"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.

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.

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.

Even though Monday is my Sunday, I still feel guilty that all I've done today is fucked, eaten pancakes and had a shower.

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.

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

I think the problem is:
There is a bit of everything in me
And so although there is 'balance'
I fit (in my entirety)
NoWhere.

Yea there is a beer in my car door (driver's side)
It's been there for ages
Don't judge me

I don't ever ever want to have to sleep ugghhh

cigarette duet

Listen.

here is a lesson

All photography with thanks to Blair McTaggart.
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.

I keep feeling pleasantly surprised by how happy I am. How it's not that fleeting, elated kind of happiness but a more passive, sustainable happiness.

mid day

Fucked up
just to
occupy myself.
It's a somnambulant place
otherwise -
this world.

yeah

It's like
I mean, like
like...
like, y'know?
Like, we all just--
We're all like
...

and then, like
like
I like
like, people, y'know?
like I like things like
people things

like, people
Oh!
People
like, they're like--
and just like--
woah.

People.

I like
and you like
like, we're all like
Oh, I like !
and then we all like
and then we all, like--
like
just like, like each other

...
y'know?

everyone else is where I want to be and I'm doing it better

Your eyes
are sunk like
blue-yellow-green
inside seashell
dusk storm
mac monitor light
colour

Or like
you haven't eaten red meat for a month
and not taken supplements
and stayed up all night watching YouTube
(you have, you do, do you?)

Like,
let's go run around the globe
a quick jog for tired under-eyes

I don't want this sleepy country.

No, I want this country, but I
want it awake.

of tribes

The problem with this job is that I become married to the characters. I have seen Sylvia's hand dance over her head like that -- with a slight lilt back and closed eyes -- eight times. Still, even this last time my forehead creases with empathy. She says, I have no empathy. I have so much empathy for these fictional people.

I can shape my consonants properly but I also feel like I am not heard. Though I do choose (at times) not to hear.

So when it comes to the divorce - Closing Night - I can't help but be a little overwhelmed. Three weeks feels like forever, in the theatre world. I quite sincerely begin to believe that this play will perpetually show in this theatre.

When it comes time for a new season, I become anxious about the change. I'm not sure what it is about the change that concerns me. Generally, I'm not one to choose familiarity.

But there is something alluring in repetition. Of reciting the lines over and over with the actors. Knowing where they will stand next, sitting with the pace, eyes and ears bent through the audience. Waiting for that perfectly formed expression or cringing more and more than the last night when they are off. I come out either loving or hating them. There is no middle ground here. This world is black and white. I photocopy your face; the mute usher in the back row. I wear it out. 'Til there is no colour left. I see you in the street and try to figure out how I know you. And realising I've never met you, I feel exasperated that I can't go up to you and talk.

One patron going in for Act II says, Are you signing? "No!" I say. But I have noticed that of late I have become even more articulate with my hands.