Tuesday, October 22, 2013

Process - Unlisted Second Steel Performance #3

There is something really fun about looking at different stages of work. Almost like watching a live birth, it's kind of painful, embarrassing and a tad messy.  

But, I'm really glad that the folks at Unlisted: a performance series value the evolving process of art making.  Almost like a parent who has sat through endless rehearsals; cheerfully endured practice at home; and is still moved by the end product.

Here are the first notes which were written during a production meeting. 


The link has the text of the first draft. (As does a previous blog entry.)



Here is the performance (No text. I'll put up video later.)  Below is the final text.  (It will be used as a voice over in my documentation video.  coming later)

The Dirt Only Speaks The Truth In Tongues


there are stories in the dirt.  
everything which has ever drawn 
breath whispers its echoing aches 
and ecstasy back to the dirt... 
the more you break your fingernails. 
sift and dig,  my eyelashes 
spell the words, “I  a m  s t i l l  h e r e.”    

on ribs nsibidi rising on smoke tendrils, 
adrinka blackened grill marked gourds, 
heiroglyph harpists playing cedar plank salmon songs,
curl charred silk mazes between your Maize biting teeth
pattering patois chickens with crimson coal applied like kohl 
to the inside of my eyelids in your fire pits
and backyard barbecues I spell, 
w h y  c a n ' t  you  s e e  me?”

the dirt only speaks the truth in tongues 
that were once in the mouths of others.
to those who see alkali smells 
with river silt scorched mouths. 
it has been speaking… open wide. 

I will pack your orifices with mud and rue laced 
salt. and light golden
seal them shut. 
dry and harden, it will. 
know my keloid lovely memories

these hard imagined futures
like itching amputated limbs ~ now. remember. now. 
goose bump spiculum burn ~ now. feel me. now
tympanic buzz ~ now. remember. now. 
I carry you. can cast you down or out.

dirt grows stories. what we know 
is that nothing stays
the same.  our ancestors 
tell our children their history must be scraped 
from under their parent’s fingernails
lest they become infected 
by scratching off their present
like chickens fattened, baffled, tagged.

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