Cereal re-edit (performance work)
Friday 25 April 2014, 7pm
For a long time now, I was looking for a platform to project and expel myself. To Spucken. The days of fouetté and second positions are dead to me now. They were becoming grey, they were just not relevant to me. Show me the colours, feelings and the lights.
I would wander down the hill towards the beach, always towards the beach. And gaze across the bay. Dreaming, imagining and planning.
I just had to do something.
So I danced. What a joy it is to dance and sing. I danced, I read the dusty books in the dusty Townhill library. And I loved.
Your dancing is joyful, but it won’t last. You dance a dance of love and hate. A dance of feeling. Your movement is angular, jerky but still graceful. Like a drunk Swan.
But you aren’t even that drunk, you are in ecstasy. But like I said before it won’t last.
So when you sneak home, catching the postman’s gaze and crawling into your bed. The bedroom in that smelly student house. Smile in your sleep.
Are they looking at you? That’s what you want isn’t it?
Thrust the hips
Wiggle the bum
Shake the head.
Gyrate to thin air.
Why do we feel shame when we are caught dancing around our living rooms by others? Who gives a fuck.
The discarded jumper on the floor, the slight gesture of the wrist and the tight blue jeans hanging in the cupboard all are doused in your scent. You are nameless, yet you are named. I enjoy watching you from the outside, I find pleasure in your manifestations, emphasise the MAN, Man!
The journey down to Swansea was smooth, the train quiet and I was at peace. The journey to Wales always sedates me.
The session went well, I stumbled and fell. But that is life.
Go into the fridge, pick up the nearest thing smear it on your body and throw it all over the room. Get that motherfucking carpet dirty. Get the sofa dirty, get your face dirty. Leave the house go to the Tescos and do it all again. Walk through the dirt and you will find yourself.
I am officially now the holder of a Masters Degree from the Laban Centre. And I feel indifferent
You meet a guy, spend some boring time with him and then leave.
I’m undone by your love, your eyes and your gaze. Especially your touch.
Your hands stroke, caress and ultimately sting.
Take the belt to me, white becomes pink, colours combine. Let me call out your name, let me call it out in the darkness of our kitchen.
People will pass, some might choose to ignore, others will perhaps and hopefully stop and stare. Because you see that’s what I want out of this performance. I want to be viewed and watched. Have that prickly uncomfortable feeling, a feeling I knew all so well in my teens.
Arrived in the space
Bought ‘Experimentation’ materials
Moved in the Space
Song of the Day ‘Get into the Groove’ by Madonna
Have the urge to dance violently, crazy. With and without prejudice. But I think that is the space talking and not me.
why can’t there be more moments like this?
Moments of pure joy, hate and forgiveness. The moments that matter, the moments that you remember?
Experiences that grip you and bind you so tightly that you feel utterly and completely knotted.
The summer wind caresses my body, stripping the flesh to reveal sinew and bone. I stand in the park listening to the lament of birds. I’m completely revealed.
I start to dance, Blondie is on the radio. I dance a movement of love and hate. My body moves jerkily. The rhythms come from my centre. You watch keenly and sadly. I feel your pity for me.
Oh why can’t there me more moments like this?
Friday 25 April 2014 at 7pm