Tuesday, 9 July 2013

Skript/Lakeside/Jo Moran

Skript 090713: Whilst sitting at Lakeside Arts Centre: An evening of improvisation with Jo Moran (UK) 

writing dancing…..
writing from where i am…
i am…
and not here…
arrivals, receptions, receiving, placed, bones placed,
my breath changes, i feel an expansion in my chest, a blurring of vision, and yet …and yet…
a conceit, a forcing, wait, wait and dare the arrival of nothing, the moment of giving up, falling down, laying down, the out breath, the fall after the leap, not the purposeful arrival on a floor that waits to receive me, but a possible arrival to a floor that doesn’t exist, to a layer below floor, below viscera, below below
the flicker of the cursor … but yes. waiting past the conceit.
waiting, and then, something else arrives, that we didnt know before, it takes trust in the gaps that opens. trust and more than that…awareness maybe, openess to the presence and insistence of my body, the knowledge my body holds, the tiniest of movements causing the largest of shits of black on white the flicker on screen rippling out from hte pressure of the fingers in rest of wrist on the table…
i’ve been wondering…about…that is what i have been wondering about…about…can we write about….as well as from or the, or with…or…hum aboutness, is the writing about connected through the body to an aboutness , the thing and they way i come to it, the table shifting and my noticing o the way it distracts me, jiggles inside me, bothers me.  
jiggling, shivering, quivering, as if the screen as a life of its own…fear, cold? the difference in the resonance of three words -- which i wonder sits with my sense of the movement i see/feel?
its as if the quivering screen invites me to type more carefully, to put the words on the keyboard and then screen more carefully…with care…don’t shake, its ok, i’ll be gentle. and i find myself resting my wrist holdig the space a little, i light rest… or a gripping, a seemingly innocent placement, yet yet in me i sense its importance to us, holding still, be still….

back to the beginning….wait, openness, available to what is no yet known, what is no and what might be. no not not yet. no…yet…known…
each reading as right as the other


birds, worlds, other places, flights on the imagination whilst remaining -- looking on, watching them fly. those birds of hte world, i imagine myself.. as bird or as box, the empty feathers … torn, dropped, ripped, found. my.. dancing through the air, over landscapes.

catching the air i rise (and in that moment the air behind my back cools me) ….

welcome. being here. taking the time to see what words, what dances might appear.

as i cast my eye i was dancing with the birds of the worlds that are before me… i fall, roll tumble in the air….

I see :)
there in no right place… just words and bodies dancing writing….
Within the space here at Lakeside
So I can write anything?

you might start from that which catches you attention,, the sounds as your music, ....
the Steam from the coffee maker, frothing the milk
Children shouting and people talking
A breeze which is nice
A white shiny table
and perhaps if we take these things you notice and dream into them can we write a dance,, the click click click, as a call to tap my feet?? to drop to the fall.  the resonant laughter as a circle
To twist and look about the space
to breath in the warm air
ah yes to breathe,,, noticing as i do how breathing drops into my back sinks into my chair…
Our fingers dancing along the keyboards as our minds recall the correct spellings
and perhaps like an improvisation in the misspelling there are openings?! 
My wrists are heavy and leaning against the table as I type
the heaviness might sink further, feeling your weight into the arms, pelvis, legs, feet floor. weight and waiting.
Letting the shoulders drop and the rib cage melt and a heavy breathe towards the floor and spreading the toes within my shoes
… ah yes

the melting is a lovely image. it reminds me a work in which a dancer put rows of ice cubes across the floor and we watched them melt into tiny puddles!
That is a very nice thought on a day like today
…… thank you writing with me…. i shall carry the melting with me, whilst noticing all those sounds that surround us.
Thankyou! Was a great experience!


musing, fantasy, fantastical imaginings,,,wondering what and where and when and how

noticing. what i am, what i feel, sense, think…notice without judgement.
allowing what i notice to take the shape it desires, the shape intended, a breeze across my back, the right shoulder, and arm, pressing my shoulder slightly forward, if i follow it i will press forward onto the table, onto the keyboard, or will it simply take shape on the screen

the small of my back, pulls, aches, the chair presses onto the underside of my thigh, the discomfort, the price we pay, i pay, the price, i feel the price in my back, in my shoulders,

shoulders that long to be released from the formality of holding, of being the one who holds all of this…

noticing shoulders that no longer hold, that give way, that open and soften, the shoulders of a woman at rest, resting, like a rubin, the softness of flesh, i place the image of the rubin woman and her soft soft flesh into the hard dark place of my shoulders and wait, wait for the two to find a way to coexist

still waiting


sitting back a little, shifting my position to accomodate the rubin woman

perhaps she would have nothing to say, no words would tumble from her pliant fingers, or perhaps that is how she is written into history, etched into the imaginations of us all through the artist and our cultural history, so i write her here, give her a voice.
as shoulders soften and give way, she opens and offers an embrace, an openess to possibility, that is new to me

could the truth be something different, shoulders as tense as my own from holding herself in position for the artist, shoulders so tense from holding herself together, holding another,

she does not speak

she does not move

i will keep waiting

they move together, aligned movements simple, a small ripple and a pause, a moment to listen. sliding up and down the space they fold in together. the slight turn of the head, hte angle of the elbow finding connection and difference as moments, recur and refine, replay. their two bodies rubbing along alongside, inside, beside…

chris who loves theatre came to visit…

and the conversation takes me on … on to times past and present… and i recall them dancing , being in the present with for each other.  and as i think of chris, i start to imagine what of their dance is in their history….

i invite you to write, but you imagine points of view, i want to tell you i'm not really interested in points of view, perhaps the view from the body, from your body would be so good, from inside the performance, the experience of that. not the view about, or opinion from

just a moment, one moment or another moment, standing or sitting, rolling from this point to that, falling and twisting in the torso, slowly allowing the movement to emerge, slowly hoping for or not hoping, only working to be present with slowly

the open frame, the closeness of bodies, the triangle of perspiration on your shirt, a sign of the exertion, the sign of your concentration,
step, splat, a foot, then another, she places one foot on the floor and feels the openess of her flat soft foot on the floor.

sitting, reflecting…feeling the drop or lift of her shoulders in me as i sit here now with you
we can write the her our dancing, whatever we want, the moving on the page,
please join over the old place return the return of situations bleed the thumb this high lights dyslexic exposure and framessssss why the crimson foot left under the sweat her face is present for me.
and yet, dancing doesnt worry with dyslexia…bring her here…to the page, let her dance
Is this manipulation am i being led into a trap i though she was inside the spoken word a poem no fuck that a horizon breathing built for two is this an a horizon my dancing my body something like my lung capacity
the horizon, and lung capacity, i feel a breath in, a deep breath to expand the lung…as i look onto the horizon…
Horizon or suffocation this is intimate and still a breath  but space on the page gives way gives way gives way to a collapse the liberation of collapse giving up so much air through my back the back surface thank for the space no surfaceeeee
thank you for the collapse, the space to give way, to notice the open back, the collapsing, the breath…the breath…the giving way…giving way for what

A possibilty

A space this space i want to go all night long this silence a charcter emerges stern and still who you up over and now a pace particular a pulse ….. i have to go…
i’ll be here….you go…
i feel the collapse still with me, the pressing of fingers on keys, the clear intention, was it clear intention, or something not yet known, the character waits to emerge

we wait to begin, you sit, notice, elbows on table, looking, waiting. join…writing, dancing…moving words that simply express now or here,
I wish were as easy to produce than movements… The instinct of my writing is limited by an invisible net. Like an air that impeeches my moves.
I guess this is the best way to start…
instinct of writing…to give your instinct what it longs for…to give space and time to develop and emerge.
i imagine… Emerging from this trapped room with heavy air, like a wall without a window to look far… or even to look right outside, to the garden. The instinct needs that window. The space to develop and the freedom to be.
yes, to be , and a window…a window to look far, and yet…i wonder as i look inward, how far I can see, the veins coursing with blood with pulse and movement, the flow and ebb created…creating
Looking inwards like a painting looks at its public, like a dancer feels the look of an audience. This attention, this presence is necessary or even more than that …….. it is fundamental to be attended in order to deliver, and be free.
as i see you type i see the orchestration of the word, the hand that lifts slightly from the keyboard as if to give shape and form to some as yet invisible something, a tune, an sound, a word, a thought, all caught in the tiniest of gestures, almost a no gesture…
Like an orchestra of pens and ink. yes
Thanks for being the conductor
thank you
the conductor…the musician…the instrument
the dancer…and
she sits….
she is thinking ….
i am remembering,.. i see a foot, a leg, lift and then
i cannot move quickly enough … its responding to unfamiliar sound
yes, and yet, we sit and the breath, the hand the fingers,  20 fingers
well 16 fingers and 4 thumbs thumbs, to be all thumbs to let the thumbs do what they do…i notice that your thumbs type .. mine don’t  …
only spaces…thumbs that create spaces …  
                     (imagine our thumbs creating spaces) on the page … this isnt a page its a table ….
yes, a thumb dance, first a space is created, for the thumb dance, created by the thumbs to make way for more of the thumbs to do what they do… which is…
        always circular…yes, and i see you lean in toward the table to the screen, your tilting forward, pitching forward…and smelling pickle
cheese and pickle, and i wonder who will feed me
(laughter) and looking…as if the screen will present us with something of a surprise…a present…an offering…it could become a ritual … a ritual…creating space…yes…i hope so…
to have time…to take time…to be open and alive to what we do not yet know…maybe never know ….yes, some things we will never know and the beauty of that is in the invitation
wonderful … yes I think so ….
thank you
what an unexpected pleasure
an unexpected pleasure
where is my sandwich
not expected…
waiting…opening…longing for something to arrive…


to arrive…

to notice
take a bite



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