The Walk

 The sullen eye rolls over an advent of crossings

                                  And she said/ let the light wash you

over to be sated/so I did

now there’s this itchy-thing in my skin

        crawling on my attention/telling me it is home,

this/nebulousness of infinity…

                                               

                   And the early/birds taste a new rapture

while singing rubitin/as raggedy as they can

Yet, she doesn’t turn up her sundress/it’s so easy to be burned…

And someone’s gotta walk me home/

                gotta lead me through this traverse…

But I’d rather watch from the nest/ to lie within her in spirit

    than to subtract the numerable/ bullets from their cushions

mapping themselves into a skull/as if stars, as if comets, as if…

                           It was joy/they were spilling all over

her from their soft little pockets/they plucked

 the day right out of its own mouth/ snatching the tongue…

the moons, their mothers/getting gurbed and done-up

                           from the fists of our sons/too afraid to leave anything

amiss in their souls/ and still we cast out to them with slurs

Now someone’s gotta walk us home/

                gotta lead us through this traverse…

Book of S- The Engendering

As if,

As if,

As if,

it is, beginning

the whole of the thing is covered by a black vision

a dark thought, the fermentation of nothing

without a past, only a concomitant    

dream upon dream upon dream

threading itself silently through the warp

tugging on the strands of a quiet sleep

of the cool and lonely shadows  in need

of an answer to its non-

self, with a complement

of happenings without

the internal paranoia of a coil

wound up in its nebulousness

an empty mirror of itself

As if,

As if,

As if,

what is, was

the design of chance

giving attention to conscious manifestations

smashing open into a chasm, of a pattern,

of fractals, of warmed over never-ending questions

about blank and white

about reasons and purposes

about being,

awakened through revelation is

 the

I,

I, I,

while her birth is called

out of wisdom pulling

her from my monolithic womb

S

makes round fleshes

for all of our expectations

and mercurial spheres  

to haunt me about her shoulders

she is giving neck to the mountains

parting lips or legs to pour

forth the primeval waters

As if,

As if,

As if,

S is

first raising clouds from the depths

of smoke emanating from the mantle

her four fists beat bones into the rivers

she is finding wind in her haunches

and storms in

every

one

of my corners

to hold

me together

by  the ribs

S, is

puffed and coughing up

her sultry body

so I may hold it

in my hands

and shower her

creations

with the light

And We Made Them Kings III

III

There is a War Room. Checkered titles line the floor. There is a single chair. Eqquleus and his wife Andromeda are walking side by side among the armor bolted side by side on the walls.

Eqquleus- The Prince

Andromeda- Eqquleus’ Wife

Andromeda:

So they are entrenched with disgust for each other?

Eqquleus:

So it would seem.

Andromeda:

Is it categorical?

Eqquleus:

It’s been a pentad since they last spoke a word to each other.

Andromeda:

(letting go a light chuckle) The Queen? Tell me, how has she spent these… days?

Eqquleus:

Toiling with bodily magic, taking up spirits, staggering soddenly under the arches. Since they last spoke, she has had Horologium beheaded, Sent the Damned to hunt down Orion, out of revenge and… the sheer joy of irony, as she says… And this was just within the last few moments.

Andromeda:

(orgasmic) Yeeeeessss, this is what our purposes have been waiting for. Claiming the throne for ourselves. Leaving  those, those hounds to lie before our feet….

Eqquleus:

Don’t get ahead of our plan Andromeda. If we are to dethrone these insipid fools, we need to deafen the adoration of The Lords.

Andromeda:

Get them an audience with us!

Eqquleus:

Not now, The Lords are steadfast in their love of the King and Queen. Foolishly so, but nevertheless. The only way to get the Lords to decide against them is if we keep true to the path we set forth.

Andromeda:

Do you think it will work?

Eqquleus:

Decidedly…

Andromeda:

What if we expose the King? We can tell them about his insidious copulations….

Eqquleus:

They already know. Everyone knows. He’s been ridden on all fours by Eridanus, The Lord of Vertical Magic faithfully for almost every synodic period.

Andromeda:

(after a heavy sigh) But really Eqquleus, Their kingdom is chucking down on itself. (Becoming erradict) We can’t wait for the next Jubilee to set our plan in motion! They could reconcile by then, they could-the king! He could propose some damned Idea to The Counsel of Lords to rescind your claim to his throne!!

Eqquleus:

Do you even know what are you saying Andromeda?!!?? Has your womb driven you daft?!?!?! I am his son!!!  (Speaking in a slow emphatic pace) Tradition clearly states…

Andromeda:

(interjecting) That the blood son of the King is to take the throne upon his death, incapacitation, or resignation! I know the tradition, and let me tell you, that just over 5 years ago, I awoke from my sleep, wandered in admiration of the throne room, only to stumble upon some very strong and choice words between Pavo and Vela. During this hustle, I overheard a point of interest that I want you to perceive with reason alone. I heard the King, Pavo, ask his licentious wife if you knew of your real father. Consequently, Vela challenged back by threatening to expose the infertility of the King, and as tradition also states that any King... (looking at Eqquleus to finish the sentence)

Eqquleus:

(somber and surprised) must be of a potent nature… But, if I’m not the son of a King then…

Andromeda:

Reason alone Eqquleus!!! Pavo needs you in order to keep his throne however, though he is a mutt, he is a rational mutt and is soon devising a plan to keep his throne while exiling you, me, and your wretched mother past the gates. We cannot wait til Jubilee. We must do something now!!! Trust me Eqquleus, we to task laboriously and quick so we may gain control.

Eqquleus:

(timidly) how?

Andromeda:

This land desires for passion. Pavo and Vela are not fiery people, WE are fiery people. The land needs strong and fierce leaders who won’t let something as asinine as an oral fixation or a hungry middle to persuade their judgment. We need to show The Lords how unstable the throne is in their hands! We need to prove them ravenous, illogical maniacs suited for chains and rocks. They have to be, disloyal, untrustworthy mongrels who would slay their own brethren without provocation.

Eqquleus:

(he sits down looking sadly into his lap, as if a broken child) What do we do?

Andromeda:

We have to set them up, make them act crazy and deranged. (Andromeda paces back and forth) We need a plot. A scheme to get The Lords to turn their admiration away from them.  (Andromeda stops pacing and turns to look at Eqquleus) We need to get the King and Queen to kill one of The Lords. One of The most Cherished Lord.

Eqquleus:

(Looking up at Andromeda in bewilderment) You are mad, how are we to do such a thing?

Andromeda:

(Andromeda’s face lights up at her plan) We will break into the chambers of Eridanus. There he has a dust he uses to bind a person to the first thought that they hear. We will sneak away that powder and we will find a way to place it upon the back of King Pavo’s neck while he sleeps, then we will speak the words, “Kill Indus, The Lord of Warring Neighbors.” Then all we have to do is wait. When the other Lords hear of Pavo’s actions he will be sentenced to the Damned and we will.

Eqquleus: Well when shall this plan take place.

Andromeda:

(With a sickening smile on her face) Tonight!

What the Hell did I Just Read?

Stephanie Young's Picture Palace has got to be one of the most experimental works I have ever read. I didn't quite understand how I should read it (which I think is the point of most experimental works), but after searching the artist for any background info (something I hardly ever do, and still can't believe I did it this time) I found this youtube link to Stephanie Young reading her work....  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7vPYhkwb3Ks This reading jostled with my own perceptions of performance writing, which ached for some conjunction, somehow. I found the book to be textually and syntactically awry/askew (something I wish to aim for in the coming days/weeks/(fuck.it.)/years. I still am faced with a little apprehension to ther composition of Young's dense segments of text, but who am I to argue with creative genius? What I did find myself completely compelled by was the visual and textual clash towards the end of the piece. This section took me back to a question/conversation I asked/had --/with Konrad Steiner about the performative possibilities of text alone or conjoined with visuals. The way Young works with these elements is definitely a variation of those possibilities I had in mind. It also reminds me of a few considerations brought up in class namely, the relationship between text and performance. Here in Young's work we can see that the text as a an explicit part of the performance wrestles with the visuals as an explicit part of the performance. There is a shift in dynamics as the text imposes itself on the visual as both a caption and an embossed aesthetic. The oddball images/syntax's disables the visuals from creating any situated effect. And I love it! This may be a way in which I challenge my own works in the future after I decide how to properly destabilize my own natural modes of writing...

And We Made Them Kings?

II

A parlor, any parlor, a throne sits directly in the middle. A man and woman are heard talking.

[Vela and Pavo pace around the throne]

Pavo:

So you heard then?

The knocking alongside my walls,

the drumming of my own,

[Pavo sits, Vela stops and stands behind Pavo]

 flesh upon blood,

upon bone,

upon flesh.

Vela:

Yes I heard,

I heard the then sound

rattling from the bottom of your…. excellence.

[Vela begins pacing clockwise around the throne]

 It sublimated these metal teeth at the heart,

which sunk into a spinning mess around my guts.

Casting this surreptitious light all over you…

 and me into anger all at once.

Yet, still there are  no tears,

Just, this heavy stare into hands

that wish themselves more muscle,

more avarice or brawn…

[Pavo stands looking ashamed/bewildered, Vela sits in the throne looking to her far right, while Pavo begins pacing around the throne counter-clock wise]

 Just, this reflection upon glass

longing to be repeated.

To be held by something of fidelity….

Something with a brawn of its own…

that I may be tempted to call into myself…

as you have.

And that nagging why that has been knifed between my breasts

still begs the question.

Pavo:

See, you begin with a spasm/a squirm,

just after sighting a bead of sweat

threading down

 the oblique of a man

during an outing/ a footrace.

Then you have a what-if/ a wonder,

which sparks the skin into a frenzy,

and bodies follow,

[Vela stands, Pavo sits down and begins having visions]

 to be thronged all over the axis of the man

 bending into you. It kills

 to sway the hunger

of the perineum….

Damn that Tiresias

Always right, always

 In seeing,

the pleasure in reception/ in the permeation of

in seeing

the unclenching of heavens

with a pulsed

(breathing heavy)

repeating of

(feeling over his body with his own hands)

resting after, in seeing

your perched mouth

rimmed across the edge of an obelisk

In seeing, how man is always

One part of a tenth….

  

Vela:

You DIGRESS!

[Pavo stands up startled, hardly amused. Vela sits down with a brazen look on her face]

 Surely,

U do not need to give circularity

to your actions

I ASKED WHY?!?!

why give chase

when you knew I could

never be of any resolve

Never prod you the way

you so wantonly hoped for…

And you dare sit here fantasizing

over the flagrant tastes of your own shame

you licentious fool!

Pavo:

LICENTIOUS?!?!?

You cur!

How dare you cast these shadows

About my discrepancies…

When you, YOU,

sucked the flesh of the very

being that strung himself

Out of your womb!

Gave this this antecedent child

The same lips that once pursed over my own

edifice

and you, gave your face

to be a canvas for his smatterings

taking his prana

back into your pores

you, you cur, you

whorish beast

with that diseased thing

 carrion you keep

between your thighs,

You will know,

That with all the vengeance

That keep within My eyes,

Will befall you and that foul

Incessant spawn of your laboring

But first tell me…. My sweet

Lascivious Vela….

Does the boy know of his real father? 

And We Made Them Kings?

I

Scene: A parlor. There is a floor, a floor covered with alternating squares. Two men face each other.

Equuleus: (stepping forward) Check!

Pavo: On what grounds?

Equuleus: She heard the knocking. Heard the thrum alongside your walls. Bricked into a castle before you had yet arrived.

Pavo :(about face, stepping left diagonally) As if curiosity fashioned itself a necklace, an aria of flesh, was strung, heavily down my throat… 

Equuleus: Heard the dribble on your bottom lip…

Pavo: Until teeth found hold of his belt…

Equuleus: She gave supplication.

Pavo: Knotted in tongues. I found atman.

Equuleus: And I… gave her prana…

Pavo: And when my oblation was done, I lamented the dew, spilling off, from his tongue.

Equuleus: … and comfort, speckled against her face like the yearlings of a shooting star.

Pavo: (tilting head skyward) Orion…

Equuleus: (looking down, eyeing over his own crotch) Said I was more gigantesque…

Pavo: (Looking to the left) Horologium…

Equuleus: (returning head forward) …slightly

Pavo: (stepping to the right, with a smirk) Then, maybe her lips are now as loosened as the muscle you waxed over her brow.

Equuleus: Yet I did not pray it to be. Was just abundance before the asking.

 Pavo: A coronation?

Equuleus: (hanging head) A plunging betrayal…

Pavo: (angrily)A split atom driving the moon!

Together: A coronation.

Equuleus: (about face, stepping forward, slyly) Yes. And She. Fucking. Wanted it. Down to her bones!

Pavo: (interjection) Down to your bone!.... (stepping to the right)Check!

Equuleus: (natural, defiant, and exuberant) And the sun rose on the 4th door of her labyrinth. The light, gnashed at her necrotic. The remedy, the exhumation, the wicked system of things, her womb, a baptismal shower, and to her I am king, I am, her promethean god, and when you beg back on your knees, ask her, does she forsake all others. And she will nod an open mouth, (bobbing head very slowly) and give you lips akin to orchids in return. She will sing harmonies in affirmation, and yet, crack her open and her heart shall beat in unison with mine.

Pavo: (pissed and proud, turning to face Equuleus) And yet!? You still feast upon the my proverbial,  My throne, you cur, vis a vis, you antecedent, you brother to the night, the fledged beast lapping at my palm, and you, the child of my own rumination, the spawn of my inculcating, my dredging, my reverent tone, beating, betwixt her spring and breasts, I have laid whispers, unequivocal to rhymes of which you can never fathom, with a supple thumb, you will never find all the creases that I have ironed in her valleys. And yet, you who have created this atrocious monster, this abomination unto Venus, to you and her be the wretched kind …. surely Equuleus, even I, won’t save you from those damned starving mouths …

As If. They Came Out. Of Birth. (Deconstructing Churchill)

Act 1

And this would be my personal and unabashed thoughts on the Caryl Churchill drama Far Away. As if I haven't said enough in class, right? Maybe I haven't. However, still, I have this suspicion that there is something rotten in Denmark. As if we have been lured away from the “real” truth that our auteur is wilier than we originally thought. This is to say that we have been led astray by the language, and baroque hats, and the language. The language seems to clue us toward the notion that there is a lot being concealed from Joan, and I’m beginning to wonder, has the language also clued us in on the fact that there is a lot being concealed from us; the reader?

Act 2

“We are far too trained? Have our noses turned up, to be hooked? Pulled? Are we the alchemists that our fathers warned us about?” By abusing the products of our knowledge, Churchill has reassured us that we can still construct full-fledged narratives from thinning mechanisms. I don’t know if I’m sold on seeing the apparent connective tissues that bind these three acts. Besides the dramatic schemas insisted on by Churchill, this work does not ensure a proper elucidation of how one should exactly understand what is happening in the text. Aside: From the normative aesthetics of the dramatic form, Churchill does not wish to explicate any single dramatic narrative. Yet, by being exposed to redundancy, we have constructed one. We are too gestalt for our own good?"

Act 3

Though we insist on confabulating notions that have not even insisted themselves, I think it would be rewarding to begin to see, that what is before your face lies, a simulacrum. As if some dream within a dream within a dream has given you enough cognitive information, to realize that they are indeed related. As if Joan is the same Joan, as if Harper and Todd are the same Harper and Todd. As if we are all Joans, who has had the world told to them, even though nothing adds up, yet and still, somehow we have managed to make a hat. As if we have been lured away from the real truth that our auteur is wilier than we originally thought. And perhaps somewhere in the meta-narrative we can find the differences or maybe the différance(s).