Skript/Lakeside

Skript 080313: While sitting at Lakeside Arts Centre, fragment 3 (UK)

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…a feel a heaviness in my chest, a tightness in my back…i rotate my head feeling the top of my spine, into the base of my skull

sounds penetrate my skull, deep into the tissues of my fiber…fairytales, outside once upon a time, there was a forest, and in the forest there lived an ogre, a giant and a young boy. there was no king or kingdom only a forest. no queen or queendom only forest. i write from the forest…i write from the tale…my tail on the chair, i write the story of my pelvis, held by the chair, flesh melting into the hard surface of the chair.

Skript/Lakeside

Skript 080313: While sitting in Lakeside Arts Centre, fragment 2 (UK)

I’M LIKE A BALLOON. I am filled and then I release all the thought and the things that have happened today. I have begun thinking about this moment and not anything else.

 and as you let the air out of you as a balloon  I can see the screen as a diamond, stretching out from my head.

 your sideways writing… your eyes casting along the light as it falls on to the table forms a curve a line through your body and a twist in the neck… your eyes reaching and seeing anew…. helps me see anew the light on the table….

Skript/Lakeside

Skript 080313: While sitting in Lakeside Arts Centre, fragment 1 (UK)

shall we start.

?

taking a moment the breathe

i hear voices, a rumble

tongue releases from roof of mouth, sitting bones connected to chair, feet planted on the floor.

i pause hello is that rosie, as the feet feet stepped by crossing through passing through…passing through i feel my breath passing through… is the breath light? perhaps a deep inhale would allow a something…

a something else to enter the body…

do you feel…the something? i collect my breath, my day, my thoughts, my bones, i collect…collecting myself i become open to something, some thing my thing

smiling…

writing without stopping

Writing without pause, 
without correction..

writing as improvising
with/outing words ...

writing in the moment, 
one word following from and responding to the last.

Skript/dining room

Skript 060313: While sitting at my dining room table, Vida Midgelow (UK)
 
there is a dance in me, deep in my torso. … if i close my eyes and listen to her, sense the potential of her she is pulsing. like an ongoing, multi-centred gathering of gely balls, jelly balls, she is wiggling. i need to pause, to be with her.
 
oh my, an image of her as frog spawn... a jelly mass, this wiggling inside me... she is moving inside, i imagine myself doing this frog spawn dance. trying to scoop her up, she slips from my grasp. the belly as splat upon the floor.
 
jiggle wiggle across the floor - gathering myself into a jelly mould mold old told. I told you to sit up. the jellied spawn tries to still. be still.
 
not      poss    ib   le....... s  t  i  l  l. gap.
 
My hand hovers over the keyboard........ the pressure of the key. i press it slowly but the run of the letter out-does my efforts and just stayssssssssssssss then runnnnnnnnnnnnnnnns on.  What would it be to stay still while running on?

I try to imagine it, to feel myself dancing that very staying and running... there is a horrid tension in the counterpoint. i feel it. but if i drop the running-on into the smallest moment/movement i start to find an answer... an energy, light rapid, fleet shooting throughout every part of my self whilst i sit - staying while runnnnnning.
run, run, run. i want to feel the extension of the legs, reaching out, opening my pelvis, the open space between legs taking me forward. forward to nothing. the pure rush of the very act pulsing. in me. sensing the possibilities of running on while staying...

Authored by Vida Midgelow

Skript/Musical

Skript 050313: While watching an online version of the live performance Musical by Collette Sadler (UK)

gold curtain, remembering. memories. i have been here, been with this... when? the gaps sit with me...  holes in my rememberings. musical, schmussscical...tip tap tip tap. glam bam tip tap tip tip tip tap.


watching...waiting for something to...write...feel...oh what a...


…beautiful morning, day.Yes, isn’t it :)


the gold fabric takes me back. I am in nevtex textiles in the backend of the lace market. buying fabrics. shimmering net, slinky satins... oh my oh my... and it is another world, time, place.


sounding sounds that connect and disconnect...order and clarity cut with irony and the childhood play -- a toystory saga.. .the clarity of the cut across the tables, patterns, bodies lining up, only to form and reform. i like patterns. I feel the pleasure of them and breathe. a breath that always me to ease, be with, relax into the shifting motions before me.


eeek eeek, tweeeet, honk honk honk... the sounds of the playroom reformed
rhythm, tap, tap, tap...stepping in and out of time I feel my heart beat, skip a beat, skipping to the beep, ping, squeak...over and over...around and around...behind and in front of the gold curtain, one then another, then more, then less...my heart races...on and on it goes, a sameness, a certainty that there will be no beautiful morning or day...that there will be no meaning...and do we try to find it here? No, wait, feel, breathe, my dance, my dancing writing...


they start to shift in intersecting circles ... i am interested that i am am drawn to these forms... formal, simple, clean... again i can rest. in and out of these forms and me imagining them before they emerge.... i walk with them. shifting one foot in front of the other in gorgeous curves around the space, that black studio space.. with that gold, very gold curtain calling in the background.


I  try to leave my foot behind, try to make my belly sound with a squeak. nothing. so i notice my foot, my feet, under the table here now, my feet that might step with them, tap step, … as you write i am drawn to my own soundings... the tip tap of the keyboard, the sounds of the wicker seat - its slight creak below me. And in the other room - the tv is on.. i try to let that sound be just that sound … patterns with(out) reference. ey, ey, ey, sounds without meaning, words without context, uh, uh, uh...then counterpoint...layering, pattern complexified...it plays as I write, she dances as i write, i dance as she writes...laughter, i hear you laugh...
a sad laughter, of lost illusion, of lost memory..


...remain with what is...what emerges...the sense of frustration, alienation...blended with a clarity of order and precision...there it is


what remains...circles, soundings, shifting furniture... toys replayed, tap shoes and hats, things...remain...things in space, dancers moving things in space...sounding in space locates them - like echolocation.  echolocation!! i like that. her leg - swosh.. 

body tipped forward leg high. other kegs kicked like the can can girl gone wrong (but right)... kegs? like a beer keg...yes, a can or keg...rolling on the ground, a leg emerges from nowhere, a long leg kicks out, a series of complex articulations of the hands and still the relentless sounding...circling...


the loud speakers -- what are they called - hailers? yes, loud hailers..hailing what? taxi’s? audiences? dancers? space? hailing the echolocator...evoking the space, she whistles, hey driver take me to the gold curtain ..recording of the dancers/toys sounds remaining for us... echolocating the bodies that have now gone. the space clear, and we feel the resonance of the bodies in the speakers continuing their dance as an abstracted pattern of squeaks, beeps, honks... the simplicity of them, the shifts of tone as the speaker is opened and closed...

Authored by Jane Bacon and Vida Midgelow

Link to Musical: https://vimeo.com/20695609

Skript/Opus 49

Skript 050313: While watching an online version of the live performance of Opus 49 by Miguel Pereira (Portugal)

shuffling the collective group of heads, shoulders... is it hot? they remove outer layers - I notice myself scanning the back of necks -- who might i know in the audience? what a egotistic thing to do i think but their we are. a sharp cut. alone. sitting. alone. like us here. watching. but distanced on his chair with microphone in hand. cut. the sharp cut. I am ready for the sharp cut this time.. i feel less thrown by it. i notice myself thinking - ah yes, this is purposeful. him. they. me. the same. connected. as he stands he feels weak, well no not weak. but his back is to us, to me. and he --- i cannot find the word -- he -- well seems unsure. i am drawn the the back of his neck, cast in shadow it is open, well it seems open, exposed somehow. i notice that i am noticing not only his neck, but the other one, in the audience, in front of him... two shadowed exposed pieces of skin - intimate somehow, but also, unrealised. unrealised how? unthought perhaps.


The microphone is like a touch... rather a torch! his steps uncertain, or just creeping, easing forward into the darkness. the microphone as choreographer. he / it searching for the next thing.  i watch and listen. waiting for the microphone as choreographer to find, realise, the next thing.

As i watch the screen i realise i am in it.  my reflection right there large in the centre of the image. i look at myself, in the image... correct my hair. he stumbles. i lose       lose my concentration. bang-like a rock star.  ah yes, she was talking about bands, music, manchester.....
manchester, fills me with grey. damp. industrial - yes she said that. grey. seeping in to the skin.


a military marching tune.. odd. the self importance of it, rattles me... if...annoyed. i forget what he was doing, doing. the music loud, self important, pressing. it bothers me, bothers me in a scratchy , way, i need to irritate it, bother it, the it of me that is bothered that i cannot recall him in that moment. the music overpowering the image.... ha ha. given it is labeled op.49 i guess i shouldn’t concern myself.  but the gap, yes it is a gap in my recall, like a little hole does bother me....
it makes no sense, darkness, figures in the darkness, the floor moving...moving...i want to look again, look closer, find the answer, i don’t, i can’t.
move on.


he jumps and wiggles, like a school boy i think. those boys that are yet to grow into their bodies. ad o les ance. painful really. searching for sound, he whips his beat, shimmys at the waist. rubs on the wall like the bear... your know -- the one in jungle book. i notice his body soft of the hard wall. i find myself, drifting... what does it feel like to rub on that surface. (it is clean!! - oh dear - ocd stricks sticks, strkes, strikes!)
wiggling, jiggling, as i sit here in stillness...i feel your jiggling belt your microphone captures the image of you in my mind ear...i jiggle too. .


it is loud, too loud, the floor keeps moving, i sit and sit and sit...he falls and falls and falls. the music begins to fade. i see the fade, hear the fade, see the emptiness, the openness of possibilities. i notice the space behind my eyes and just above my eyelids. as the sound fades i feel a weight in my chest, close my eyes and wait.


coldness, darkness. the shadows of the space, on his skin in the tinie reverberations of the space... .I feel that cold, dark shadowy place...it seeps into my bones and sinew, keeps me still, stiller, still. the sound is everywhere, overpowering my other senses. pulling me - like a physical tug from a rope to different places.  and yet my bones, my dark shadowy bones scream with the falling, the falling of the chair, i am a chair falling. catch me if you can. catch me as i fall. shattering into bits, i shatter, i shudder. the destruction, wasted, violence.


Do you imagine there were people under the floor? to be a person under the floor, what would that be like? that other shadowy place, where no one knows or goes and yet so completely in charge of everything that follows. seeping out, like a peeling away of skin, unfolding and revealing... exposing. illusion wrought.   with pain or just the desperate need to emerge from the dark, i feel my own still moving body longing to move, i sit forward a little, take a deeper breathe, hear myself thinking, yes, we are doing this, our little dancing writing. and still i long to dance. and how would you dance? i run, as he did, i wiggle, as he did, and then i continue, continue, continue... 

sitting with him and he with us..i hold the microphone...hold it out to you...to hear your bones, hearing makes me see better...my moving is my seeing...my feeling is my hearing...And as he searches the space, his body, our bodies, my body for their own songs the muscles in by belly tense... will the song emerge? what will it lead too...
stepping forward i feel a tentative creeping, a sensing out, a peeking into the darkness, and then, bam... the sound of the space and the very walls hits me. the sounds take their own journey into me, into my sitting bones, into my seat. do you feel sound in your bones? The sound seems to make me see more clearly, sounding as seeing...searching out the sounds, searching for what...the dancing...the dancing molecules...i feel into the darkness, my own emptiness and expectation. what do i want from him? what is he doing? can i find what he is looking for, what he wants me to see/hear? him punches the space,,, the boy boxer rasping the breathe of the air across the mic rushing as his gestures sway through him, me. the punch punch... punch pa pa pa... all boy...papa...can you see me?


throwing a chair, beating it, bashing it, bashing, beating...the microphone draws me in, my eyes become sonic, i find myself wondering is the microphone on?


pa pa pa...bash...crash...bam...bam...bam...but she is there too...it is her dance... a dance for her...her manchester...her music...her...me...she...yes, she is very there too... she story, her story the manchester of her memories, and is the sounds of the space ours, hers, theirs? who is the beat beat beat of the marching song?


Authored by Vida Midgelow and Jane Bacon
Link to Opus 49: http://vimeo.com/44389571