Here is a poem/text that I like to think of as holding hands with the duet. They go together, but are hopefully not dependent on each other. Any feedback on the text or the piece would be amazing. (gesualdic@gmail.com)
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 round Nothing's neck.
Nothing.
So bare, so rare, so very hard to come by.
The words "so" and "very" for example
are two shiny beads 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 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 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 icy winter,
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 the violent actions they denote leave your breast red and raw.
So Nothing plays dress up quite often
tries desperately 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.
