to not understand what is said to you

It’s interesting to read a piece in the form of a written work with the understanding that it is or was intended to be performed. For instance, the following line has a poetic repetition which, standing alone, could impress a crowd: “there’s a miniature bagel, in the hand of a miniature husband, reading his miniature New York Times”. But the fact that it had been constructed alongside a film scene makes it more confusing, especially the fact that we, the reader, do not know which scene it is relating to. Could it be a CEO in the coffee shop on the bottom level of his building? Perhaps Young chose an average scene and decided to mix things up by dubbing everything “miniature”. It could be that two young sisters were playing in the toyroom with their dolls, one of which was a man in a suit sitting at the kitchen table. The secret possibility of this project is enhanced by the limits and opacity of a printed page. 

A beauty of the page is not knowing who the speaker is, or will be. I picture multiple readers, alternating lines or paragraphs (stanzas?), but at the same time I can hear it in one voice. It’s a plethora of possibility! There is a She, a Her, an I, a We, an Us, a You. Were the entire book riddled with “I” as the narrator, I should consider it a fluid lyric. But the We’s and Us’s bring in faceless characters, sometimes named but mostly not. I like the we, personally, because as a reader I feel enveloped in the description like Young is telling me a memory to induce my own; I can feel myself sitting in the church basement, I can hear the poetry being read to me and my surrounding audience. 

The photographs obviously mixed up the genre here, but they added some kind of definition to the instances being portrayed. I never would have anticipated images among the pages of confusion, though the piece is titled Picture Palace; and when I saw them it was illuminating of the circumstance. The facial expressions, paired with the tagging lines, gave me an interesting view of the words I had previously read. “to not recognize someone” is paired with a sideways, confused glance. Lips parted, the name tries to force its way out of a mouth and a tongue encourages it within. Why do we look to the side when thinking? Eyes on a diagonal route help lose focus of the physical and revert to our mentality? 

an ode to 4:33

john cage, what do you say about indeterminacy?
how can something unexpected be presented as an organized art form?
when do we appreciate art as spontaneous and not premeditated?
is it right to claim the spontaneity as our own artistic process?
how can one take credit for the chance operation of particular variables?
how can one take credit for the action of a thing without ownership?
what sound does a sound make?
can we describe a word with sounds? a word with sounds?
who's head is to blame for the logic of the world?
what is new music?
who is to blame for expectation of every situation?
is blame a rejection of indeterminacy? is it in essence an expectation?
do you know the answers to these questions? if you dont will you answer them as if you do?
what made your ears displeased with the sound of piano keys in harmony?
what made you ears excite with the sound of speaking through a kazoo?
will you play the kazoo yourself?
is this play on language a humorous denotation?
is humor a play on words, or do words not play, only the writer?
what does dinner time sound like to you? a birthday? a fisherman smoking a cigar?
what sound does a being make when it feels tired? should she not open her mouth to yawn?
what do you say about predestination?
could it be possible that the screws perhaps fell according to their fate?
is it still chance operation if a roommate has ambushed the project but the author is not made aware?
is it still chance if you know partially what is going to happen, being that there is gravity involved?
do we know what happens when gravity is involved?

neurosis

A daughter is sitting at the breakfast table, reading her book. Her father walks into the room and sees how innocent and vulnerable she looks, sitting there and unaware of her surroundings. He realizes that he may not be able to keep her safe much longer, as she is growing up to be an independent young woman. She is the oldest of his children, and her mother is estranged. He sits at the table and prepares to fulfill his fatherly duties:

Father: speaking slowly, hesitantly “daughter, I want you to learn how to shoot a gun. It doesn’t need to be a complex sports rifle, just… just learn how to pull the damn trigger without shooting yourself. I worried about you when you played in the woods behind the house as a little girl because of what kind of animals could bite you and what hole you could trip into. Now that you’re older and going out with people I don’t know, I worry even more.

Father: I worry about your tough guy boyfriends and the places they’re taking you to without thinking about your safety first. When you find yourself thrown into some pot-cocaine deal gone bad, you’ll need to be able to grab tough guy’s gun and use it to protect yourself”

Daughter: protesting “but my boyfriend isn’t a tough guy, daddy”

Father: not distracted: “he thinks he is. They all do. Now listen, this is how you drive a car with a stick-shift.  It gets easier with practice, but even if you don’t ever want to practice I want you to at least know how it works, and that way… if you find yourself stranded in a parking lot with a dead boyfriend after a drug deal goes bad and all you have is his supercharged sports car, you’ll at least be able to make that car go and it’ll take you home to safety. “

Daughter:  optimistically “or maybe he won’t be dead. If he’s not, I can make the supercharged sports car go and I’ll take us to a hospital and probably be able to save his life! ”

Father: getting a little frustrated with daughter’s optimism during this somber conversation “daughter, I want you to always keep a $20 bill in your wallet, and never ever spend it. Keep it in a little pocket away from your spending money for emergency situations, and I mean emergency ONLY. What if you find yourself in a dangerous city with no gas in your car? You’ll be able to get enough gas to get to safety and that’s all that matters. And if you’re held up by a crook and you have no money to give him? Right away he’ll think you’re lying and start to beat you up.  As soon as he asks for money, give him that $20 and tell him it’s all you have. There’s a good chance that will satisfy him and you know what? He’ll leave you alone. “

                                    Daughter: fearful for her money “give him all of it??”        

Father: matter of factly, feeling smart and protective “and more, if you have some! It’s not a question of saving your hard earned money; it’s for your safety. Don’t you understand? Daughter, do you know how important protection is? I want you to practice safe sex. I know that it’s common sense, but realize what danger there is in unprotected sex. Think about your health, and how quickly that can degrade after one thoughtless mistake. Think about the cost of specialty doctors and special medications to treat a disease given to you by a careless tough guy. And pregnancy isn’t treatable like the herpes… you don’t want to end up tied to the captain of the soccer team by a kid, do you?  Think about the cost of prenatal care… the pain of childbirth!”

                                    Daughter: laughing it off “daddy I’m not going to have baby!”

Father: unconvinced “well just remember that you can’t wear a condom on your heart. You’ve got to protect that too, you know.

Daughter: only listening to half of what father is saying by now “They make heart shaped condoms?”

re: the steiner phenomena

the inspiration for my own benshii project came from a youtube clip i'd seen of carla harryman performing her project,  "La Notte". I had run into it last semester while looking up some of her work, and never really looked into the form, i just assumed it was a creative phenomenon and i wanted to get my fingers on it. Learning that it has a name, a form and an expectation (never mind an archive of brilliance for comparison!), i feel like i've done it no justice, but i'll try again sometime. I watched steiner's "A Nightcap" and was immediately drawn to the ventrilloquist effect. Also the comedy! can i say that i find relief in humor within creativity? how i love hearing a laugh, a silly line. He uses the words coming right out of each character's mouth in a funny way, a way that they weren't intended to be speaking originally. It juxtaposes with the physical actions of the characters on screen, their movement and even their physical qualities -hey one has the voice of a woman! what interests me is the idea of taking one artists idea and injecting my own voice (not always literally) to claim it as my own. Should we, then, cut out the hunting dogs from a kinkade painting, adhere them to sticks and use them against a new and entirely different background? electronic musicians use "mash ups" of pop songs to create a new beat. writers refer to other authors and pieces of literature. what is this? have we run out of creative design to create new pieces, or is it just more fun to use pieces that already exist? and when does it become plagiarism?

Dutchman: on my analytical level

The binaries evident here are simply overwhelming. Take a look: white/black, male/female, oppressor/oppressed, 20 years of age/ 30 years. The character Lula plays is surprisingly accurate today, in my own opinion, as women are developing a very strong sense of power and using sexuality to their advantage (perhaps they always have). I'm not surprised she is interested in a game of cat and mouse, a "catch me if you can" facade. What is surprising, however, is the turn taken once something of a relationship has been established between Clay and Lula. I feel like this was a criticism of society in '64. Sure, equality was on its way and slavery was abolished. But what does this play say of the way black people were treated? I think Lula is the white, upper class society and represents their false friendly cover which they only commit to for the sake of staying out of trouble. What lies beneath is another personality, one full of rage and profanity. White society continuously was reminding black people of their "place", as Lula does:
"and who do you think you were? who do you think you are now?
"well, in college i thought i was Baudelaire..."
"i bet you never once thought you were a black *man*...a black Baudelaire"
how cruel of her to distinguish a difference between dreams of a writer, and dreams of a black writer. it speaks to the ongoing oppression writers such as Baraka were experiencing even after segregation became illegal, and it evokes sympathy through the inhumane way Lula treats Clay.

tell me

She tells him: don’t forget to breathe. He, walking at her side with a leisure, breathes. Slow. She tells him, don’t forget why you came here. He thrusts his palms forward. They move their tongues against their teeth. She tells him it is a something-o-dontal. He tells her about a language called where everything came from and she does not remember. He tells her because it was the first word ever and she tells him she knows because she is saying it. He wants to give up, it is taking too long, he says. She tells him, stay. She tells him pick your color and put it in your eyes until it crawls over everything. He asks her can it move and she tells him it will if he wants it to. He tells her that he doesn’t have experience with the sticks she is always using to pick up her noodles. She tells him learn now. She tells him a tiny house is a concept for the chrysalis and womb but not for craftsmanship. He asks her does she have boysenberry anything and she tells him berries are only good for pie. She tells him berries are too round for her mouth sensors to find if she tries to eat one. He tells her hold it by the tail but watch out for the snout to snap her way. She holds it out to him, she tells him she doesn’t want it. He tells her would she like a highball and she tells him yes please extra ice. He tells her he put his thumb so far down a fishes mouth one time she tells him she could not it might ruin her polish. She tells him it was nice to visit but she has to shower the young birds. He tells her just a while more and her cheeks will swell with delicious notes of string and percussion. She tells him she hasn’t practiced since she moved out of the house on the lake. He tells her keep it keep it if you don’t like the taste spit it out but don’t wrap it in plastic and let it expire.  He tells her if she wants to try it don’t tell the neighbors. She tells him have you heard from them across the road and he tells her his account has been closed for three weeks. She tells him he is an accumulation of zeros organized in organic design. He tells her he doesn’t use electronics, he tells her why should she see the inside of his flesh if he cant swim. She tells him learn now.  She tells him holding a music note in a human hand is nearly impossible and he should try. He tells her he has paws with no thumbs. She tells him a baby rabbit was outside of her window one morning and she saw her father shoot a bullet into it’s baby belly. She tells him life is not always this wonderful. He tells her baby things are meant for mothers, not bullets. She tells him she eats the babies of animals, sometimes. He tells her does it taste good and she tells him no because babies are meant for mothers. He tells her his poetry is being read to the prisoners to keep them mindful of the world. She tells him she has no mind for poetry only cartoon drawings and he tells her drawing and letters are made of lines. She tells him her body is getting sore from all the sitting and he tells her would she like to dance. She tells him what is dancing but a repetition of average movement. She tells him all repetition makes it interesting. He tells her please write to remember the world. He tells her to write a letter to put it in her book of other letters except mark this one with a blue pen. She tells him to leave, that she must go to the young birds. She tells him does a letter mean more than paper and ink and he tells her no.  She tells him she will write, and if her fingers don’t stop she will keep going until she dies. He tells her his t-shirt lets the sun rays touch his skin and it burns until it is pink. He tells her he does everything to not let the rays touch but he is a human and programmed for error. She tells him error is a change in decision and he tells her he knows.

a prose of performance

they say there were over 7000 languages spoken in the world. they say that people, not environment, are the dynamic forces of culture. i feel droplets of assimilation fall from the gutters of my generation and the dog is barking. English is the official language of 60 countries and about 400 million people speak in a native English tongue. does interpretation stand a chance when his asshole brother is constantly correcting my grammar? prescriptive, descriptive, i get it but not many listen to the two a day directions. and of those 7000 languages worldwide, many are disappearing at a rapid rate. if we dont put our words on the page now they might be forgotten once we're gone. we dont speak the same language. what anchors itself to my mind when i leave the theater is not the proscenium. say something absurd and people will remember. there is a common logic stored somewhere in the database of humanity and when interrupted, the most colorful cyclones appear. the third man might be called john or vanessa but you dont deem that necessary, do you dr. h? perhaps ambiguity introduces creativity. perhaps it reduces the miniscule and magnifies the, well, giantess.  i think an overdose on lucidity murks the shallow water of our thoughts and that is where the language phenomena reside. we  shuffle our feet in the ocean near the beach to uncover those fearsome monsters lurking beneath the topmost layer of ground seashell bits. the metaphor is not the shuffling, but an image of a young adult performing a forward-moonwalk off the shore of the pacific. not my moonwalk. drawing is the hand directing a computer mouse across the screen. a stylus across the interface. a charcoal across the canvas. blood across the rock. singing is the vocal chords contracting. speaking must be singing. music is the fingers, the hands, the feet and for dancing you would say the same. theres a thing called syncretism taught by a man using words in the right way. it's the merging of ancient and new traditions of a culture to please both parties. its also called a settlement but you dont want to because settle comes from the latin base "sed-" out of which grows a rich layer of soil at the bottom of the river and you shouldnt hold your breath that long because youre killing brain cells every second. we want uniquely named color. we want inforseeable designs and to push innovative needles through our flesh. i see my word on a page, my word on a neighbors arm, my word on the front of a birthday card and i am relieved of my race for originality. i watch as my words solidify and drop like wax when you say them because they arent meant to be said that way. they arent prescribed for that purpose. i watch homogenized readers move their lips and my insides curdle. a text too easily read is one easily forgotten. i wont direct the actors. (they say the word "actor" no longer has a feminine and masculine form). Chapter 1 tastes sour, lets use roman numerals to sweeten the base. they can dance across the page, in what formation though? perhaps a diamond-o-gram or parallactic oval. im certain the bees dont smell our fear, but relentlessly chased the poet who decided it was so.