But my goal for 2009 is to stop making pretentious bullshit excuses like the one I just wrote. I should suck it up, get over my fear of the blinking cursor, and blog. So then someone other than the little mouse that is cooped up in my bedroom wall can get a peek at my ideas. Although, that gray little pocket-sized creature has, on occassion, crawled up next to my ear while I was sleeping and gratefully whispered things like, "hey, your thoughts on the Ann Liv Young Show delved so deeply into the issues of consent and exploitation in Art. It really struck a chord deep within me." In response to that, I usually say, "Thanks little guy, lets do coffee sometimes and discuss Art, politics, and the ways of the world." By that point he is long gone - scamperred away back into the woodwork.
Here is a beginning of this idea that I have for a piece. How could a site specific piece take place nowhere? What would it be like if no one was in the piece? Or if no one cared about the piece? What if the concept was nothing? What if the dancers felt nothing? What if the audience felt nothing? Here is a story starring: Nothing with a guest appearance by: No one.
This stage is nothing.
Imagine this stage as nothing.
Something is just Nothing playing dress up:
glitzy baubles dangling from Nothing’s earlobes
a gaudy shawl draped around Nothing’s neck.
Nothing.
So bare, so rare , so very hard to come by.
The words “so” and "very" for example, two shiny bead on the necklace in Nothing’s dress up bin
We have tendencies to dress up the page, dress up the stage – the space
We dress up the space: so pure, so empty.
(ah…see how I use two adjectives when one would do)
We tend to make somethings, add layers
We use repetition over over over over over over over over over over over over over over over over over over writing it so many times over and over till the word “over’ looks like it is spelled wrong: so foreign, so queer.
And then there are those layers we tend to add: those layers of controversy, of political incorrectness
Those layers we construct and have no chance of backing away from,
No chance of them not itching like an Irish wool sweater up against a bare breast.
Even in the winter layered with frost and icicles: icicles that would stick to your tongue and rip off a layer of taste buds,
Even then, you’d itch and itch and itch itch itch itch itch itch itch itch itch itch itch itch and itch and itch your bare breast so many times that you’d lose confidence in the English language and the way it spells its four letter, queer little words and the way that the violent actions they denote leave your breast red and raw.
So Nothing plays dress up quite often
Tries desperately to layer itself in hopes of becoming something, anything, overthing, itchthing.
It layers itself, plays at being so absurd, so bizarre
Nothing squeezes its feet into paten leather, 6 inch pumps, walks over a sewer grate, gets its heel stuck…
The heel breaks,
Nothing falls, exposing, OH GOD, exposing its somethings, anythings, overthings, itchthings.
No one sees Nothing fall:
No one is around
No one hears it
No one cares
