Recently I caught a production of Maresa Von Stockert's dance theatre piece Marjorie's World Unhinged. This was a fascinating and very artistic exploration of the suffering of dancers (mainly ballerinas) during lengthy training. It acted as an expose on the values of youth, "beauty" and the current obsession with being thin.
"Marjories World" also utilised video in dramatic and varying ways. During the "after show talk" Maresa Von Stockert made it clear that the aim of the piece was to question the notion that one has to quit professional dancing by the age of 30! She used dancers who were over 30 (2 of them were well over 30!) as well as younger dancers. The acrobatics of the older dancers left no doubt in my mind that top level dance is possible at virtually any age.
Joy Constantinides was phenomenal, playing an aging ballerina, falling to the floor and hanging upside down from a table! Max Reed was also amazing as the protagonist's husband. He revealed a sad, obsessive existence, punished by bosses for being, well, over 30! He also danced with vigor and creativity.
Laura Cadlow, Natalia Thorn and Matthew Morris were the younger dancers (Morris a little older than 30!). They all impressed, utilising Von Stockerts cerebral and humorous choreography, with incredible feats of strength (Cadlow dancing under and over a bar) beautiful imagery (Thorn dancing with 4 balloons tied to her limbs) and Morris dancing in a variety of ways, at one point dancing while putting on a dress!
Maresa Von Stockerts choreography is at times "psychoanalytic" and undoubtedly experimental. However, if you go to see one of her performances don't expect a dull, impenetrable exercise in how to baffle and piss-off an audience. Her choreography delights by being bold and aggressive. Von Stockert has an eccentric sense of humor, that never dwindles, even during the weightiest or saddest moments. Her experiments with video are notable, particularly the sequence involving Cadlow holding a mini video camera with her toes and slowly dancing with it. Her image, shifting and changing with the position of her foot, was projected onto the main screen, while unpretentious commentary examined her fears of aging, being fat and not being beautiful enough.
It is unsuprising that Maresa Von Stockert is causing a stir, with her brand of choreography, that is entertaining, intelligent, experimental and humorous. Her themes not only deal with abstract ideas, but embrace problems that affect us all, leaving the theatre goer with plenty to ponder after the show. And you won't leave without a few laughs!
L'arene chance! Strangly, as time shifts or, one could argue, expectedly, if one were inclined to do so, time although mottled and hued, acts as an indicator of assemblage (via perception) rather than the assemblage its self or its causation.
Time causes assemblage to splinter and crack, to redefine its splicing, to follow the creative timbre of perception.
Time, as we know, is non-existent, however it is a notion that corresponds to animate, human consciousness. Therefore we can take it that time is existent, atleast to human experience and this misapprehension is necessary, in one shape or form, for human understanding/life.
So, leaving time aside, perhaps seeing it as "flow" like a subatomic particle that passes through things, through people, we are left with assemblage, perception, the Internet and the Theatre.
The playfulness of the Internet experience, that questionable "I"; a place, surely not mon amis (!) leads my thought to shift from one intent, my intended intention to a happenstance intention, one brought about via the virtual world.
It is odd how assemblage, in this sense meaning corresponding ideas and things that assemble in some such way, and then with the passing of time/flow, reassemble in some other way..... It is odd how the stuff of this assemblage, by this I mean the instinct towards creativity, or ideas and their practical execution (things or movement) (tangible expression), alters its definition and outward form, yet the intrinsic stuff (creativity) that is expressed alters very little.
I make no apology for my use of dance-terms, such as "flow", "form", "shift", etc. to express my comprehension of time, assemblage, perception, the Internet and the Theatre. Dance is a very human form of expression, at once apprehensible and deeply evocative. In her book "To Dance is Human" Judith Hanna writes "When dance is suppressed for moral, religious or political reasons, it rises pheonixlike to assert the essence of humanity." Its current popularity would naturally flow then!
By this I refer to the increasing urbanisation of British culture, the increasing change and ever-increasing technologization of Western life and the political and economic malaise and stagnancy of Western life. There are of course, a plethora of other reasons why dance is the current "obsession".
As these notes grow in shape, content and form, ideas, freestyle, occur and the playfulness of Internet writing reminds me of the playfulness of dance, its bodily necessity and bodily enquiry.
The Internet, a fickle and dramatic computer "world", once again, emphasizes the human need to perceive something as humanly explicable, metaphorical, communicable and malleable.
The Internet, of course, is nothing more than electronic connections, shared computer space, a function of human creativity. Yet, being human, to us it is a "virtual world", something intriguing, full of intellectual and practical possibilities.
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Yes I've stuck a creative commons license on the blog. If you look at the foot of the blog u can see it there.
I've put this license on the art/text works on this blog to protect everyone's copyright (ownership of their own work) and to allow collaboration. In other words anyone can use anybody else's work, as long as they give them credit. I've selected Non-Commercial use only, because not everyone may be happy with people making money out of their work???
Anyway, basically everything remains the same, collaboration, and rights to your own work. The only difference being, that this is validated legally. I know some members know about creative commons licenses, but for those who don't...
Anyway, I hope everyone OK with this, if you're not let me know :-)
p.s. If you click on the creative commons logo it will tell you more about it.
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I suppose that this liquid in poetry at the sense that it is imaginative prose i feel continuously that text reminds me of the dance floor and the quizzical athletic enquiry of the body's flow to regard the stillness and character of the world Jack would find syllables falling embrace imaginary teeth incantation the hair accustomed sight tanned the train midnight spray signaling pearls leftions passing ‘imating passions left jaw‘hundred old orange Jack wood find a brick for a bridge suddenly his ear this text is a collaboration between Harry K Stammer Crescent and Robert Chrysler as the grey nights frown pushed the illusive hued day visible invisible under the side of its weight the night he would find the bleakness of white silver gold sun drenched echoes of off ether in cloud form rude light masks of elephantine motioned photography I don't know Robert Chrysler but I dig the poem, y'know so I thought that I would chuck bits of Robert's and Harry's collaboration into my poem "Jack Would" inexpensive alternative to (copyright) as creatures crawled into curling shells and and dreams turned in pictures cinemas escape the minds of authorial creation a copyright find three apples some tomatoes and a lettuce cucumber half jacket potatoes x3 cigarettes paper chicken pieces post letter mayonnaise a copyright stroke muscled purple slabs molecules soarsupine below cusps singing love's draped humming grasswatch and nothing doing and
I have no need for words I have no idea what they are I tell them that they're images and they chase me down the highways to refuse their meanings, they insist they are a refuge from americanisation western academicism the feminist tradition words need me, not even Noam Chomsky can help over literal, literally something more physical I challenge them with sound "you are just a manifestation of rhythm and meter a fluctuation of my breath" they wind me up with reasons why I am so aliterary. And when my stomachs fed and I'm reading the television another city bombed by Einstein's appalling legacy Now humour weighs our anxious position anchored by co-ordinate peculiar we' ve lethargy to blame for reasoned contradiction obstinate and unwilling for a wordless world of dancing men inconclusive even when knowing then
I no know words the evidence is apperition Sheila Murphy's procrastination parse shift touch words we use today to unscribe the condition of machinated lore I have no use for words they are not as full as feelings nor as studied as muscle in fact i have no time owns words the tongue to touch the plate the heart to fill the psychomotor to impede classical form in (i've been drinking again - notice the strain on the analytic faculties) the sounds that prevent my art from functioning you have schizophrenia with everglades of munchausens with dappled shades of learning difficulties by proxy inability to measure crime adequately morality is tape measure and petunias belt the sucks of leeches surreality is adequate treatment for the homeless condition per se honette homme being one of a refusal to accept benefits or dysfunctional accomodation otherwise we no give u none me son read protocol surrounding mythology Cornish gloves I'm really going to town saying something against a back drop off phase shift noise off fuck off gleen the remedy of dada is adequate provision to subscribe vertical to u a church house a karma krud Jimmy Page plays guitar major bauhaus to vorticism to erudite shit in a can bang bang-fuck etre-sex-etre-wank-etre-freud-error literature-slip-who?-Baudrillard- no you know woshisname levi strauss-no-you-know-'im-y'know-er-aw-you-know-Dr.Barnardo-no-french-chap-point-neuf-Oh-Jean-Paul-Gautier-non non non oh-bollocks-Oh yer mean Derrida - oui monsieur-but is he the real one captain tim to persephone footballers singing pop songs reveals the breakage of deconstructionism or the leakage of the slippage into(wards) the pars(onage) of the **faustian dislogic intrinsicity (sic) to piety revealing titty (page 23) or pathos (human condition in machines) twa (aristotlian maladaptation)
actions speek louders tha' words ladders are more wordy than speckles speekles are the orwellesque colloquial twang of the internet off line and gis you tongue da rest of course, and without authority (petty/pity/putty/pliet/pushy/shark/avant-garde/dark/ink-blot-test/matter of hands/bharatanatyam) my tea awaits me lavish green solidadis leaves a sprinkle of teeth my fathers dentures smoking guns i ciggarette to lace the twain twixt and avarice of time putting demands on my breaks
November city the sun sets at three o'clock i feel the need for romanticism but winter throws blow jobs to the cardy pigeon the business wedge of ethics in trucks blessed by hands that off swimming regionalise the voluntary sector leadership to munchausens specification did yer take your medication the dark nights studied and muted chance the bored trucks skidding lights to find somewhat similar to poetry in the tapestry of images corporeal and quite intangible this mind and body seperation I release something personal thro' a mobile phone perhaps the most intimate thing i've eva sed down the machinary of objectification the nurture of defeminisation the boldest love i eva had through pixels in a text message broken by disjointed signal i don't expect to meet you i don't expect i eva will your picture perfect or your picture is perfect do you have a webcam we can make out on line?
November city the sun sleeps at dawn the moon (an arse) draws ever closer as a shimmery wind trace, ecriture, downs syndrome, pear shape so i left. We should use words like parse and flow and touch, perhaps tether apparency, motion, body, chance shimmy this side of town (ghost) metaphors are things the statue of a centurian now a visionary cuts the cold like a shadow knife an appeture in the star light
our light is verse bodily tongued and phonetic speach fucking raw and gentle. To lose it now would be too soon. Too soon for chance to play its wild card frantic we must suffer to know bliss we must suffer to parse the coquette of misinformation the cock of money the bollocks of finance. perhaps splice the mother tongue forge the limbs and prettyness of neutrality
for chance by fucking limb to limb groin to groin lost in a thousand skies a penisof landscape
Some synergy is merely yeast. I have the numbers to prove commitments, rendering one growth likely to propel a next. The situation comedy that's least affordable is down time. Many mangers filled with prospects fail their first exams. Abstruse intentions pump prerequisites. Each diamond is comprised of chips bearing resemblance to chip seal. Frost aligned with glimmer thought equivalent to worth confuses hypothetical discussion. By now the field is filled with discussants who would like to close the deal. The necessary prose is left off scales. That means resentment is a safe enough detail to mask what fuels a deeper level argument. A yard sale might approximate a century. Or informal innocence. Why not convene this congregation in a shelter? Any covering will do, despite the temperature these days. Most of the participants will dress in white. And lawn light will have shaped the way each conversation sings its way into the psyche. Back and forth go dreams until they're spun into imparted speech that makes its way toward fact.
having claimed endorphins, now I revel in endorphins, now that the endorphins have come home to hide my sadness all the sadness has gone in, all pleasure is rehearsing each rehearsal has gone well and in mid-daylight every molecule comes forth and fingers the indicatives along the path my sadness, swollen only yesterday, goes quiet every time I find it having let endorphins be released I know now patches of the sun open to tips of light collected in the act of sun where all my sadness has gone flat symphonic bliss comes naturally the lithe tones limber as a trill repeat themselves in character respond to newfound selves each one myself each happiness a mist that softens sunlight whose own sunshine kin lives breathfully and even silence in the rest zone laces figures of new speech I claim to have allowed in with endorphins having learned release
This hay(na)ku was posted by me last year on as/is, so in that perspective it's a reprise. The new aspect is an experiment with a text to speech processor. I fed this t2s processor with the poem and added some images.