Wednesday, December 26, 2012
Sunday, December 23, 2012
pre-show nightmare
I never have nightmares about 'real life' things (some people have stress-mares about upcoming exams, public speaking etc.) BUT last night I had my first pre-show nightmare.
1. There were HEAPS more people than expected at opening night. This was good.
2. It was all downhill from here.
3. After the first section, about 1/3 the people let. I thought, they must be in the wrong theatre (there are two theatres in the complex we're performing in in Auckland and this occasionally happens).
4. I realised ... WE were in the wrong theatre. The stage was too huge for us and the space felt empty.
5. I realised we hadn't rehearsed. Why hadn't we rehearsed? I mean, we'd done this show before in September but that was four and a half months ago.. why hadn't we rehearsed again?
6. Nothing is happening. A whole bunch of pathetic, low energy emptiness.
7. Arguing with my dancers. Onstage. Semi-audibly.
8. I know exactly what I am doing most of the time but can't remember any partnering. I try to lift Sarah in an improvised moment. Sofia sniggers.
9. There are a lot of Pacific Islander kids and they are getting restless because it's too "alternative"/"pretty"/"not hip-hop". (I'm ashamed at my sleeping racism but there you go.)
10. My lighting designer/operator is not the person I thought and he is lighting everything WAY too brightly and openly, top lights and house lights that are exposing even further the emptiness of the huge stage.
11. It gets marginally better as it goes on but by this stage people are too far gone.
12. We forget the order. I whisper in Sarah's ear: " hair into blanket, duet." We argue.
13. We don't finish at the finish.
14. I don't remember a curtain call.
15. There are lots of really important people in the audience milling around afterwards and they frankly tell me what they think. Mainly concerning the lighting.
I am grateful for this dream as I have woken up super productive and am watching the video to review & develop the piece - something I have been procrastinating for a while in favour of production.
1. There were HEAPS more people than expected at opening night. This was good.
2. It was all downhill from here.
3. After the first section, about 1/3 the people let. I thought, they must be in the wrong theatre (there are two theatres in the complex we're performing in in Auckland and this occasionally happens).
4. I realised ... WE were in the wrong theatre. The stage was too huge for us and the space felt empty.
5. I realised we hadn't rehearsed. Why hadn't we rehearsed? I mean, we'd done this show before in September but that was four and a half months ago.. why hadn't we rehearsed again?
6. Nothing is happening. A whole bunch of pathetic, low energy emptiness.
7. Arguing with my dancers. Onstage. Semi-audibly.
8. I know exactly what I am doing most of the time but can't remember any partnering. I try to lift Sarah in an improvised moment. Sofia sniggers.
9. There are a lot of Pacific Islander kids and they are getting restless because it's too "alternative"/"pretty"/"not hip-hop". (I'm ashamed at my sleeping racism but there you go.)
10. My lighting designer/operator is not the person I thought and he is lighting everything WAY too brightly and openly, top lights and house lights that are exposing even further the emptiness of the huge stage.
11. It gets marginally better as it goes on but by this stage people are too far gone.
12. We forget the order. I whisper in Sarah's ear: " hair into blanket, duet." We argue.
13. We don't finish at the finish.
14. I don't remember a curtain call.
15. There are lots of really important people in the audience milling around afterwards and they frankly tell me what they think. Mainly concerning the lighting.
I am grateful for this dream as I have woken up super productive and am watching the video to review & develop the piece - something I have been procrastinating for a while in favour of production.
les festivités
1.
getting
mildly
drunk in
the (back)
yard
by
myself
2.
finding a
bag of
sunburnt buds
behind
the (outside)
couch
3.
5.30pm friday
phone
call
4.
five hundred
dollars
cash on the
lounge
table --
legitimately
earned
5.
garage roof
isn't
smooth enough
for drugs
getting
mildly
drunk in
the (back)
yard
by
myself
2.
finding a
bag of
sunburnt buds
behind
the (outside)
couch
3.
5.30pm friday
phone
call
4.
five hundred
dollars
cash on the
lounge
table --
legitimately
earned
5.
garage roof
isn't
smooth enough
for drugs
Monday, December 17, 2012
eden
Sascha looks down at her knees, both which are cut and dripping. The left knee seems to be leaking more than the right. She reaches down and lifts her knee, meeting halfway up her body the hem of her sock. Hitches the sock up over the skin-tear. Sascha feels the blood patch into the bamboo-weave material but it doesn't show because her socks are black. That'll stop the bleeding, she thinks.
When Sascha gets home she takes off her sneakers and goes into her bathroom. The washing machine is against one wall. Sascha takes off her black socks and puts them into the wash. Not alone -- with some other semi-dirty clothes.
Sascha leaves the washing machine by itself and goes on her computer. The computer is in her room at the other end of the house. The washing machine rumbles away by itself, full of wash. Goes through eight separate cycles. Sloshes the socks around with the other semi-dirty clothes.
A few cycles later, the machine beeps at Sascha. Sascha leaves her computer chair, leaves her browser open, traipses into the laundry and opens the machine lid. She looks inside at her clothes. Clothes that are hers.
There is a lot of water that hasn't drained. Maybe the drain is blocked again..
Sascha sees a scraggy old white/grey t-shirt she got from a fundraiser four years ago. She sticks her hand down the machine barrel and pulls the t-shirt out. It's tangled around the other wash. Not all of the wash. Some of the wash. The old t-shirt is smodged in soft-edged orange-brown patches. Sascha's black socks are still black.
Sascha holds the t-shirt semi-flat and stares at it briefly before scrunching it up with both hands. She paces out of the laundry and bins the t-shirt without stopping as she passes the kitchen on her way to the computer.
When Sascha sits at her desk for the second time, she lifts her left knee up to cross over her right. Her kneecap cracks against the underneath of the desk top and the cut on her left knee bleeds a bit. Again. She keeps her browser page open. As Sascha shifts the mouse across her screen, a tiny bit of blood shifts off her right knee onto the left thigh tucked underneath.
Sascha clicks the left mouse button.
The blood is very, very, very red. It carves a stain down her inner shin bone, hovering linearly above the skin illustrating where Sascha's tibia lies underneath. Sascha doesn't feel the delicate dribble of her insides out until it intersects her ankle bone.
Sascha plucks a tissue from the cube box on her desk (having transferred her eyeline back to the open browser); lifts her ankle to meet halfway up her thigh which is crossed over like an 'x', hip rotated completely open and obtuse. Doing, not looking, she smears the blood flat across her skin and drags the tissue back up her leg -- horizontal; anti-gravity -- haphazardly cleaning some of the red, missing other parts of it. The manky tissue arrives at the base of her patella and is flipped immediately into the bin on her left. Whilst opening a new window. On her computer. With her right hand. Sascha can't feel the persistent hack beginning to leak again. It is very subtle.
The flow is steadier this time. Less determined. Defending, rather than advancing. But equally as red. Sascha's legs still in 'x' shape, the blood wraps around her knee cap and folds underneath her lateral collateral ligament. Hides in the crease behind her knee cap. It doesn't want to be discovered, for fear that discovered droplets end up in the bin.
Sascha notices -- feels, doesn't see -- the damp behind her knee. She plucks another tissue and jams it into her knee-fold; tosses it in the bin. It lands on the other tissue. They sit obediently next to each other like small children with folded arms. The bin is not lined with a plastic bag.
Sascha hitches her left foot further up her right thigh with her right hand.
Sascha clicks open, reads and answers an email. Dear --, Yadayadayadayadayada. Sincerely, ... .
Sascha shuts her laptop and unhooks her left leg to place the foot flat on the floor, pushes her chair back from her fixed feet and leaves the room. Her steady toe-heel leads her into the bathroom. Sascha pulls open the shower door -- pliingggg -- and grabs her razor. She pinches the plastic hooks above the blade-head to release the rusty blade, flips it into the bin (lined) next to the toilet, and replaces the head. It has clean, blue stripes above and below the blades.
Sascha sits the razor back on its shower-shelf and plunggs the door back shut. She holds onto the door handle for a moment, looking into the shower from behind the glass.
Still hand to handle, still standing, looking. Sascha turns her head over her right shoulder. There is a patch of water growing underneath the washing machine. Sascha stays exactly where she is and watches the patch creep towards her.
Sascha's head inclines slowly with the movement of the patch. It bumps gently against the edge of her right foot like a cat saying hello. Sascha lifts her foot slightly and the patch continues growing around her left foot. Replaces her right. Sascha is standing in a tiny lake. In her bathroom.
Sascha lets go of the shower handle and just stands.
The vinyl floor begins to rot at fast-forward speed. The water chews away at the synthetic layer and turns it into a slimy precipitate. Sascha's arms are by her sides, wrists turned into her body. She sinks a millimetre.
The slimy vinyl squidges around Sascha's toes and slides underneath her toenails. It turns her nails fungal yellow. They shift into a crusty, brittle texture and some of them disintegrate completely. The toenail dusts dissolves into the vinyl-slime. Sascha sinks another two centimetres.
The slime looks like the alien green mucus you get when you have a bad sinus infection. Hyper-natural. It climbs up Sascha's legs and crawls through the pores of her skin. Finds its way through the maze of her muscle tissues. Into her bones. Digests the marrow and replaces the marrow with itself. Here is home, thinks the mucus. I don't have to wash any clothes here. I am safe.
The wash-floor mucus-slime settles in to sleep in Sascha's bones. Sascha is still standing evenly across both semi-digested feet, arms by her sides. Her head is still inclined right and she recalls her computer. I closed it, but didn't shut it down, she thinks. The parasitic sludge swirls inside her skeleton like a dog circling itself to sleep.
And then it smells something. A whiff of something delicious has caught the slime's attention.
Sascha sinks further into the floor, so that the base of her knee caps are sitting above the would-be vinyl. The clotted cuts on her knee skin ooze open again and this time there are no socks to cover it up with. The blood wriggles out like a thin, pathetic flatworm and tries to make an escape across the sickening, liquid-infested surface. But the new-marrow squirms through her bones up towards Sascha's patella, drills out the same holes the blood leaked from and leaps out onto the sludgy floor after the blood-worms --
Still, Sascha is sinking through the floor.
Sascha watches (her eyes leg-height above floor level) the chase between her body parts happening just outside of her. The green mucus-marrow engulfs the sad red blood lines, incrementally chewing over them like carnivorous sleeping bags slipping over bodies.
When Sascha has sunk far enough through the floor that her hands touch the slime, she keeps her wrists by her sides. She doesn't lift them out of the way, or above the sludge-surface. Her head is centred now, though nodding down straight to her would-be feet. A small gap of air circulates between Sascha's chin and her chest.
This is not such a bad way to die, Sascha considers. This is relatively peaceful. I have not had anyone yell at me. It has been fairly quiet.
Sascha imagines the many other ways death might stumble upon her as she sinks down deeper. Fire. Home invasion turned homicide. Electrical appliances in the dish water. The mucus burps up its blood-fluids in the corner and settles back to sleep. What a glutton, thinks Sascha. Her eyes are ruler-height above the floor.
In Sascha's room, the battery in the shut-but-not-shut-down computer slowly wanes. The sludge reaches Sascha's neck level. She wonders where her flatmates are but doesn't really care.
She slips into her vertical grave and feels the oozing sludgy crap flood through her hair. It surges up over her crown and Sascha's scalp relinquishes its crusty skin into the slime pool. Goodbye, Sascha thinks to herself. I really should have gotten that drain fixed.
When Sascha gets home she takes off her sneakers and goes into her bathroom. The washing machine is against one wall. Sascha takes off her black socks and puts them into the wash. Not alone -- with some other semi-dirty clothes.
Sascha leaves the washing machine by itself and goes on her computer. The computer is in her room at the other end of the house. The washing machine rumbles away by itself, full of wash. Goes through eight separate cycles. Sloshes the socks around with the other semi-dirty clothes.
A few cycles later, the machine beeps at Sascha. Sascha leaves her computer chair, leaves her browser open, traipses into the laundry and opens the machine lid. She looks inside at her clothes. Clothes that are hers.
There is a lot of water that hasn't drained. Maybe the drain is blocked again..
Sascha sees a scraggy old white/grey t-shirt she got from a fundraiser four years ago. She sticks her hand down the machine barrel and pulls the t-shirt out. It's tangled around the other wash. Not all of the wash. Some of the wash. The old t-shirt is smodged in soft-edged orange-brown patches. Sascha's black socks are still black.
Sascha holds the t-shirt semi-flat and stares at it briefly before scrunching it up with both hands. She paces out of the laundry and bins the t-shirt without stopping as she passes the kitchen on her way to the computer.
When Sascha sits at her desk for the second time, she lifts her left knee up to cross over her right. Her kneecap cracks against the underneath of the desk top and the cut on her left knee bleeds a bit. Again. She keeps her browser page open. As Sascha shifts the mouse across her screen, a tiny bit of blood shifts off her right knee onto the left thigh tucked underneath.
Sascha clicks the left mouse button.
The blood is very, very, very red. It carves a stain down her inner shin bone, hovering linearly above the skin illustrating where Sascha's tibia lies underneath. Sascha doesn't feel the delicate dribble of her insides out until it intersects her ankle bone.
Sascha plucks a tissue from the cube box on her desk (having transferred her eyeline back to the open browser); lifts her ankle to meet halfway up her thigh which is crossed over like an 'x', hip rotated completely open and obtuse. Doing, not looking, she smears the blood flat across her skin and drags the tissue back up her leg -- horizontal; anti-gravity -- haphazardly cleaning some of the red, missing other parts of it. The manky tissue arrives at the base of her patella and is flipped immediately into the bin on her left. Whilst opening a new window. On her computer. With her right hand. Sascha can't feel the persistent hack beginning to leak again. It is very subtle.
The flow is steadier this time. Less determined. Defending, rather than advancing. But equally as red. Sascha's legs still in 'x' shape, the blood wraps around her knee cap and folds underneath her lateral collateral ligament. Hides in the crease behind her knee cap. It doesn't want to be discovered, for fear that discovered droplets end up in the bin.
Sascha notices -- feels, doesn't see -- the damp behind her knee. She plucks another tissue and jams it into her knee-fold; tosses it in the bin. It lands on the other tissue. They sit obediently next to each other like small children with folded arms. The bin is not lined with a plastic bag.
Sascha hitches her left foot further up her right thigh with her right hand.
Sascha clicks open, reads and answers an email. Dear --, Yadayadayadayadayada. Sincerely, ... .
Sascha shuts her laptop and unhooks her left leg to place the foot flat on the floor, pushes her chair back from her fixed feet and leaves the room. Her steady toe-heel leads her into the bathroom. Sascha pulls open the shower door -- pliingggg -- and grabs her razor. She pinches the plastic hooks above the blade-head to release the rusty blade, flips it into the bin (lined) next to the toilet, and replaces the head. It has clean, blue stripes above and below the blades.
Sascha sits the razor back on its shower-shelf and plunggs the door back shut. She holds onto the door handle for a moment, looking into the shower from behind the glass.
Still hand to handle, still standing, looking. Sascha turns her head over her right shoulder. There is a patch of water growing underneath the washing machine. Sascha stays exactly where she is and watches the patch creep towards her.
Sascha's head inclines slowly with the movement of the patch. It bumps gently against the edge of her right foot like a cat saying hello. Sascha lifts her foot slightly and the patch continues growing around her left foot. Replaces her right. Sascha is standing in a tiny lake. In her bathroom.
Sascha lets go of the shower handle and just stands.
The vinyl floor begins to rot at fast-forward speed. The water chews away at the synthetic layer and turns it into a slimy precipitate. Sascha's arms are by her sides, wrists turned into her body. She sinks a millimetre.
The slimy vinyl squidges around Sascha's toes and slides underneath her toenails. It turns her nails fungal yellow. They shift into a crusty, brittle texture and some of them disintegrate completely. The toenail dusts dissolves into the vinyl-slime. Sascha sinks another two centimetres.
The slime looks like the alien green mucus you get when you have a bad sinus infection. Hyper-natural. It climbs up Sascha's legs and crawls through the pores of her skin. Finds its way through the maze of her muscle tissues. Into her bones. Digests the marrow and replaces the marrow with itself. Here is home, thinks the mucus. I don't have to wash any clothes here. I am safe.
The wash-floor mucus-slime settles in to sleep in Sascha's bones. Sascha is still standing evenly across both semi-digested feet, arms by her sides. Her head is still inclined right and she recalls her computer. I closed it, but didn't shut it down, she thinks. The parasitic sludge swirls inside her skeleton like a dog circling itself to sleep.
And then it smells something. A whiff of something delicious has caught the slime's attention.
Sascha sinks further into the floor, so that the base of her knee caps are sitting above the would-be vinyl. The clotted cuts on her knee skin ooze open again and this time there are no socks to cover it up with. The blood wriggles out like a thin, pathetic flatworm and tries to make an escape across the sickening, liquid-infested surface. But the new-marrow squirms through her bones up towards Sascha's patella, drills out the same holes the blood leaked from and leaps out onto the sludgy floor after the blood-worms --
Still, Sascha is sinking through the floor.
Sascha watches (her eyes leg-height above floor level) the chase between her body parts happening just outside of her. The green mucus-marrow engulfs the sad red blood lines, incrementally chewing over them like carnivorous sleeping bags slipping over bodies.
When Sascha has sunk far enough through the floor that her hands touch the slime, she keeps her wrists by her sides. She doesn't lift them out of the way, or above the sludge-surface. Her head is centred now, though nodding down straight to her would-be feet. A small gap of air circulates between Sascha's chin and her chest.
This is not such a bad way to die, Sascha considers. This is relatively peaceful. I have not had anyone yell at me. It has been fairly quiet.
Sascha imagines the many other ways death might stumble upon her as she sinks down deeper. Fire. Home invasion turned homicide. Electrical appliances in the dish water. The mucus burps up its blood-fluids in the corner and settles back to sleep. What a glutton, thinks Sascha. Her eyes are ruler-height above the floor.
In Sascha's room, the battery in the shut-but-not-shut-down computer slowly wanes. The sludge reaches Sascha's neck level. She wonders where her flatmates are but doesn't really care.
She slips into her vertical grave and feels the oozing sludgy crap flood through her hair. It surges up over her crown and Sascha's scalp relinquishes its crusty skin into the slime pool. Goodbye, Sascha thinks to herself. I really should have gotten that drain fixed.
Saturday, December 15, 2012
dirty dirty grimey
I went to Grimes last night
.JPG)
she had flowers all over her sound stuff (technical term)
and was general awesome
had amazing dancers on either side of her, who were beautiful creatures in psychedelic tights
this is the aftermath
Wednesday, December 5, 2012
Friday, November 30, 2012
I wrote words about you
like shortening my name and
on couch, on couch
did you get my attention on purpose?
there's a whole picking over this burning vinyl
but I
have thought 'no'
every time
I want to invite the neighbours over
maybe you can come say hello?
I have friendly sheets
the colour of your jersey
the season is...
your eyes are sleepy and
I could
but
and
I just
wasn't
there isn't
we can't--
endings,
and
you seem older
numbers have
and I
could we
we just
hello, and
and--
did you put me in
the middle
on purpose?
I just..
I can't--
what's the difference between
nice
and
ordinary
?
like shortening my name and
on couch, on couch
did you get my attention on purpose?
there's a whole picking over this burning vinyl
but I
have thought 'no'
every time
I want to invite the neighbours over
maybe you can come say hello?
I have friendly sheets
the colour of your jersey
the season is...
your eyes are sleepy and
I could
but
and
I just
wasn't
there isn't
we can't--
endings,
and
you seem older
numbers have
and I
could we
we just
hello, and
and--
did you put me in
the middle
on purpose?
I just..
I can't--
what's the difference between
nice
and
ordinary
?
Making visible that small part of my legs
from under-knee to
barely modest
I like to see my own skin
I have an inconsolable list
that falls over every Friday
I'll take anything
I'll take it all
I'll give
But I'm stubborn as fuck
don't even try put that bottle there
it goes in the recycling bin, "yo" ...
I can't stand your sexist jokes
and
how are we even under the same roof
wearing purple
(though I've abstained, since)
can I take some parts of you
can I
can I
take some parts
I don't want all of anything
I want some of everything
I want impossible contradictions
if they exist in me, maybe they exist in another?
I want threes and nines
I--
I
and I
and I
I can't
I can
I have
I should I
will
I'm purchasing the parts of me that don't get shown
I'm slipping into previous hallways
I think about being two years ago
and
my God
that was two years ago
when I loved and
liked
and fucked
and fought
and felt
and wrapped newspaper around power poles
around bodies
had my first hierarchical inhaling
I've always been about doing, not saying...
I feel like the Japanese girl
in that film ... (?)
who opens her leg
and defies Western eyes
with her sex
I have legs
I have all the parts to tick off the list
I have no illness and all the wounds
I want some cover
I,
I
and I:
"how's Tori?!"
"who's Tori...?"
Oh...
Noise control came over
because my monologue was
screaming at the baby.
from under-knee to
barely modest
I like to see my own skin
I have an inconsolable list
that falls over every Friday
I'll take anything
I'll take it all
I'll give
But I'm stubborn as fuck
don't even try put that bottle there
it goes in the recycling bin, "yo" ...
I can't stand your sexist jokes
and
how are we even under the same roof
wearing purple
(though I've abstained, since)
can I take some parts of you
can I
can I
take some parts
I don't want all of anything
I want some of everything
I want impossible contradictions
if they exist in me, maybe they exist in another?
I want threes and nines
I--
I
and I
and I
I can't
I can
I have
I should I
will
I'm purchasing the parts of me that don't get shown
I'm slipping into previous hallways
I think about being two years ago
and
my God
that was two years ago
when I loved and
liked
and fucked
and fought
and felt
and wrapped newspaper around power poles
around bodies
had my first hierarchical inhaling
I've always been about doing, not saying...
I feel like the Japanese girl
in that film ... (?)
who opens her leg
and defies Western eyes
with her sex
I have legs
I have all the parts to tick off the list
I have no illness and all the wounds
I want some cover
I,
I
and I:
"how's Tori?!"
"who's Tori...?"
Oh...
Noise control came over
because my monologue was
screaming at the baby.
Wednesday, November 28, 2012
cellar / corridor
There I am
at the very end of the shuttle-walk
space cat
space creature
space gremlin
scuttle / squAWK / hahhhhhh....
Donning my red-rimmed glasses
"NO EXIT"
Coming ziggity-zag at you --
BANG !
I will shatter the sides of this
comfort corridor
I conduct experiments
on you, audence
at the very end of the shuttle-walk
space cat
space creature
space gremlin
scuttle / squAWK / hahhhhhh....
Donning my red-rimmed glasses
"NO EXIT"
Coming ziggity-zag at you --
BANG !
I will shatter the sides of this
comfort corridor
I conduct experiments
on you, audence
sleepover
My living room couch is
cocoon to a silent creature
Housed previously in engulfing hammocks
(outdoors, blue to match his view)
Small curves in his mouth-corners
What is happening behind his eyelids...?
He's against
one edge
of the fold-out bed, as if
making room
for another body...
The Goddess of Avalon --
maybe that's whose footprints he's
traipsing through
wanting to thread
her thick dark hair through
his own
Upturning his mouth-corners to her
Above her and then above her
and
above her.
cocoon to a silent creature
Housed previously in engulfing hammocks
(outdoors, blue to match his view)
Small curves in his mouth-corners
What is happening behind his eyelids...?
He's against
one edge
of the fold-out bed, as if
making room
for another body...
The Goddess of Avalon --
maybe that's whose footprints he's
traipsing through
wanting to thread
her thick dark hair through
his own
Upturning his mouth-corners to her
Above her and then above her
and
above her.
Tuesday, November 27, 2012
Friday, November 23, 2012
Wednesday, November 21, 2012
I don't own this house, I am of it
I conjured this raucous
I summonsed it into this house
I envisioned cluttered chaos and hallucinations
which include:
campfires reaching up through the branches of the lemon tress
Helen Clark returns again for Prime Minister
myself, one of the boys
myself, a girl, with one/some/several... ?
collected visions enlightening the sickly pastel walls
someone else's craft crafted into a coffee table
treasures being found in the jungle-esque garden
those treasures granting me meta-human energies
dusted remnants on the bathroom counter for Sunday morning cure-scavenges
a general sensation of being created, re-shaped, morphed, re-distributed...
And amazingly
it all sat inside my living room
staring
staring right at me
staring at the walls' visions
(visions staring through myself, the future)
They said, "let's do something"
so I left the house.
I summonsed it into this house
I envisioned cluttered chaos and hallucinations
which include:
campfires reaching up through the branches of the lemon tress
Helen Clark returns again for Prime Minister
myself, one of the boys
myself, a girl, with one/some/several... ?
collected visions enlightening the sickly pastel walls
someone else's craft crafted into a coffee table
treasures being found in the jungle-esque garden
those treasures granting me meta-human energies
dusted remnants on the bathroom counter for Sunday morning cure-scavenges
a general sensation of being created, re-shaped, morphed, re-distributed...
And amazingly
it all sat inside my living room
staring
staring right at me
staring at the walls' visions
(visions staring through myself, the future)
They said, "let's do something"
so I left the house.
Monday, November 19, 2012
activities that support the traditions
Today I watched a video about female orgasm and how it could be used to bring about more connection amongst the human race. I thought about how all my injuries have manifested on the left side of my body and remembered a teacher saying once that the left side is the "feminine" side of the body. Then I went to class in the evening and got pulled up for holding tension in my left shoulder.
I sat outside (slightly outside of) a circle of boys
noticed my place
noticed how fitting I felt amongst this gender
and still: incongruous
contemplated the success of my male peers, even in a
female-dominated sector
because of a female-dominated sector
I wished to have a body that could take a litre of vodka and
still fly across the room
(not because of wanting to drink, but for the
carelessness that seemed apparently without consequence
and the abandon attached to this capacity)
I saw the bronzed "Fiji Me" billboard and I thought, "they have chosen a woman because she is relevant marketing material for both genders - and despite this, still not holding power in the world as much as she does mounted up there."
I recalled a conversation with a work colleague about minorities. I considered my gay male friends, teachers. And how even they, in their minority, had advantage -- and moreover, still, subconsciously, unaware, unknowingly, hypocritically, asserted their right to authority over me -- as the dominant sex.
I considered that even in claiming my equal right to casual sex, I am still the half that carries the majority of riskful consequences, without choice. I considered that though I can have a career and a family (if I wanted it), this is in itself a burden and restraint. So again, in this freedom, I am still bound.
I sat inside/out the circle -- which was, opressively, in my own house -- rearranged my hair, forced my attentive hand fixed by my side, resented myself for doing so, resented my sex for having to consider such things, resented myself for resenting my sex. Realised, ultimately, I am merely with any more power than I was in 1893.
I sat outside (slightly outside of) a circle of boys
noticed my place
noticed how fitting I felt amongst this gender
and still: incongruous
contemplated the success of my male peers, even in a
female-dominated sector
because of a female-dominated sector
I wished to have a body that could take a litre of vodka and
still fly across the room
(not because of wanting to drink, but for the
carelessness that seemed apparently without consequence
and the abandon attached to this capacity)
I saw the bronzed "Fiji Me" billboard and I thought, "they have chosen a woman because she is relevant marketing material for both genders - and despite this, still not holding power in the world as much as she does mounted up there."
I recalled a conversation with a work colleague about minorities. I considered my gay male friends, teachers. And how even they, in their minority, had advantage -- and moreover, still, subconsciously, unaware, unknowingly, hypocritically, asserted their right to authority over me -- as the dominant sex.
I considered that even in claiming my equal right to casual sex, I am still the half that carries the majority of riskful consequences, without choice. I considered that though I can have a career and a family (if I wanted it), this is in itself a burden and restraint. So again, in this freedom, I am still bound.
I sat inside/out the circle -- which was, opressively, in my own house -- rearranged my hair, forced my attentive hand fixed by my side, resented myself for doing so, resented my sex for having to consider such things, resented myself for resenting my sex. Realised, ultimately, I am merely with any more power than I was in 1893.
Tuesday, November 13, 2012
note to self
"... With their ruthless drive for success, 35/8s have a repressed power that can at times make other people uncomfortable; this power sometimes frightens 35/8s themselves
... need to clear subconscious self-sabotage ...
discipline leads to personal power and self-control (rather than attempts to control others) ... many 35/8s get scattered trying to do too much, diluting their efforts by pursuing too many opportunities. Focus amplifies their effectiveness.
...These individuals also tend to swing from extreme dependence when feeling self-doubt, to extreme independence when feeling aggressive.
... can feel inhibited about expressing their feelings ... this may manifest in talking abstractly.
They generally don't want to be bound or tied down to conventions. They are used to making the rules, not following them...
The fulfillment of 35/8s lies not in their awesome mental capacity, but in their capacity to love and sacrifice.
... In many cases, 35/8s have difficulty sustaining long-term relationships until they are thirty or forty years old; before that time, they tend to fall into power struggles, as well as issues concerning dependence and independence. Although 35/8s can be dedicated and loving partners, their work is almost always the centre of their lives, and it helps if they can find self-sufficient partners who understand their dedication to their work from the outset.
... need to clear subconscious self-sabotage ...
discipline leads to personal power and self-control (rather than attempts to control others) ... many 35/8s get scattered trying to do too much, diluting their efforts by pursuing too many opportunities. Focus amplifies their effectiveness.
...These individuals also tend to swing from extreme dependence when feeling self-doubt, to extreme independence when feeling aggressive.
... can feel inhibited about expressing their feelings ... this may manifest in talking abstractly.
They generally don't want to be bound or tied down to conventions. They are used to making the rules, not following them...
The fulfillment of 35/8s lies not in their awesome mental capacity, but in their capacity to love and sacrifice.
... In many cases, 35/8s have difficulty sustaining long-term relationships until they are thirty or forty years old; before that time, they tend to fall into power struggles, as well as issues concerning dependence and independence. Although 35/8s can be dedicated and loving partners, their work is almost always the centre of their lives, and it helps if they can find self-sufficient partners who understand their dedication to their work from the outset.
Thursday, November 8, 2012
you had a name but I forgot it
Of estimates first at eleven; and then by the sun, nine; and by the watch finally at seven-thirty; here I am. With the birds, spluttering over their harmonica chirps with my hack. Shitting over their morning rituals with my own repercussions of nocturnal habits. Holding down the faucet that is gushing out piss and whiskey, in my sleep.
There are four sets of closed curtains on the street opposite me. And to think I have struggled with nine ante meridiem the last two mornings.
I am like little what's-her-face whispering "thirty, flirty and thriving" ... wanting the self-assurance of age. To truly not give at all what the rest of the earth-place thinks (instead of just testifying such).
Father said yesterday, "have a little bit of drink to flush out the cobwebs -- that's what you do, isn't it?" So I had a little. A little by my conservative country's standards. I had a 'little' for my generation's limits ... crying excess and "more!" for everything. I had a fitting amount for a human burdened and blessed with abundance, number eight loss of power -- given up to that which overwhelms. Ruled by the glutton of my head, heart, eyes and tongue. I see it all and take none in. Or I see some of it and take every last.
There is no barrier on what you can and can't do when you are some other you.
Imagine if I dropped the "e" off the end of my name. How gloriously exotic I would look on paper: Natali, Natal; Natali. One less character. Six-figure name. Better than a six-figure salary, for my gender.
Oh, and here comes the courier. To deliver a reminder of my last sanity, happy (are they the same?). The parcel's a bit shabby and shit and has a hole ripped in it but that's ok, it's ok. It looks like a tiny roughed gemstone that's been hurled around amongst a burnt out garden of weed and rocks.
Oh yeah -- and I received good news yesterday. That's something to cheer up about, right?
There are four sets of closed curtains on the street opposite me. And to think I have struggled with nine ante meridiem the last two mornings.
I am like little what's-her-face whispering "thirty, flirty and thriving" ... wanting the self-assurance of age. To truly not give at all what the rest of the earth-place thinks (instead of just testifying such).
Father said yesterday, "have a little bit of drink to flush out the cobwebs -- that's what you do, isn't it?" So I had a little. A little by my conservative country's standards. I had a 'little' for my generation's limits ... crying excess and "more!" for everything. I had a fitting amount for a human burdened and blessed with abundance, number eight loss of power -- given up to that which overwhelms. Ruled by the glutton of my head, heart, eyes and tongue. I see it all and take none in. Or I see some of it and take every last.
There is no barrier on what you can and can't do when you are some other you.
Imagine if I dropped the "e" off the end of my name. How gloriously exotic I would look on paper: Natali, Natal; Natali. One less character. Six-figure name. Better than a six-figure salary, for my gender.
Oh, and here comes the courier. To deliver a reminder of my last sanity, happy (are they the same?). The parcel's a bit shabby and shit and has a hole ripped in it but that's ok, it's ok. It looks like a tiny roughed gemstone that's been hurled around amongst a burnt out garden of weed and rocks.
Oh yeah -- and I received good news yesterday. That's something to cheer up about, right?
Tuesday, November 6, 2012
sink (swim)
I always thought this was only offered in Newtown
I forgot Newton
They can probably see my fresh eyes
but I don't feel embarrassed staring
besides,
it's not staring it's
Looking Intently
I know living here would feed my curiosity
curiosity would feed my creativity
and creativity might eat my pocket
or eat me
or feed me or
both
and as they say of New York
I either drown or flourish
Auckland is drowning me
I forgot Newton
They can probably see my fresh eyes
but I don't feel embarrassed staring
besides,
it's not staring it's
Looking Intently
I know living here would feed my curiosity
curiosity would feed my creativity
and creativity might eat my pocket
or eat me
or feed me or
both
and as they say of New York
I either drown or flourish
Auckland is drowning me
Sunday, October 28, 2012
Kings at 23
I envy the boy's confidence
I envy dancing in the square
body articulate with majority
I envy the sport-literate, vodka-born blonde
not for her head but her
knowledge
I envy the summer radiating out of his knees
I envy the capacity within their faces
and their counting backwards
ten at the top to
zero
I envy his small smirk
and especially that it
holds only benevolence
I envy youth as if I were old
even though those born today
envy me
I envy dancing in the square
body articulate with majority
I envy the sport-literate, vodka-born blonde
not for her head but her
knowledge
I envy the summer radiating out of his knees
I envy the capacity within their faces
and their counting backwards
ten at the top to
zero
I envy his small smirk
and especially that it
holds only benevolence
I envy youth as if I were old
even though those born today
envy me
etcetera
The front door open when you wake up in the morning is the giveaway. The mark of late night insouciance. He says there's ghosts going in and out of our house, but I don't believe him. People are coming in and out of the house, I say. People are the ghosts.
The neighbours came over to let us know that our front door had been left open. Thanks, I said. That's real nice of you to let us know. It wouldn't be so bad if a stranger wandered in and lay next to me for a bit actually. I suppose you have to consider who the type of people would be that might do that, though.
That said, I was quite glad to wake up alone this morning. Somnambulating with sleepless blind to the toilet I thought, 'this will assist my ability to be a normal person around him today.' It does feel like everything that happens at night is void. Especially when you don't have to face it in the morning. Not that it would have been a big deal; I get the feeling he's pretty nonchalant about stuff. We could have some fun, we're going to be good friends, we're going to be good friends. Etcetera.
I make coffee in an attempt to catch up with his MDMA head (which by the way, is the least active of any I've seen - though I suppose he's tall (does that make a difference?) and most of it's going on underneath that perpetual quiet smirk). He rolls a joint from the roaches in his van. And so we meet half way on the kitchen floor.
Kitchen floors are perfect meeting places. Many times I've found myself slumped against the cupboards, drinking tea spiked by the underneath of my liquor-bled tongue and ranting about shit that only makes sense when unspoken.
At parties, people always freak out when I get onto the tea and coffee.
"What are you doing?!" they demand.
I'm threatening their inebriety.
"Bro." The passive-malicious sarcastic, one-syllabled serious face. I am still going to be a million miles ahead of you after three of these, if that's what you're concerned about.
"I like tea, alright. Gimme a break. Got any soy milk? Don't worry, I'll have it black."
So, naturally, when you join me with the kettle, you're on my good side.
"Would you like a straw for your tea?" I ask.
He accepts. Well done.
"Teabag in or out?"
Out. Typical. Everyone wants it out.
"I am going to wear your bucket hat," I tell him.
This is how my belly comes to be pressed against the floor, face shielded by the faux-fisherman costume, fingers woven around the front of the tea mug. The straw describes the gap between my tea and the hat's horizon over my nose and cheeks. A summer cocktail picnic going on at 3:42am in my October kitchen. I see myself from outside, a picture of future-nostalgia.
I don't recall finishing my tea but somehow the empty mug ends up precariously perched on the edge of the bench. I imagine my arm stretching up off the floor, roof-wards, blindly finding (feeling for) the balancing point. This is probably how it happened.
My horizontal shape translates two rooms over. Belly to floor; back to mattress; stomach to stomach. It's all the same.
Your stuff is strewn everywhere (from before I got there, I might clarify). And your bed is bare (also from before I got there). I think about the other people I know who've fucked in this room -- and this bed even -- and revel in being part of this disparate lineage. I feel we've honoured the room's original walls.
Pull out, put on some washing, start again, give up.
Coffee?
We sit in the lounge and watch some cartoon film. The after-chaos calm is interrupted by aggressive thumps coming from the laundry. The washing machine's got a demon in it (or the clothes inside it?). It's throwing itself around the laundry floor, jumping centimeters sideways. I start yelling abuse at it but the old hunk of plastic's not listening to me. STOP. Just stop. STOP. IT.
The same words I'll give myself in the tomorrow hours of today. I will pragmatically organise how to avoid my habits next time. I will make strategies to change the patterns which hold hands with my non-consequence-bearing second reality. Then I will wake up in the morning. It will be sunny. And I will want the door open.
The neighbours came over to let us know that our front door had been left open. Thanks, I said. That's real nice of you to let us know. It wouldn't be so bad if a stranger wandered in and lay next to me for a bit actually. I suppose you have to consider who the type of people would be that might do that, though.
That said, I was quite glad to wake up alone this morning. Somnambulating with sleepless blind to the toilet I thought, 'this will assist my ability to be a normal person around him today.' It does feel like everything that happens at night is void. Especially when you don't have to face it in the morning. Not that it would have been a big deal; I get the feeling he's pretty nonchalant about stuff. We could have some fun, we're going to be good friends, we're going to be good friends. Etcetera.
I make coffee in an attempt to catch up with his MDMA head (which by the way, is the least active of any I've seen - though I suppose he's tall (does that make a difference?) and most of it's going on underneath that perpetual quiet smirk). He rolls a joint from the roaches in his van. And so we meet half way on the kitchen floor.
Kitchen floors are perfect meeting places. Many times I've found myself slumped against the cupboards, drinking tea spiked by the underneath of my liquor-bled tongue and ranting about shit that only makes sense when unspoken.
At parties, people always freak out when I get onto the tea and coffee.
"What are you doing?!" they demand.
I'm threatening their inebriety.
"Bro." The passive-malicious sarcastic, one-syllabled serious face. I am still going to be a million miles ahead of you after three of these, if that's what you're concerned about.
"I like tea, alright. Gimme a break. Got any soy milk? Don't worry, I'll have it black."
So, naturally, when you join me with the kettle, you're on my good side.
"Would you like a straw for your tea?" I ask.
He accepts. Well done.
"Teabag in or out?"
Out. Typical. Everyone wants it out.
"I am going to wear your bucket hat," I tell him.
This is how my belly comes to be pressed against the floor, face shielded by the faux-fisherman costume, fingers woven around the front of the tea mug. The straw describes the gap between my tea and the hat's horizon over my nose and cheeks. A summer cocktail picnic going on at 3:42am in my October kitchen. I see myself from outside, a picture of future-nostalgia.
I don't recall finishing my tea but somehow the empty mug ends up precariously perched on the edge of the bench. I imagine my arm stretching up off the floor, roof-wards, blindly finding (feeling for) the balancing point. This is probably how it happened.
My horizontal shape translates two rooms over. Belly to floor; back to mattress; stomach to stomach. It's all the same.
Your stuff is strewn everywhere (from before I got there, I might clarify). And your bed is bare (also from before I got there). I think about the other people I know who've fucked in this room -- and this bed even -- and revel in being part of this disparate lineage. I feel we've honoured the room's original walls.
Pull out, put on some washing, start again, give up.
Coffee?
We sit in the lounge and watch some cartoon film. The after-chaos calm is interrupted by aggressive thumps coming from the laundry. The washing machine's got a demon in it (or the clothes inside it?). It's throwing itself around the laundry floor, jumping centimeters sideways. I start yelling abuse at it but the old hunk of plastic's not listening to me. STOP. Just stop. STOP. IT.
The same words I'll give myself in the tomorrow hours of today. I will pragmatically organise how to avoid my habits next time. I will make strategies to change the patterns which hold hands with my non-consequence-bearing second reality. Then I will wake up in the morning. It will be sunny. And I will want the door open.
Wednesday, October 24, 2012
I almost crashed yesterday.
I hardly ever get my period (not sure why) but the last couple of times I've had it I've felt drunk (not sure why).
Monday, October 22, 2012
512
5-1-2
is not like 2-1-2
is not like Brooklyn or
New York, wherever that is --
Is not like, "come onstage" and giveaway the game
what are you thinking.
I write small to keep my secrets hidden and
dance small
for the same, ribs
hunched forward over knees, hips bent
I make the perpetual little
"C-shaped" ball, I achieve
... and glance up under my neglected eyelids at
18 year olds, I remember
being not even at you yet, in first
(don't worry about brushing my hair, I
need the human touch) I'm
not really here anyway, really
really -- don't call me doll
I don't like it.
Come on, this is New Zealand
is not like 2-1-2
is not like Brooklyn or
New York, wherever that is --
Is not like, "come onstage" and giveaway the game
what are you thinking.
I write small to keep my secrets hidden and
dance small
for the same, ribs
hunched forward over knees, hips bent
I make the perpetual little
"C-shaped" ball, I achieve
... and glance up under my neglected eyelids at
18 year olds, I remember
being not even at you yet, in first
(don't worry about brushing my hair, I
need the human touch) I'm
not really here anyway, really
really -- don't call me doll
I don't like it.
Come on, this is New Zealand
Saturday, October 20, 2012
should/not
I shouldn't be jealous and
I shouldn't
avoid your
eyes
or stare
I shouldn't
worry about my hair being out of place, I shouldn't
wear short skirts when it's this cold
or recycle my friends' abandoned jackets
and I shouldn't
sit in Myer's Park alone
or buy things I promised myself I
wouldn't.
and I shouldn't be alone
I shouldn't fuck around with other people.
I shouldn't
avoid your
eyes
or stare
I shouldn't
worry about my hair being out of place, I shouldn't
wear short skirts when it's this cold
or recycle my friends' abandoned jackets
and I shouldn't
sit in Myer's Park alone
or buy things I promised myself I
wouldn't.
and I shouldn't be alone
I shouldn't fuck around with other people.
elegantly
I am more concerned about my stoicism than my tears
I want all of my flesh to fall off me
in big chunky flaps
I want my finger knuckles to be apart of my wrists
I'd like to freeze to death, I think.
I want all of my flesh to fall off me
in big chunky flaps
I want my finger knuckles to be apart of my wrists
I'd like to freeze to death, I think.
Q
sufficiently drunk
to write a poem
sufficiently drunk
to get fucked off (about)
your
second-hand smoke
don't cry,
dont cry
you'd think on some seeds
on a 1.8
it'd be better than this
to write a poem
sufficiently drunk
to get fucked off (about)
your
second-hand smoke
don't cry,
dont cry
you'd think on some seeds
on a 1.8
it'd be better than this
Tuesday, October 16, 2012
Sunday, October 14, 2012
The porch has become an interview room
Can I get you a coffee?
etcetera, and
please don't ask me what my hobbies are
seriously
just fuck off
I'm consulting crystals
I'm wetting the backs of my knees
I'm holding down
12 hour toast and tequila shots
running it all under water
/
sweeping it under the carpet, whatever
waking up on Sunday morning feels
hideous
and then
fine
and
then hideous
and what are you up to now, then?
really translating as
how are you going to pay rent?
He'll smoke until they come get him, he says
Is that your car there?
yes and
don't even think about it
aboutitaboutit
my neck is sore as shit
because I was dancing with my hair last night
I took a long and convoluted route home
stopped on the way for a chocolate bar
jumped the fence to spy on the bogan neighbours
and woke up tasting black coffee
Thanks for
listening, any
questions
?
Can I get you a coffee?
etcetera, and
please don't ask me what my hobbies are
seriously
just fuck off
I'm consulting crystals
I'm wetting the backs of my knees
I'm holding down
12 hour toast and tequila shots
running it all under water
/
sweeping it under the carpet, whatever
waking up on Sunday morning feels
hideous
and then
fine
and
then hideous
and what are you up to now, then?
really translating as
how are you going to pay rent?
He'll smoke until they come get him, he says
Is that your car there?
yes and
don't even think about it
aboutitaboutit
my neck is sore as shit
because I was dancing with my hair last night
I took a long and convoluted route home
stopped on the way for a chocolate bar
jumped the fence to spy on the bogan neighbours
and woke up tasting black coffee
Thanks for
listening, any
questions
?
Thursday, October 11, 2012
call time
gonna play dress ups just coz
wear hearts on my wrist
channel the tutu without
with-actually-in
gonna sit outside some theatrical joint
sip coffee
inhale secondhand smoke
and cark a dramatic
yet entertaining
death
wear hearts on my wrist
channel the tutu without
with-actually-in
gonna sit outside some theatrical joint
sip coffee
inhale secondhand smoke
and cark a dramatic
yet entertaining
death
Wednesday, October 10, 2012
there's probably a better word than 'hate', but
I hate how people look down when you cross paths on the street because it's awkward to look another human being in the eye
and I hate how I lack the courage to do anything different from everyone else
Tuesday, October 9, 2012
2800 hours
so the porch has turned into
a speed-dating scene
where fucking begins in your head
abscessed eye-tag
left over wine bottles
badly rolled cigarettes that won't light and then
burn
too quick
fuck
one porch chair hurls the occupant out onto
the street
the other
is rigid as hell
and not useful for breaking in, apparently
this summer's going to be a
fun one, isn't it?!
with washing machines that hate duvets
and try to throw them out like possessed industrial hunks of plastic
OH WAIT THEY ARE
I suppose at least, ideally, I'll spend the summer elsewhere anyhow
cups collecting flies stains ash
(I don't smoke
by the way)
if you didn't like the wine then geez, just say so
no need to break a face
I've taken to smiling at strangers in the street
I figure they need it
I figure I need it
but seriously
geez
if you're gentleman enough to
smoke outside
then be gentleman enough to leave me alone
and if you've made your mind up about
company
about six rolling into seven
then you just talk straight, ok?
because your pretending just
fucks me right off
(and then I made some generic comment about men being
persistent
predictable
oh its soo unfaiirrrrrrr, whined my brain)
I've taken to smiling at strangers in the street
but I can only do it if the right song is sleeping in my ears
I need my ego to mask my ego
I smile at women too
I think they like it
a speed-dating scene
where fucking begins in your head
abscessed eye-tag
left over wine bottles
badly rolled cigarettes that won't light and then
burn
too quick
fuck
one porch chair hurls the occupant out onto
the street
the other
is rigid as hell
and not useful for breaking in, apparently
this summer's going to be a
fun one, isn't it?!
with washing machines that hate duvets
and try to throw them out like possessed industrial hunks of plastic
OH WAIT THEY ARE
I suppose at least, ideally, I'll spend the summer elsewhere anyhow
cups collecting flies stains ash
(I don't smoke
by the way)
if you didn't like the wine then geez, just say so
no need to break a face
I've taken to smiling at strangers in the street
I figure they need it
I figure I need it
but seriously
geez
if you're gentleman enough to
smoke outside
then be gentleman enough to leave me alone
and if you've made your mind up about
company
about six rolling into seven
then you just talk straight, ok?
because your pretending just
fucks me right off
(and then I made some generic comment about men being
persistent
predictable
oh its soo unfaiirrrrrrr, whined my brain)
I've taken to smiling at strangers in the street
but I can only do it if the right song is sleeping in my ears
I need my ego to mask my ego
I smile at women too
I think they like it
Friday, October 5, 2012
brooklyn's getting to me, baby
I just duns even care eh
if there's holes in my stock
ings
Yeah I am pretty poor
and a little bit scabby
A bit shit
but that's not why there's ripsin
my clothes
My left temple is mapping blues where I
bashed my face into a small chair
I didn't get inna fight
that's not why i wear the colour purple
and that's notwhy
I have
holes in my stockings, either
I just like 'em that way, okay?
Makes me feel a little bit rock'n'roll
A little bit
fucked up
And that's what we all wannabe
right?
if there's holes in my stock
ings
Yeah I am pretty poor
and a little bit scabby
A bit shit
but that's not why there's ripsin
my clothes
My left temple is mapping blues where I
bashed my face into a small chair
I didn't get inna fight
that's not why i wear the colour purple
and that's notwhy
I have
holes in my stockings, either
I just like 'em that way, okay?
Makes me feel a little bit rock'n'roll
A little bit
fucked up
And that's what we all wannabe
right?
Thursday, October 4, 2012
appearing normal whilst making friends
Last week we performed a show in Christchurch. The review is here and I reckon it's alright eh. It's going to be in Auckland Fringe Festival too (the show, not the review) so tell ALL YOUR BROS.
This is a snazzy promo pic taken by Blair McTaggart:
Sofia McIntyre, Sarah Elsworth, Emi Pogoni and Ruby Reihana-Wilson are cool.
This is a snazzy promo pic taken by Blair McTaggart:
Sofia McIntyre, Sarah Elsworth, Emi Pogoni and Ruby Reihana-Wilson are cool.
Wednesday, October 3, 2012
(meanwhile)
Wearing your jumper (and) sitting on your chair (and) drinking from your mug (and) shutting your windows (and) eating your bread (and) meanwhile not associating any of these things with you.
Tuesday, October 2, 2012
3.8
The house jumped.
Lurched off its foundations.
Forced me 1.2 centimetres taller.
Ever so slightly increased the cracks
in the tiles
in the ceiling
in the skirting board
in the basin.
"Did you feel that?", she asked me.
"Yes," I said, my leg dangled off the edge of the bed.
Then we both went back to sleep.
Lurched off its foundations.
Forced me 1.2 centimetres taller.
Ever so slightly increased the cracks
in the tiles
in the ceiling
in the skirting board
in the basin.
"Did you feel that?", she asked me.
"Yes," I said, my leg dangled off the edge of the bed.
Then we both went back to sleep.
in-orientation
put me in a sequinned glitter-jacket
sit me on a bike
and pedal me somewhere
send me over the bridge, on my own
hold your headphones over my ears
adjust them a little too tight
make me hard of hearing
arrange me horizontal against the gravel roads
press your whole weight into me
walk between the cars and the railing, drag me
hold a hot torch over my leg's atlased bruises
sit me on your front porch
disregard the neighbours
force feed me consecutive coffee cups
make me stutter
remind me where the ground is
tell me I slept funny
the moon and the
house jumping
read me excerpts from last exit to brooklyn
ask me how many hours there are in a day
carve words into me
force me to cut my nails
drive me to crooked rivers
wake me up at 4.35am
don't give me excuses
sit me in the overgrown garden
push me over the fence
arrange me vertical
tell me to fuck off when you're sick of me
tell me to stop smoking
when I'm drunk
roll me a joint
forget to reply
if you're drinking
arrange me vertical
drive me out to gravel roads
forget how many hours
make excuses
carve words into my lungs
arrange me under the bridge
make conversation in the middle of the night
make conversation with the people whose heads are down
roll me a joint
on your front porch
on your rooftop
tell me to quit dreaming
read me excerpts from your paperbacks
press your whole weight into me --
your whole weight
send me on my own
tell me to fuck off
de-wheel the bike
walk into the cars, into the kerb
put me in a sequinned jacket,
pedal me somewhere
Wednesday, September 12, 2012
bpm
I'm pretty certain that I could stop time around this darker hour, if I wanted to. Like, I could just think about slowing the world down and it would comply. Like the boy who slowed his heartbeat: "I can make my heart beat slower," he said. I put my ear underneath his collarbone, to document the evidence. And he did. He made his heart beat slower.
"Take the day off work", he said.
"I can't," said I.
I didn't.
"I hope you're not doing anything naughty," joked my boss the day before Labour Day. You wouldn't understand, I thought. Culture clash. Then I went and committed the one act I regret.
"You look a lot better than I do", he yawned from his catafalque of a mattress. He smelt vaguely of whiskey as I pressed my nose into his scapula. "Yes," I said, "I had a shower." And I'm wearing make-up. Oh, and I used your soap. I hope that's ok.
"I wish we could have breakfast," confessed the back of his blonde head to the almost-empty room. I picked up underwear up off the floor and laughed at myself. I've never been one to like blonde boys. Not before and not since. This is ridiculous.
My 'mature' self would scold my coming-of-age foolishness. Live a little more recklessly, she would say. No, she would say: If you're going to be reckless, do it with full commitment. Don't chicken out in the morning.
Oh yes, I would rather betray the people I love than the part time job I don't even need. I had four grand in the bank, that year. Spot on, teacher - I am so accommodating. Fitting where it doesn't count and resisting all goodness til the end. Resisting sleep and welcoming bursting stomachs. Lack of sleep leads to an early demise, my mother threatened. Fuck off, I said. Fuck off.
Then I threw a plate through the window. Did I prove my point?
I slept with the weather spitting at me for two nights and then I invested in some masking tape. On the fifth day I emptied my savings account. With resent. Picked out an aesthetically pleasing piece of sharp and tried to dig it into my right thigh. But I really hate pain. I do. I didn't get very far. I probably scratched out two layers of seven skins. What a joke.
Laughing at myself, collecting the night before off his floor.
So I paid twice, in the end.
I paid to drive the winding hills of some place I couldn't pronounce. I listened to my favourite songs in alphabetical order. I resisted sleep and substituted it for make up. I substituted sense for a fleeting Hollywood score.
What's the score, dear Nathaniel? Dear Nathalia? My dear, my dear. Oh dear...
The rain gave me a fright when it finally came. I swear it put the house in motion. It ushered the car across the white lines (briefly). It snaked its way onto my bedsheets through the masked hole. Clutching my little transparent triangle, there sat I. Whispering, go slower. Go slower. Go slower.
"Take the day off work", he said.
"I can't," said I.
I didn't.
"I hope you're not doing anything naughty," joked my boss the day before Labour Day. You wouldn't understand, I thought. Culture clash. Then I went and committed the one act I regret.
"You look a lot better than I do", he yawned from his catafalque of a mattress. He smelt vaguely of whiskey as I pressed my nose into his scapula. "Yes," I said, "I had a shower." And I'm wearing make-up. Oh, and I used your soap. I hope that's ok.
"I wish we could have breakfast," confessed the back of his blonde head to the almost-empty room. I picked up underwear up off the floor and laughed at myself. I've never been one to like blonde boys. Not before and not since. This is ridiculous.
My 'mature' self would scold my coming-of-age foolishness. Live a little more recklessly, she would say. No, she would say: If you're going to be reckless, do it with full commitment. Don't chicken out in the morning.
Oh yes, I would rather betray the people I love than the part time job I don't even need. I had four grand in the bank, that year. Spot on, teacher - I am so accommodating. Fitting where it doesn't count and resisting all goodness til the end. Resisting sleep and welcoming bursting stomachs. Lack of sleep leads to an early demise, my mother threatened. Fuck off, I said. Fuck off.
Then I threw a plate through the window. Did I prove my point?
I slept with the weather spitting at me for two nights and then I invested in some masking tape. On the fifth day I emptied my savings account. With resent. Picked out an aesthetically pleasing piece of sharp and tried to dig it into my right thigh. But I really hate pain. I do. I didn't get very far. I probably scratched out two layers of seven skins. What a joke.
Laughing at myself, collecting the night before off his floor.
So I paid twice, in the end.
I paid to drive the winding hills of some place I couldn't pronounce. I listened to my favourite songs in alphabetical order. I resisted sleep and substituted it for make up. I substituted sense for a fleeting Hollywood score.
What's the score, dear Nathaniel? Dear Nathalia? My dear, my dear. Oh dear...
The rain gave me a fright when it finally came. I swear it put the house in motion. It ushered the car across the white lines (briefly). It snaked its way onto my bedsheets through the masked hole. Clutching my little transparent triangle, there sat I. Whispering, go slower. Go slower. Go slower.
Monday, September 10, 2012
The candle by my bed is a graveyard for anything that needs burning. Empty muffin cases and used matches and forgotten hand-writing. Sometimes the light springs from the glass cylinder it sits in, reaching up towards the electric light. I worry it might catch fire but not enough to put it out. I sit the waiting box of matches right next to it and wonder what would happen if the whole thing flamed.
The mangled plastic around it which holds my high school emblem reeks. It reeks like that plastic-furred orange jacket you burnt outside in the barzier. The burning which made the neighbours come over to check if we were O.K. at number 11. Yes, we're fine thank you. So fine we'll run away to the second-best, almost-here land. Malnourished and burned.
Which came first, I wonder?
Maybe I'll take the legs off my bed and live low-life like you. I am very good at wanting everything. I want each thing exactly when it suits me. I want the damn cupcake paper to catch alight and settle with the wick, but it keeps burning itself out.
When it finally catches, it stinks fucking awful. Oh, we're really raging now. Orange jumping up the wall. Reflecting in the green. I came green into this house and stunk my lungs out this same colour. From bright hyper-pink bathwater holders. Left the evidence out to be ignored by new flatmates. Is it ok to inhale aluminium? Probably not. You know what else I am good at? Getting fucked up and then waking up early without effect.
I don't know why I want the dark so much when I was raised on light. When I have this incessant need to see.
My pillowcases are near turned black now. There's wax all up the wall - it looks like spilled beer. I wonder if anyone's ever fallen asleep with their candle on?
The mangled plastic around it which holds my high school emblem reeks. It reeks like that plastic-furred orange jacket you burnt outside in the barzier. The burning which made the neighbours come over to check if we were O.K. at number 11. Yes, we're fine thank you. So fine we'll run away to the second-best, almost-here land. Malnourished and burned.
Which came first, I wonder?
Maybe I'll take the legs off my bed and live low-life like you. I am very good at wanting everything. I want each thing exactly when it suits me. I want the damn cupcake paper to catch alight and settle with the wick, but it keeps burning itself out.
When it finally catches, it stinks fucking awful. Oh, we're really raging now. Orange jumping up the wall. Reflecting in the green. I came green into this house and stunk my lungs out this same colour. From bright hyper-pink bathwater holders. Left the evidence out to be ignored by new flatmates. Is it ok to inhale aluminium? Probably not. You know what else I am good at? Getting fucked up and then waking up early without effect.
I don't know why I want the dark so much when I was raised on light. When I have this incessant need to see.
My pillowcases are near turned black now. There's wax all up the wall - it looks like spilled beer. I wonder if anyone's ever fallen asleep with their candle on?
Sunday, September 9, 2012
the long roping lines of you
coiling down between the sternum-met lines of me
coiling into my neck, waist, etcetera
my legs making triangles against the under-surface
(she said, it's unlike you to have a blue blanket
- that's a very strange observation for someone to make)
...I don't know what shape yours make
your legs, I mean
maybe triangles in some other orientation?
you are the second one to use my second name
the second to un-make the bed
"just wait a second" --
the second with knotted thinkings
not only are we the wrong way around, sleeping
but we are the wrong way around in seasons
coiling down between the sternum-met lines of me
coiling into my neck, waist, etcetera
my legs making triangles against the under-surface
(she said, it's unlike you to have a blue blanket
- that's a very strange observation for someone to make)
...I don't know what shape yours make
your legs, I mean
maybe triangles in some other orientation?
you are the second one to use my second name
the second to un-make the bed
"just wait a second" --
the second with knotted thinkings
not only are we the wrong way around, sleeping
but we are the wrong way around in seasons
Monday, September 3, 2012
Saturday, September 1, 2012
tonight
subordinate sub-drone
sending shockwaves through my nasal passages
that familiar K' Rd pizza-pussy stench
stretched and scathed skin along
rickety-textured footpaths
we're all in bright-warm Amber-orange here
I want dirt on my walls
under my nails
food stuck to my feet
I want immaculate cleanliness
and
immaculate timing. Immaculate
adrenaline through my veins
(the ran kind), signed -
I want to be chased by choice-danger
I want Hollywood movies made of me
I want drug-run order in the daytime
sleepy chaos at night
and another's head when it suits me.
sending shockwaves through my nasal passages
that familiar K' Rd pizza-pussy stench
stretched and scathed skin along
rickety-textured footpaths
we're all in bright-warm Amber-orange here
I want dirt on my walls
under my nails
food stuck to my feet
I want immaculate cleanliness
and
immaculate timing. Immaculate
adrenaline through my veins
(the ran kind), signed -
I want to be chased by choice-danger
I want Hollywood movies made of me
I want drug-run order in the daytime
sleepy chaos at night
and another's head when it suits me.
Tuesday, August 28, 2012
rotate / circle pt. II
crazy --
bathroom cupboard
topside down
inside up-down, out
bottoms off first
feels backwards
rushed
photo-esque
bottom out
bottomless
next door neighbour thinks you're beautiful
is meddling
is jealous
is watching you yogayoga
'cross the road
curtains never shut
windows open like usual, if I could
bury us all
bury this
bury all
burial
running to cunt-mouthed lyrics
dancing to filthy rhythms
running, to dancing
running is not dancing
everything is dancing
"Everything. Is dancing."
dancing, is dancing
running to the world
from the world
the world is running, round
round itself
like a dog chasing its own tail
this planet never stops
bathroom cupboard
topside down
inside up-down, out
bottoms off first
feels backwards
rushed
photo-esque
bottom out
bottomless
next door neighbour thinks you're beautiful
is meddling
is jealous
is watching you yogayoga
'cross the road
curtains never shut
windows open like usual, if I could
bury us all
bury this
bury all
burial
running to cunt-mouthed lyrics
dancing to filthy rhythms
running, to dancing
running is not dancing
everything is dancing
"Everything. Is dancing."
dancing, is dancing
running to the world
from the world
the world is running, round
round itself
like a dog chasing its own tail
this planet never stops
"I'm ok with doing bad things sometimes," he said.
I am starting to believe
that there are not good and bad people
only good and bad actions.
that there are not good and bad people
only good and bad actions.
Sunday, August 26, 2012
Friday, August 17, 2012
Sunday, August 12, 2012
CPR
plastic-coated
chest-clicking
antiseptic-smeared
unlegged, unarmed
danger-spied
flesh-eyed
hole-eared
"practice-makes-perfect"
unresponsive/unconscious
tatter-bagg'd
schoolboy-battered
tube-veined
hinge-necked
"for training only"
Dummies
chest-clicking
antiseptic-smeared
unlegged, unarmed
danger-spied
flesh-eyed
hole-eared
"practice-makes-perfect"
unresponsive/unconscious
tatter-bagg'd
schoolboy-battered
tube-veined
hinge-necked
"for training only"
Dummies
wed 9 - 8 - 12
Slightly second-hand morning pages (I don't know what this means - I'm tired, this morning). On six and a half - the usual, but breaking two goodnights' trend. "You look fresher," she said...
Grey day, outside. Looks like dead-centre winter becoming night time.
I can feel that I am overflowing with one of the first regular attempts at new life. Was it the spinach I ate? Insides trying desperately to escape, flushing themselves out from between my legs. Little bubbles falling out of me.
Feels like it might rain.
Door-knocking.
Sad glove-bandage curled up in a bed as I arrive back from too-skinny-legged, shorts-wearing, blue-jacketed, power-meter-reading, "have a top day!" Mister.
And a text from Johnny.
More bubbling through the legs.
Get up. Change yourself. Change.
Oh students, new household - why are you so routine? I don't like being alone. I want to be alone, but with company. Other pulses and bloods flowing through neighbouring brains and exchanging of ideas through the walls.
Curled up like a munchkin under a blanket. Trying to write warm things to be comfortable.
I'm living with someone I've never met. I have slept next door to a stranger.
Don't act so shocked.
And now, the other end.
Good morning.
no ballet, just curtains
There is drool all down the left side of my face. My sleep was that good.
No dreams with an alarm - only resent.
Pelvis is tipping involuntarily with full bladder and damp underwear - the bubbling out of me apparently stopped but the night's emptying still sitting there.
I can hear everyone else getting ready for the day. Feel like this is my one chance to be with them, these new busy bodies. GET UP! Haven't seen Mikey in a few days, I should text him saying "Are you alive?!" Words which instantly bring a Blindspott song to my head.
Everyone's heading to Australia for Soundwave. And I say, why? Which instantly brings Tahi's dialogue from Awatea into my head.
No ballet, just curtains. What is going on.
Good morning.
Get up now.
No dreams with an alarm - only resent.
Pelvis is tipping involuntarily with full bladder and damp underwear - the bubbling out of me apparently stopped but the night's emptying still sitting there.
I can hear everyone else getting ready for the day. Feel like this is my one chance to be with them, these new busy bodies. GET UP! Haven't seen Mikey in a few days, I should text him saying "Are you alive?!" Words which instantly bring a Blindspott song to my head.
Everyone's heading to Australia for Soundwave. And I say, why? Which instantly brings Tahi's dialogue from Awatea into my head.
No ballet, just curtains. What is going on.
Good morning.
Get up now.
accidental composition
1,000,001 thinkings before we even get set up
before pen hits paper
before blanket sealing head warmth is...
before revolutionary discovery
that angling towards writing hand --
is easier
Found yourself in a poem, did we.
I guess stream of consciousness
has some mild, pre-determined arrangement.
before pen hits paper
before blanket sealing head warmth is...
before revolutionary discovery
that angling towards writing hand --
is easier
Found yourself in a poem, did we.
I guess stream of consciousness
has some mild, pre-determined arrangement.
Saturday, August 11, 2012
saint kevin's
I just sat in your place, David. I hope this is ok with you. I'm not buying a book but you don't have any to sell. It's ok, I'll just write my own.
Just worried, is all, that my stockings might rip on your unfinished edges. They're my last unholy pair, you see.
I'm next to your friend. He's knocking back and beyond the point of pretending to hide it. "Don't worry," I looked to him. "I'm not condemning it."
Just worried, is all, that my stockings might rip on your unfinished edges. They're my last unholy pair, you see.
I'm next to your friend. He's knocking back and beyond the point of pretending to hide it. "Don't worry," I looked to him. "I'm not condemning it."
Friday, August 10, 2012
"goodnight"
I want to
have:
your
eyes, set
three-to-five meters in front of you
cutting sharp
perpendicular lines past me, in
front of me
next to my own vision
your height is lightly settled into that
small
gap between us
thinking about something unsaid
and very certain of it
that vision of
wise
integrity, which
cuts through the multi-toned floorboards
the pensive furrow
I don't
see, but
feel
which speaks of some other
generation
most of them
(when looking)
flash
between
boy-and-man ...
you had others, but
more like
this part
and that
part
myself morphing, too
you are a good colour
sort of like the floorboards
how they are all shades of earthy
and of another time
but equally
present
have:
your
eyes, set
three-to-five meters in front of you
cutting sharp
perpendicular lines past me, in
front of me
next to my own vision
your height is lightly settled into that
small
gap between us
thinking about something unsaid
and very certain of it
that vision of
wise
integrity, which
cuts through the multi-toned floorboards
the pensive furrow
I don't
see, but
feel
which speaks of some other
generation
most of them
(when looking)
flash
between
boy-and-man ...
you had others, but
more like
this part
and that
part
myself morphing, too
you are a good colour
sort of like the floorboards
how they are all shades of earthy
and of another time
but equally
present
Wednesday, August 8, 2012
body
like someone has
stuck
two thick
38mm
rigid poles
inside
the
outsides
of my legs, one
horizontally through my
back
and turned them all
80 degrees
counter-clockwise
stuck
two thick
38mm
rigid poles
inside
the
outsides
of my legs, one
horizontally through my
back
and turned them all
80 degrees
counter-clockwise
atomy
same old
left-handed cracking
complaints from the joint which is
quick to accuse
I consulted the book
it said,
"refusal to move with ease."
left-handed cracking
complaints from the joint which is
quick to accuse
I consulted the book
it said,
"refusal to move with ease."
Sunday, August 5, 2012
turn over
turn over:
new faces
new furniture
new bottles in the shower
new food on the wonky shelves
new names on the post
re-arrangement, re-placement, re-designating, re-designing
so that the last four weeks
seem a flicker of fantasy
that vague recollection of dreams which might be reality
all the spirits in the sock graveyard resurrected
worms from the under-earth wriggling up into this world
the only clues of the immediate past:
the rubbish bins overflowing
new faces
new furniture
new bottles in the shower
new food on the wonky shelves
new names on the post
re-arrangement, re-placement, re-designating, re-designing
so that the last four weeks
seem a flicker of fantasy
that vague recollection of dreams which might be reality
all the spirits in the sock graveyard resurrected
worms from the under-earth wriggling up into this world
the only clues of the immediate past:
the rubbish bins overflowing
Saturday, August 4, 2012
Wednesday, August 1, 2012
after you left
After you left, I left our
half-empty teacups in my room. For a bit. One and a half days – until it killed
me to have them out of place any longer.
Back to the kitchen bench the
teacups went. Water emptied out (for in this instance they were cups of water,
not tea: the pragmatic markings of dry Sunday-morning mouths; the coarse mouths
markings of Saturday nights becoming such mornings; and such nights, mornings,
implying everything blurred inbetween). Swished through the soapsuds and into
the un-shutting cupboard.
I imagine some stranger
entering the room might assume the teacups were deliberately placed there. To
catch mid-winter drips from the flecked-white ceilings. This is the story they
would invent from the left teacups. Dust mote, post-exhale drips into the
teal-rimmed china.
But actually, just left distractedly
in unconfigured locations. Then left longer for nostalgia’s sake … But not much
longer. Just. Barely.
I left the sheets twisted through
each other. A heap of linen shoved against the wall. Redundant. For a bit; one
and half days … Then, I washed one sheet and re-dressed the other. I didn’t
change the pillow cases. I thought about it, but I didn’t. I thought about
bringing the red blanket inside from out of my car. But I couldn’t be bothered. Yes, I underestimated how cold it was going to get.
For a few hours I left Thursday lunch's unused
serviettes in my bag. Then I threw them out. These don’t have a story, I told myself. You can’t hoard everything.
I went to work and ushered
for Awatea. The actors talked about
“Gisbourne” and “Auckland”. Sitting alone in the dark, I thought
matter-of-factly: These two places Hold Meaning for me now. I imagined
going home and feeling Very Alone, so after work I phoned a friend. I went home,
washed my face, changed out of my work clothes, ate a piece of toast (white,
yours, with tomato and Olivani), sat on my bed briefly, re-did my make-up,
re-packed my handbag, re-analysed the situation and realised –
I don’t actually need to be
with anyone in this exact moment. Or want to.
(The same feeling as being a-top Mt. Eden, alone. With a take-away dinner after dance class. Alone, by choice. Alone with the city.)
But I went out anyway. Got petrol. Avoided buying coffee. Felt out of place, felt frustrated that nothing
operates on the same schedule as me. Regretted not getting coffee.
Re-considered the coffee. Found myself unable to buy coffee (or anything for that
matter, as the only bar open had closed service – at which point a drink had
become a redundant desire anyway) … made myself at home, felt at home, felt like
I wanted to be at home, felt good about being with my friend, felt infatuated,
felt young and silly (are they the same thing?) … felt selfish, felt sleepy,
fell asleep – almost. Declared it was home time, was simultanesouly ushered
home by the bar staff, drove dangerously, distractedly, erratically. Felt out
of place, felt frustrated that nothing operates on the same schedule as me (including
my body which by that point was refusing to keep up) … arrived home, felt
simultanesouly out of place (out of order) and content and – much to my surprise – less lonely
than anticipated. Heard a knock on the door, answered it. Stood in the doorframe and watched my
(remaining) flatmate eat hot chips, briefly. Put myself to bed between one
clean sheet and one recycled sheet. Slept.
When I woke up I stepped over
the teal-rimmed teacup and marked through my morning routine. Worried passively
about how settled I felt. Went to work. Recalled you several too many times,
while still feeling reasonably unaffected. Wondered if the weight of your absence would cascade into me
later. It didn't.
Went home, walked to other
work – Awatea, again. Thought about
you, again. Felt like I wanted to stay up all night being productive. Did. Went
to sleep at 3.35am. Slept through going to class. Didn’t feel guilty. Woke up
to sunshine. Vaccumed your empty room and removed the bed. Used it as a
make-shift dance studio. Anticipated going away. Anticipated “dancing”.
Anticipated “The Future.” Felt young and not silly. Felt like being productive.
Felt like it was nearing Christmas, despite it being July.
And then I left. Not like you
left, but I left. Drove down to the coast opposite yours. Well, not exactly
opposite, but on the opposite side. Twisted back into twelve months ago.
Fifty-four months ago. Christmas Day 2009 (so, that is why Christmas is
resurrected in my mid-winter mind). Executing my own version of time-travelling (I don't think I like it). I knew how cold it was going to get so I
came prepared. I wore something once yours.
The wooden floors here remind
me of my new room. And it’s not a big deal, but all the teacups are much too small for my liking.
Sunday, July 29, 2012
"good morning"
I want
to be sitting
upright
in the dark, with you
and
your face --
Not sleeping.
I want
to be
upside down
wrong way round
feet on non-pillows
a-wake-ing --
And you.
I want
time-traveling
time-warping
non-chronological
non-logical
nonsensical
"what is she doing?"
tree-top conversations:
Mad.
Pierced by ancient spears
my dear, is my dear --
drape your thoughts over me.
I could go on about your
myth'd eyes, but
your hands
and
your shoulders
and
your smile
and
your bringing me toast
are even nicer.
to be sitting
upright
in the dark, with you
and
your face --
Not sleeping.
I want
to be
upside down
wrong way round
feet on non-pillows
a-wake-ing --
And you.
I want
time-traveling
time-warping
non-chronological
non-logical
nonsensical
"what is she doing?"
tree-top conversations:
Mad.
Pierced by ancient spears
my dear, is my dear --
drape your thoughts over me.
I could go on about your
myth'd eyes, but
your hands
and
your shoulders
and
your smile
and
your bringing me toast
are even nicer.
Tuesday, July 24, 2012
concerto K543
I recall, looking at my own lap, that characters costumed in purple will die. This is what Year 12 English taught me. By accident, I am also wearing purple. A much darker shade than your roses, though.
I see the gaping space and silence and know it must be yours. How fitting. What I really want to do, from minutes 2-6, is stand up and announce all your secrets (which in part, I suppose, are now mine). So that they will know, and be confronted with it alongside your awesomeness. How can they deny what they are seeing right in front of them? It seems like the perfect delusional plan. Then. Then they will HAVE to accept.
Oh no, we don't fit in here. But you fit there, so seamlessly. Not when you are un-still. Not with your fingernails clawing at your death-silks. But absolutely when your left hand is scribing the air up around your face. Yes, you fit where the assertion bulges through your profile neck and jaw. The shape is correct, with your listening back and eyes closing as if per script. There are parts which are yours, and you. Borrowed parts. Parts from elsewhere, also.
Nearly dropped into sleep, I see there is still mud on my shoes.
There is a choreography of violin bows spiking the air above your head. The conductor tries to turn her head towards you, but can never quite. Everyone is looking at you and is blind.
I see the gaping space and silence and know it must be yours. How fitting. What I really want to do, from minutes 2-6, is stand up and announce all your secrets (which in part, I suppose, are now mine). So that they will know, and be confronted with it alongside your awesomeness. How can they deny what they are seeing right in front of them? It seems like the perfect delusional plan. Then. Then they will HAVE to accept.
Oh no, we don't fit in here. But you fit there, so seamlessly. Not when you are un-still. Not with your fingernails clawing at your death-silks. But absolutely when your left hand is scribing the air up around your face. Yes, you fit where the assertion bulges through your profile neck and jaw. The shape is correct, with your listening back and eyes closing as if per script. There are parts which are yours, and you. Borrowed parts. Parts from elsewhere, also.
Nearly dropped into sleep, I see there is still mud on my shoes.
There is a choreography of violin bows spiking the air above your head. The conductor tries to turn her head towards you, but can never quite. Everyone is looking at you and is blind.
Monday, July 23, 2012
take two; five
On Friday someone told me I was lovely instead of the other way around.
On Saturday I stood waiting my turn in class and saw down the end of the room (seated) a stranger friend. Audience.
Thought I, "I know him." And some long minutes later realised what I knew: The way he cradled his knees; spoke with a New York accent; shadowed his face in long dark dreadlocks. I thought of the last time I showed up to class with messy bedsheets. Thought of how incongruous this made mee feel to a place of rigor, routine, reputation...
This particular Saturday, the messy bedsheets seemed fitting. Suited, in fact, to the onstage wrestle, hair tugging, indulgence, story telling. This place of routine now a place of something past. And what felt out of place now routine.
On Saturday I stood waiting my turn in class and saw down the end of the room (seated) a stranger friend. Audience.
Thought I, "I know him." And some long minutes later realised what I knew: The way he cradled his knees; spoke with a New York accent; shadowed his face in long dark dreadlocks. I thought of the last time I showed up to class with messy bedsheets. Thought of how incongruous this made mee feel to a place of rigor, routine, reputation...
This particular Saturday, the messy bedsheets seemed fitting. Suited, in fact, to the onstage wrestle, hair tugging, indulgence, story telling. This place of routine now a place of something past. And what felt out of place now routine.
Friday, July 20, 2012
I ate an egg last night.
It was the first egg I've eaten in 7 months.
It was from my friend's farm and was a "Legit Egg".
There was a piece of grass and some feather stuck to it and everything.
I took the grass and feather off and hard-boiled it.
It was a good-tasting egg.
But I don't feel like I miss eggs.
It was the first egg I've eaten in 7 months.
It was from my friend's farm and was a "Legit Egg".
There was a piece of grass and some feather stuck to it and everything.
I took the grass and feather off and hard-boiled it.
It was a good-tasting egg.
But I don't feel like I miss eggs.
Tuesday, July 17, 2012
just to eat pretzel bread (oh, and dance)
there for
long enough
to know
I will
go back
there
for long enough
to get the jokes on the t-shirts
there
for long enough
to see familiar corners
in movie scenes
there for long enough
to call it
'home'
there
for long enough
to walk
uptown
to
downtown
there for
long enough
to find
pseudo-love
(night love,
$35 dollar entry love)
and
platonic love
and
in-love:
city love
with love, love
and there for long enough
to feel
the political charge
there
for long enough
to walk
long enough
long brooklyn bridge
manhattan to
the other side
there for
long enough to know
I wasn't there
long enough
and therefore
there long enough
to know
I will
before long
be back
long enough
to know
I will
go back
there
for long enough
to get the jokes on the t-shirts
there
for long enough
to see familiar corners
in movie scenes
there for long enough
to call it
'home'
there
for long enough
to walk
uptown
to
downtown
there for
long enough
to find
pseudo-love
(night love,
$35 dollar entry love)
and
platonic love
and
in-love:
city love
with love, love
and there for long enough
to feel
the political charge
there
for long enough
to walk
long enough
long brooklyn bridge
manhattan to
the other side
there for
long enough to know
I wasn't there
long enough
and therefore
there long enough
to know
I will
before long
be back
Saturday, July 14, 2012
Friday, July 6, 2012
Wednesday, July 4, 2012
here is a lesson
All photography with thanks to Blair McTaggart.
Sofia McIntyre and Sarah Elsworth are cool.
Oh, and so is Caleb Wright.
Sofia McIntyre and Sarah Elsworth are cool.
Oh, and so is Caleb Wright.
nooo you no drink your coffee I jump on yoooouuu
oOOOoooOOoooOoooOoo ghost RARR
wheee I jumpa round do things you two leany, ok?
oh-er .. not sure eh.
yeah just gonna look slightly crazy do shit on the bars eh nice yellow purple you cool
sarah fix her toppy in the bg
ohhh you wanna do that face now? ok
whatchu tuu bin caught doin', huh?
yeah I flash jumpy thing you two just look nice ok
nooo leave me loneeee ooone oooone
THREE
ouch no grabby my hair I doing dance thing yes you be staunch lady
AAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH LISTENNNNN
don't fucking DRINK YOUR COFFEEEE LISTEN TO ME WORLD
Oh she says so much with that face of hers
please news lady we take our picture with you just do yo thang ok cool fanguu byeee
I jumpy on you Sof-eye-ahh
yessmm we have more exciting lives than you
except equally as shit
and no money
cool
beauties holding each other up in the street
and holding each other back
no UP get up girl YOU ARE ALIVE
no one sees me if I blend in
I like my legs
lean sideways
ok
two red twinnies
though I am orange
we are on a rubbish bin
but you can't see that
NZ is rugby country
hello, niced to meat you yes I am normal and boring
no but seriously
sarah has a very buoyant pelvis
I told her this
she laughed
no really, you do
Stop it.
Just stop it, ok.
We are making a show and it looks something like this except in a theatre, not in a sreet.
Look everyone, I keep telling you, you have to wait a few months, ok?
Dance is not a magicky something
it is very, very difficult.
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