscious
but
felt,
I
am
the
book
of
my
part.
I
remember
not
just
the
way
I
will
walk
but
why,
and
how
this
started
and
how
it
was
different
once.
I
remember
the
large
parts:
the
speeches,
the
23-minute
dance,
and
the
small
things:
the
point
at
which
I
undo
the
double
knots
in
my
shoes. I
remember
the
way
I
sat
in
Prague
when
I
used
the
internet
to
find
Lenny
Bruce,
and
now
that
city,
that
theatre,
and
the
bench
I
sat
on
are
carried
through
to
the
moments
when
I
remember
those
words
of
Lenny
Bruce
because
there
I
began
to
absorb
and
to
memorize
all
that
is
now
part
of
the
fabric
and
the
texture
of
the
way
the
performance
is
written
in
my
head.
When
I
told
her
in
Chicago
that
I
had
to
remember
to
untie
the
double
knots
in
my
shoes
during
her
speech,
the
speech
she
would
now
hear
from
the
audience
while
someone
else
performed
her
part,
the
part
that
she
taught
through
the
sweat
of
summer
with
the
unborn
child
inside
her,
and
I
would
use
her
as
my
way
to
remember—especially
as
she
wouldn’t
be
there—I
realized:
She
is
also
the
book
of
my
part. Every
moment
matters,
they
are
all
written
together,
with
different
weights
and
measures,
but
all
present
and
transformed
in
the
way
I
incline
them.
When
one
of
us
is
missing,
there
is
a
rift,
and
like
any
body
we
work
to
heal
and
to
carry
on
but
the
absent
body
remains
a
presence
impressed
in
that
memory:
the
memory
of
our
part.
In
the
town
where
he
grew
up,
my
friend
is
speaking
in
a
language
I
don’t
understand.
In
order
to
get
to
the
party
later
tonight
he
receives
a
set
of
instructions.
One
day
I
ask
about
this
recurring
situation
in
which
he
asks
for
directions
and
the
directions
are
the
length
of
a
short
story.
He
blinks
and
asks,
haven’t
you
noticed?
these
streets
have
no
names
and
the
numbers
on
the
buildings
are
not
in
sequential
order.
In
fact,
the
buildings
are
numbered
in
the
order
in
which
they
were
built
and
this
town
has
been
here
for
thousands
of
years. When
I
think
of
this
moment
in
which
I
learned
there
are
approaches
to
organizing
the
world
I
have
never
imagined,
that
numbers
might
not
follow
straight
lines,
I
also
think
of
Goat
Island.
Goat
Island
has
always
been
a
place
where
the
addresses
follow
their
own
logic:
the
logic
of
the
moment.
=> info | Construct a last
Exhibition: The Last Performance [dot org] @ Haus Der Kulturen Der Welt