Why?

What does this have to do with anything?

The project was created to house a public space for a monologued train of consciousness. The process itself, intended to result in a series of short video works, evolved into a single performance piece with the script itself the seven days of blogged entries. Each speaker represented a signifier of the author and a dichotomy of the self as well. The public space gives reference to voyeurism and comments on the deterioration of personal, physical interaction; as apposed to the Cyber identity, intended as a venue for personal expression and thought.

There is a level of control in stating this through the safety of the screen. There is nothing that ties myself or anyone to ideas or statements. Personalities are contrived, altered and edited with a chance of deletion. It is impersonal yet personal, fictional and factual. The real and the unreal are dissolved by the confines of the formlessness of the space. For this reason the text is slanted and chaotic, words are written by association with an attempt at truthfulness and complete absurdity.

Decapitated sunset

Speaker one: (impatient)
Time is almost up and the duration is tedious.
If I lay down I might dream of the ocean, where tables float upside down and I'll float out to sea. Perhaps you'll be waiting and perhaps not. That is not relevant. My lids are like drapes. No one ever considers that they can be drawn whenever most convenient. So lay down your heads when the sun passes over the hills- I'll lay down my head and close my eyes and all I known will turn into smoke. Time has no numbers and clocks are filled with honey. I'll drink dark coffee and fall to the bottom of the cup with remnants left to tell me gossip. And one... two... one two... one... two... one.

Decapitated sunrise

Speaker seven: (removes antlers and sighs)
Do you ever fear the end of something wonderful?
Speaker one: (taking off green shirt)
No.
Speaker seven: (crawling on hands and knees)
There is a perfect quote from someone I don't know, it goes: "Life listlessly lessens like lemons: like lakes, like laughter, like light. It is literally laughable, but that too wanes or erodes.".....
Speaker one:(taps foot)
Speaker seven: (sighs)

If I close my eyes

Speaker four: (anxiously whispering)
It was crowded there.

Speaker six: (laughing)

Speaker four: (sadly)
There were times I didn't like it.

Speaker seven: (shaking forward and backward in large motions: antlers rest atop head)

Where have all the children gone? I looked one day and they vanished into cynics and academics. The ones I managed to save were locked away! Taken from me, turning into stone gargoyles...
with their mouths open: all speakers start to hiss. Wide like small birds needing to feed.....wider now their skin slashed at their cheeks, wider now their heads folded back; wider now, with room to rip their thick tissue apart.

Speaker four: (gestures largely)
I saw him there. Walked right by without a word, eyes above averting mine, would not stay to talk! And yet, and yet and yet

Speaker six: (laughing)

Speaker seven:
Lies! I was never there, and if i was I wasn't. I wasn't!

Speaker six: (laughing, becomes hysterical)
It is all the same, this carnival game, this circus event of fate.
With totem-pole heads painted bright red
And their Plastic dolls left Without faces.
I have seen little dogs, twirling rounded and tall
dressed up in little white dresses.

Speaker two: (yawning...very slow)
you would grow to be massive and cup them all into your mouth, your saliva a syringe: the fluid poisonous. Wicked, enjoyable and erotic.

Oh the shame and other untold stories

Speaker six: (restless, wearing a yellow suit)

I speak of a place they won't want you to know.
where the hills are alive and all that they show:
is not quite the fantasy, not quite make-believe,
the trees are to whisper of all that they've seen.
Ho! how it is lavish! (wondrous and free)
But oh, they will spite with a furious creed.
Calling it false! (a land that's untrue:
I am but to whisper of all that they'll do.)
Then come stow away so you might learn to see,
all the things you've once known of the night, called a dream.

Tea in a blue mug

Speaker five: (wearing a rabbit head, dancing)

I wish I was desirable, a creation of my lust, love and mystery! A Majesty that mountains bow and small children flee. I am miserable and sad. I long for a time without numbers and a clock without minutes. I am overdramatic and uncultured. I want potatoes on my fingers and yams on my toes. My music is my flatulence. I long to pick all the blossoms off the trees, inhaling pollen with each breath: inviting the bees into the pit of my belly, well rounded and pulsating. I would become a commodity, a holy grail among men. They’d stab at my gut, spilling out fresh honey to cup up with their golden chalices.

Beautiful Way

Speaker five: (eyes closed in the sun, bundled under sweaters and scarves)

It is invigorating to walk barefoot in the snow, entering the darkness of the night on streets familiar but too dark to see. To be lead by the slight reflections of street lights, avoiding weak ice and deep snow. A cold suctions to the soles of my feet. I imagine myself a night phantom, walking through still alleys, there is no sound but the faint disturbance of motors. Car ruts become hollow caverns. Deep and black. The air is warmer than it used to be, and I am unseen as I like.

(Speaker three walks by yelling)

Speaker three:
HOGWASH!
Speaker five:
Indecent
Speaker three:
I WALK TO BE SEEN! I DANCE IN PUBLIC CONTORTED AND POSSESSED.
Why do anything but, crazed street walker, a freak without shoes, I'm all for the individual but there comes a time when you want to scream. Yawlp like a barbarian! Guffaw! Use your voice as intended! What are these words but indicators hiding truth!

Speaker two: (crawls out of box near speaker five, to speaker three)

I fantasize about your moans, your subconscious sexual phonemics. What will make your leg shake and your mouth pant? Perhaps if I stroke your nose?

Speaker three: (Amused)
TAKE OFF YOUR PANTS BRUTE! PAT MY HEAD!

Speaker five: (As if alone)
The personal self is not intended to be viewed as a freak show carnival.

Laugh you're ridiculous

Speaker Four: (tired and sitting sourly in an ill fitting sweater.)

This will be your best cup of the day.

Speaker one: (Looks at speaker four and crawls under a table.)

Sitting in the sun as people pass by, walking in time to the light beat, pages turn impatiently, tapping feet: This is a moment without you. This is a moment that makes me feel like everything is intended as it should be. I think I'll dream of rain. The dampness reminding me of driving late at night to the smell of the damp earth and wet leaves. Speaker four comments on the horrific stale coffee, speaker two stares blankly, eyes averting the morphing words on the page, and myself; I'm in the sun thinking of you. This is a moment without you. I smile to make it all seem better.

Found Four

Speaker four: talking over others: huffing and puffing, while maintaining properness.

They pushed the spring too fast- no clothes, hunched shoulders. He is standing on the corners asking for money, she is walking around taking his picture. Laugh you're ridiculous, she walks with a stager and spits on the ground, he holds a fresh coffee, the streets make it sound as people cross: laugh you're ridiculous, so seriously set, without encouragement- I'll record my hypocrisy- I'll watch her document my fractured moments: potted plants hold tight their roots. In this false environment their leaves will never feel rain.

badump

Speaker one: (sitting alone/yelling over the sound of a heart beat and voices)

BadumpTherearethingbadumpsandBadum-badumpactionsandresponsesandfeelingsandfrustrationsandwords. Words.Whatarebadhumbadhumbbadumpwordsbutbadumplooseabstractionsobadumpbadumpfrealities? Theymeannothing,badum-badumpjustasnothingisnothing.Ihearitlouder,mydirge-andmyroomexplodes-itisinthischaosthatIfindthemosbadumpies. Iwishto burrowunderthismountainof mine, Badumptobecomeareclusefrommyowncreations. I'll layheavy: mbadumpbadumpylimbs likelead. I'll burrow/shut outalllight, allday. Therewillbenoneedfo noise. Justonetwoonetwoonetwo. likeaheartbeatbadump.itticksandtimeth beatthesongbadump.badumpcontinuestillitsend.badump

melting snow

Speaker four: (wears a tall, pointy, yellow hat)

If you think about something for too long; it is probably wrong.

Take a little spot in the sun

Speaker three: (Removes massive over coat, shirt, shoes and pants. Stands face forward in underwear)

I'm a day sleeper and a cold soup eater. I take naps whenever possible. I've decided that clothes are an extra barrier between you and me- us and them. It hides my insecurities.... slight signifiers of my deepest desires.

I'M OVER DRAMATIC! I LOVE WORDS, YELLING! I RAISE MY VOICE AND SO DOES MY DOG!

(Shuffles feet, breathes, looks down-up-down. pause)

I want to become more archaic. I want people to say, "I want to be archaic too!". I think it is important and that one takes pride in their beginning and end. What is a novel without a last page, a sentence without a period, a cadence that ends in seven? It is imperfect, something I will never take as ordinary or allowable.

IT IS UNFATHOMABLE! UNTHINKABLE! END WHAT YOU SAY IN EXCLAMATION! SPEAK NOT TO BE HEARD BUT TO HEAR YOURSELF, HOWL FOR THE SHEER PLEASURE OF FEELING YOUR OWN SPIT HIT YOUR CHEEKS! YOU ARE YOUR OWN IRRIGATION SYSTEM! PEE IN PUBLIC! BE PROUD TO STAND WITH A SLUMP!

purple hair and the kinder surprise of disapointments

Speaker two: (climbs out of a box- is very sleepy)

I’m obsessed with male masturbation. Sometimes I believe there is nothing more pitiful than a man or boy yanking himself. Some men hunch forward, their head hangs, perhaps swaying slightly as they repeat and maintain rhythm; others, now I speculate, rest their heads backwards and remain quite stiff. Position is really not important; it is all in the face: eyes averted, blank and hollow.

sleepwalker

Speaker two: (Sitting above a busy street, watching life move from down below. Talks happily.)

Composition. There was an explanation for the wilted flowers. They hung as endearing as a painting, however, moved back and forth. Swaying. their roots never touching the bathtub they floated above.
Listless. She sat near the window. Eyes still heavy. Her limbs heavy, each one trying to function as weighted steel, iron. Lead. Lead limbs which slowly traced the pane, each silhouetted branch, each house and street. Her knees pressed up against the cold white wall. Stiff and mechanical.
The corpse: solid. Due to the cold, its decomposition was much more desirable. No maggots writhing through its tiny sockets, its mouth a crystal palace, no longer the haven for flies. Alone now, in this snow-filled vastness it has met its paradise. Cold and serene. The quiet: noninvasive. The quiet: exactly what it wanted. Wind lightly caresses its frozen face. Its hands now tightly bound by snow.

A bus ride through fog

Speaker one: (The sky is grey as the speaker walks through deep snow, they are dressed in a red.)

The fog hung its heavy head, it hung its heavy head through the dark streets, wrapping its shapelessness around naked trees, hiding shamelessly on their bare limbs: each branch encased in cold white. It disguises itself in the faces of strangers- settling in their empty eyes, their blank stares: becoming hollow. The fog wiled itself beneath my toes, forcing itself under my heals, sheathing around the fingers of those who pass. It is all encompassing. Throbbing like a heart beat, it heavily hangs, it seeps into my open cavities: my breath weighty and thick. Each nostril becomes a canal where it enters, settling at the base of my belly- a pregnant roundness: where the fog is thick. The fog is thick and heavily hangs its head.

Day One

Speaker one: (said unenthusiastically, it is early morning and the sky is dark, character stands under a cold light, dressed in green)

And there is was, an indistinguishable feeling not at all assumable or pleasant, not oddly enjoyable or moment worthy for causing such a delay in routine. If I had a routine it would begin with a heavy sleep, a hot sticky room and the mess at the foot of my bed not at all diminutive in character. I would lay there, near the floor of scattered books and contort in order to gaze at the murky, pale sky silhouetted with branches, to usually fall back asleep. Every morning would exist the same: eyes trying to break from slumber and a body whole heartily rejecting their request. However, today was different, not for the reason that none of these things existed (they most certainly did) but due to a strange dirge only audible through my ears, to slowly rock toward and eventually be driven mad with. It was a four beat to eight per bar: a two in four, and time dragged. Always most eloquently, always sounding tragic, always muting surroundings, individuals and places: it would persist all the same. Bit by bit by bit. Always minor, minor, diminished then major, progressed by a slow seventh: a sad singular soprano, pedal lift and a strong slow bass assuming its role as pilot. Repeat in four. The cycle was beautiful. Each note was known and therefore became a predictable march in which my feet were forced to move slowly toward.