Dead Man's Hand

Two pair, aces and eights.

Theater is not history, theater is legend. And legend is the poor man's history. It becomes the myth read between the lines of official written history. The Chinese have a word for that history that is in many ways more real than the recorded version. The word is best translated not as legend or myth, but as "wild history." There are three poker tables in Saloon No. 10 in Deadwood, South Dakota. If you are dealt two black aces and two black eights with a nine of diamonds, you win some kind of jackpot. Legend has it this was the saloon where Wild Bill Hickok got shot by Jack McCall and this was the hand he was holding. Down the road, Kevin Costner and his brother have broken ground on Dunbar's which will be the biggest hotel/casino in South Dakota. They are building a 50-mile railroad through the mountains from the nearest airport. Dunbar is the name of the character Costner played in his Dances with Wolves. During the shooting of the film, he was adopted by the "real" Sioux of South Dakota as well as the fictional Sioux of the movie.

The fire happened at dawn. Mr. Lee should have been outside already. So should I. I hadn't slept in the tepee that night. I arrived there at about 8am. Half the shantytown was in a black rubble and five or six police detectives were standing around. Walking up and around the tepee, I walked right by Mr. Lee without noticing him. I asked one of the detectives what was going on. There had been more than a dozen fires at The Hill in the two years we'd been there. Firemen always, but never police. "Somebody was killed." The detective turned and pointed. A couple of feet away was what looked like a mannequin. Bits of clothing but no features. Amazingly, the body was still in a half-crouch with outstretched arms, a Tai Chi position.

6/10/92 We are standing in the ruins of Mr. Lee's home. Mr.
Lee
built his home without sawing boards, without piercing nails, without pounding a
hammer. It was built in silence and without violence. His home -- a fantastical
creation of carefully chosen treasures from the streets of this city, all lovingly
knotted together with brightly colored ribbons and cloth -- was not simply his
shelter from the elements. It was his spiritual sanctuary, his temple.

Every morning he began the day with a meditation upon his temple. He
was often seen sitting on his roof, painstakingly retying, rearranging and adding
to the visual feast of images, speaking all the while in a mixture of Cantonese and
Spanish. He would write Chinese characters in volumes on the skids and
cardboard and mattresses that graced the outer walls of his temple. Names, many
names, invitations to queens and messages to beholders were the occasional
translations. Once satisfied with his work, he would leave to return again at
dusk.

He always carried with him a bag of precious belongings -- dozens of
snapshots of smiling people, religious symbols, remnants and discards from the
lives of others, and five hand-made, hand-written passports speaking of hundreds
of wives, thousands of children and many more grandchildren.

Mr. Lee had no family here that we know of. We learned from him one
day that he was born in China, grew up in Cuba and fled to this country during
the revolution. Did he have to leave his family behind -- mother and father, wife
and children? Did he dream of the day he would be reunited with them? Was his
heart full of them?

We were his neighbors here. We came to the Hill as artists wanting to
erect a memorial to those massacred at Wounded Knee and to the disenfranchised
of today. We had come to learn and to explore our own lives within a structure
that was also both home and temple to a people once. A people whose body of
knowledge and wisdom was so great that it should have saved the world. Instead,
it was decimated by the lethal combination of arrogance, greed and
ignorance.

And it just never ends, does it?

Mr. Lee, you taught me the meaning of the word artist. I will strive all my
life to incorporate what you have taught me about patience, purity of purpose and
devotion to the truths we carry with us somewhere in our hearts. The knots you
forged extended far beyond the confines of your temple. The power of your bonds
brought the three of us and others together. It united your other neighbors who
were proud to show off your creations to the many people who shared their
fascination with your incredible home and wanted to know the man who built
it.
You quietly created your own world amongst your neighbors here on The
Hill -- possibly the only community anywhere that was able to welcome and
coexist with an extraordinary soul such as you.

Most think Gabriele and I play poker for a living now. Few know it is just our "day job." We sit and wait. We wait for the pairing face cards. The Court Cards in alignment. The Paint. The Power.

Novices in poker believe you need the killer's instinct to win. The true masters know different. You need to entertain and make everyone comfortable at the table. That keeps them digging into their pockets. The idea is to win, but to destroy a player only in extreme prejudice. For most, the instruction should continue without end.

The game is more dream than reality. Reality is that slow walk toward the Second Death. There we find our peers. The masters in our caravan we call The Seven Dramaturgs. Here, fools and magicians exchange messages and practice a theater meticulously recorded and detailed in wild history.