wherein we entertain the notions of a creature embroiled in sorting multiple identities. is she a mother? a poet? a performer? an organizer? or is she simply the product of a feminist movement in which women dreamt that simultaneously singing opera, tap-dancing, spinning plates, spouting rhetoric and solving algorithms was liberation. here are the rough drafts.
I've done another experiment. I don't care for it as much as the first one. I think I am trying to push too much. Or rather, I'm the kid who was given the whole big box of crayons...
with some oil paints...
and some glue...
and some tissue paper.
When I was much better off with two pencils.
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.