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.

Marcel Dzama

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Eurwin Wurm

Positions, 1992

Obsessed with Erwin Wurm

One Minute Sculpture

Emanuel Licha

Une autre fête au même instant brille dans Paris , 2005

I Did Not Know, 2002, Installation-performance with Maja Bajevic