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In Shock

[A sound like the soft crackling white noise of a television comes in and out]

I don’t think I’ve cried so much than when I felt so unable to speak, unable to write or communicate in the way that they want me to.

[A low bass note wavers underneath, and a sound like metal scraper scouring a wooden board]

The stairs in the room are made of wood, soft, smooth. I walk barefoot down the stairs.

[A noise like distant, babbling, haunted voices bubbles and sings in the background]

I enchant myself with music and I flow - I flow and go away. I go away from here into the sky. I find a voice within me that doesn’t even need to make any sense. I find it like a button on a street. I pick it up and I sew it anywhere with space.

[The sound builds up and now there is a steady distant beep, like a single note on a harmonica played over and over again]

I follow the needle and the pin and the thread.

[An electronic drum plays a slow dance beat]

I use the needle to write words along silk and cotton. I move. I expand. I breathe. I am hoping, eloping with the world, with mouths, with -

[Flickering noise of recording breaking up]

[A slow, high, shuddering electronic tune repeats itself in the background, occasionally fragmented as if the recording is breaking up, and then continuing again]

I’ve forgotten how to speak.

I am not sure how to.

I’ve forgotten how to deliver myself.

I have no idea how to put on the skin on my clothes.

I am looking for the button.

I am looking for the rose.

The rose that dabs on lips and cheeks.

The rows with people.

The sun’s reflection and the birds darting between the buildings and the sky is bright! And I am alone.

[Sound drops out. Then there is a sound like the white noise of a television coming in and out]

I’m in shock. [Crying]

I am scared.

And I have no words

[Crying]

And I’m tired.

And I don't know how to unravel.

I’ve lost how to do this. And I could never play hopscotch because my right leg never went up as my left had other ideas.

[Repeated tune on an electronic keyboard comes in with slow heavy bass drum beats and occasional whirrs and crackles]

I am tomorrow [sniffs],

I am waiting.

And my body is breathing for me.

And the psychicness of sleep is entertaining.

And tears are falling down my cheeks.

And the floor is wet.

The tears had a long way to go.

Six foot minus a couple of inches.

Whispering slow, whispering carefully, whispering free.

Ceramic Box (Universe)

[A tumbling clattering sound, like a bag of shingle being poured onto the ground.

In the background there is a soft electronic wavering noise]

I have never used my body like the way it’s to be used.

I’ve never used my body like the way it’s supposed to be lived in, here.

[Very distant thunder rumbles intermittently underneath the words]

I’ve never used my body the way it was to be here.

I’d never lived in my body the way I’d lived in this, in this box, warm materials, things, all materials, things.

A bed with one side tucked.

A beating heart under skin and veins and warm.

The heat only here.

The rest cold.

The rest cold, as I had been.

[Clears throat]

An object gathering dust.

An object gathering dust.

A story only with the projection of hopes and dreams to soothe down worries.

[The thunder continues now and then, along with a whistling wind. In the far distance is the sound of shouting voices]

We buy more objects.

We are the objects.

We hide in the objects, instead of feeling.

I tuck myself in the small jewellery box in the closet and the trunk.

I fold myself up amongst jewels and clothes.

[The universe breathes]

I watch the moths beast bright.

I long for torch that I swing open and burn to the ground.

Ashes to ashes and ashes on the ground, and ashes in a bed, and ashes that was… Ashes that was you.

For you’d smelled the smoke and you’d escaped, and I’m alone in the trunk.

I’m alone in the dark. I’m not lived in, nor decorated.

Only existing in the reflections of tension that murmurs slow, hello, hello, hello.

Receiving the World (+Perfume)

Today outside the forest I swam in all my perfumes. All of them.

[In the background we hear the clinking of glass bottles moving and knocking against each other]

There is the rose one, and the one that’s Coco Chanel.

And the Tenue de Soiree Goutal.

And there’s this one with a fairy silver lid.

Got a strange name.

Might have to put the light on to read it.

[A faint sound like a distorted, quietened church bell repeats behind the clinking bottles]

Van Cleef and Arpels.

It’s a perfume that’s blue and magic, like a doorknob, but full of liquid, full of perfume.

[Sighs, breathless]

And there’s Miss Dior and there’s the one with a beautiful pink ribbon.

And there’s Rose, Paul Smith.

And then there is Opium.

And then there are the ones I’ve made myself.

[An airy, whirring sound backs harder clinks of stone knocking on glass bottles.

The sounds distort to make rhythmic snippets]

That’s the most nicest.

Today I swam in the forest that was filled with all of my perfumes.

I folded myself out, all of my breath, just shimmering out.

Today I opened my mouth, my eyes, my hair, my whole body became open.

And flowing within it, flowing within my body, was this ocean of perfume, this ocean of scent.

Of roses and juniper, lavender and sunflowers and oaks, and mints and all the scents and herbs, all the berries, of all the fruits, of all the spices.

[The sound of liquid perfume being sprayed once, twice]

And citrus and lemons and melons and - the trees abundant.

The trees are abundant in the morning afternoon air, and I - my whole body has opened, receiving, receiving, receiving the world.

[The bottles continue to clink, and stop]

Velvet Curtains

[A steady, airy droning ambient noise winds up and down, with a buzz over the top which builds and fades in intensity]

What does it mean to dream of things that are beyond the glass, beyond the shoreline, beyond the cloudless sky?

There’s a moon waiting for my landing, waiting for me to land, to find a hole in the ground, to clamber down and sit in the shadow in the cold in the creek, and corner and-

What does it mean to dream of things that are beyond the glass?

[Birds sing brightly next to a rushing brook]

To be invited to play and stay a while?

To be invited to play and hold on for a while?

As the sky energises itself through florid beams of colour, I kiss the canvas black. I kiss the canvas black.

[Delighted trumpets play as if rejoicing at a festival]

I kiss the canvas back. I kiss it as smooth and rippled rough, because it is ripped and what does it mean to dream of things that are beyond the glass?

To be able to speak out loud and everyone understands that?

And the sky is crackling today outside.

[A man shouts the start of a song joyously in the distance]

I hear the world behind the purple velvet curtains and there are talking and builders and under the [banyan 3:12] trees tiny eyes seeing, finding, grappling, hoping I can quietly see, hear, the hare.

[Distant clusters of notes, and voices, drift through]

The hare I see hear, leaping across the field. And it’s dark. What does it mean to dream of things that are beyond the glass? This glass box.

[The high purring of crickets and insects sing softly. The clicking sound of fingers on a keyboard]

I type and wish not to. I paint and wish more. I’ll never reach on.

[The sound of festival brass band carries in on the wind, and fades out again]

I’m not investible. Not a vegetable. Not something to exploit.

And the sky now is whirring and receiving, the noises from the building are creaking, and the bread in the plastic in the kitchen,

[A sound like helicopter blades slicing through the air]

because he doesn’t know how to be quiet.

[Silence]

The bangs and clatters all around the building. What does it mean to dream of things that are beyond the glass, beyond the shoreline, beyond the cloudless sky?

There is a moon waiting for my landing, waiting for me to land, to find a hole in the ground to clamber down and sit in the shadow in the cold, in the creek and corner, and what does it mean to dream of things that are beyond the glass?

[Bird song and jubilant trumpet music come back in, happy, ready to dance]

To be invited to play and to stay a while.

To be invited to play and hold on for a while.

As the sky energises itself through auric beams of colour.

I kiss the canvas black.

Back I kiss the canvas, all smooth and rippled, rough because it is ripped,

[music fades out]

and we fall asleep, you and me under the banjo trees.

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