- circles on your belly
- you closer
Saturday afternoon, August 2, Meaford Ontario
@11 hours ago with 1 note
The performance is elegiac. It is the blues. I envision the performance intuited with purposefully random body gestures and gesticulations. Sway. Shake. Sway. Move back to move forward. I am dancing and stomping in the dust. The dust is the refuse of my nomadic ancestors. This is my space. It is akin to what post-modern dance theorists call “pedestrian movements” but I long to tear apart what bodies are presumed a priori when these words bleed from desirable lips. I will tear off the white petals. As I write this, free form and fluidly as it comes, I question the limits of riffing off these central/neutral white bodies because I must necessarily admit a kind of inferiority. Subversion is often contingent on perpetuating (or mirroring) the very stereotypes and violence you want to critique. We see this with Josephine Baker and the ways in which historians will undermine her agency and self determination. I long not to reinforce but to rupture. I am black. I am blue. Blackness is the absence of colour. This is a black and blue elegy. We will be on a hill near fields of tall grass on a vast farmland. I am daydreaming of a small procession where experiencers can engage with me and follow me. Do I begin to walk backwards so that I am always facing them? Facing my loves and tormentors? Will I trip? My foot is fucking broken (literally) and it aches. But bigger than the aching this fracture can ever be - I’ve been thinking about how I can charge my escalating, racing, sadness (and withdrawal from friends, lovers, would-be-lovers and family) on the harsh realities of global anti-blackness (and how other bodies might enter or connect to this pain whether that be through indigenous genocide, the migrant experience of displacement, or occupation elsewhere). What I endure is normal, it is everyday, it is clandestine and insidious precisely because it is everyday. I/We endure. We smile lightly. These are my “pedestrian movements”. They are “everyday movements”. Even the sweetest most perfect lips would agree. In the beginning of my performance I will face the audience with my mouth full of daisies and I will begin to sing an elegy. An elegy for my siblings in the struggles. As I sing, with my mouth full, I will proceed to take the flowers out one after the other. I will hold the first flower and pull off the petals one by one. Slowly. Slowly, I will still be singing. I’ll be singing and wailing the entire time until my mouth is less full and the words more clear. The blues will come out until I come to the last flower. The last daisy. I will pull the petals off…love me so, love me not, love me so, love me if only for a moment. Perhaps for a moment, in the world I daydream of, there will be reclamation and affirmation of love, self love and our bodies having value. To be less than human hurts. It kills. And maybe I don’t even want to be human. I wouldn’t understand it. Could you be loved? Could you be loved? That is all. Gestural. Not didactic. But haunting. Sensuous until we are all still… Until I fade. The way the blues must be.
Appropriation versus Not Appropriation, a binary I accept.@7 hours ago with 1 note