Poetics of Relation, curated by Bettina Malcomess and Uriel Orlow, LiveInYourHead, Geneva, 13 -30 May 2015. Works by Simon Acevedo, Denise Bertschi, Antonia Brown, Érik Bullot, Nolan Oswald Dennis, Leonard de Muralt, Abri de Swardt, Ravi Govender, Paul Guian, Ciel Grommen, Mbali Khoza, Murray Kruger, Bettina Malcomess, Nare Mokgotho, Michelle Monareng, Uriel Orlow, Philip Pilekjaer, Nathalie Rebholz, Julie Sas, Tali Serruya, Mounia Steimer, and Nicoline van Harskamp
Text from performance Valley Shy (for DBS)
Here I stand, in the veiling of the sun, a survivor, unclouded by consciousness, remorse, or delusions of morality, thinking of the melancholy and extroverted luxury of having to consume the world without having to participate in it, such as aurochs and angels do. Here, seated sultanically above the moons I recall certain moments, let us call them icebergs in paradise, which I sing into a walkie-talkie on the Rocky Ridge.
[stepping upon a platform, speaking into a walkie-talkie, a movement repeated for all sections in italics]
I long to hear you, if you want to know where I’m going, where I’m going soon.
An avalanche of multiform elsewheres that starts with a sneeze that started with a nasal spray of celestial vapidity – the incubation of a nostril, of a cavernous wanton nostril glazed with the cherubic cornucopia of the air where no one walks of the air above the line where trees stop growing a final line of retroactive growth of the retroactive air that declares in lunar reggae that this nostril is the throne of all future knowledge.
Aw-a-a-a-ay, I’m bound away. Aw-a-a-a-ay, we’re bound away.
Here I stand, on the prime vertical on the prime dorsal, admiring the purity of listening to the sound of the boys when they shower, the purity of the shepherd awaiting with a harp, a lactose intolerant harp, below as the calves bell their way, their lactose intolerant way, to the village, the purity of the village that made a pack, long long ago, to only speak to each other in whispers and to muffle all other sounds. The bell dongs and the violin strings and the harp cords prudently mummified in fresh lactose intolerant gauze, musical fingers quivering with epidermal purity. A boy steps into a guitar given to him on his twelfth birthday, and the village whispers about the soul of his lactose intolerant sized thirteen foot, of his other lactose intolerant Adidas slip slop white sock wet on the sledge path foot, the feeling of snow new like slush puppies like memoirs of a geisha like his brothers asking him if his spectacle frames spelt out literally G-A-Y, the G for the left eye, the A for the bridge of the nose, the Y for the right eye.
I’m going up a yonder.
And the year is 2000, I have bought my first and only pair of sunglasses, a singular historical incident, divinely pre-elected, ovular and Alpine with iced blue lenses, a type of light blue reserved for the directors cut of a late 21st century biopic on Suri Cruise or someone else sanctified like Princess Charlotte Elizabeth Diana, for which some type of frosted plastic bookends a life reserved in the sun. And around the advent of the male body, the sunglasses’ arms embracing my cranium in want of predestination double penetration trepanation, becomes a port key to standing alone in Lesotho in a land locked land village singing
Herr, Erhore Uns.
Here I stand, in the veiling of the sun, thinking of the spinal music of touching on sledges and in water slides, since the ancestry and posterity of Grief go further than the ancestry and posterity of Joy. A bus of mostly twelve year olds stops against a slope like the nose of the security guard beneath the Venus de Milo in September in Paris twice without you. They disembark and together weep with merman tears for two bodies insufferably disconnected like momentum toy ostriches, blue-dyed, pecking away at a round table on a course returning to earth.
Without him, the river’s just a river.
I sing with what might be a voice, you son of a bitch, a turbulent, locked and floating voice, like the one that never can pronounce my own name, like the one that in the year 2000 made the larynx kangaroo in a zoo in Basel where I was vetoed for a date with a maximal girl and thus inaugurated into the antediluvian order of the passion of the cut sleeve, of the emperor’s bedfellow asleep, of the forearm death grip sensitivity.
Tomorrow shall be my dancing day
I would my true love did so chance
To see the legend of my play
To call my true love to my dance.
Here I stand, in the red sun of desire and decision, thinking of your chasms furrowed with fugitive memories too prehistoric for words. Our bones are bent outwards, lapsing into paralysis in a night without candles as we rolled all over the floor, in each other’s arms, like two huge helpless children. He was naked and goatish under his robe, and I felt suffocated as he rolled over me in the oolalah black. I rolled over him. We rolled over me. They rolled over him. We rolled over us.
With the pie-eyed piper blowing, while the muscatel was flowing, all the cats were go, go, going down below.
A man pretending to be a goat is cycling down the road, bleating, tooting, kidding, the red chakra reading road zebras from Brussels frequent vexed. Here on this dead end road there is something commensurate between seeing Berni Searle’s 'Snow White', a single channel projection of flour and water dripping unto the nude spot lit body of Searle upon an enlightenment, universalised, singular stage, her kneading the mixture into a dumbfounded dough; between seeing this culinary body being used as a shadow theatre, her body caressed by flowery teenage fingers, her parts pinched, groped and fisted in what could only be described as a rape of the image, a breaking of the bread; so there is something commensurate about this spectral rape and a woman in front of me praying over me at Pentecost when I was eight, prophesying that I, 1997 I, will one day be president of this goddamn land.
Tootin’ on his trumpet loud and mean
Suddenly a voice said, “In the dark I hear a call
Calling me there.
Go forth Daddy!
Flip your wings and fly to Daddy!
Take a dive and swim to Daddy!
Hit the floor and crawl to Daddy!”
Cause when the seas and mountains fall
I will go there
And sans kisses I demand a refund – I ought to be all alone in the world. Just me, DeeBeeeeS, and no other living thing. No sun, no culture, myself naked on a high rock; no storms, no snow, no banks, no money, no time, no breath. Then at last, I wouldn’t be afraid.
[play The Lonesome Valley by Fairfield Four]