Researching cloths & masks .:. It’s hard to avoid looking sinister
A skeleton hand (@alexandermcqueen) creeps in over my defiant flowers… The eyes must smile back but, often, they feel like screaming
This need for 🎭 & physical distance is challenging my whole identity. I can only get out there if I’m ready to stop being me and enjoy instead the chance to ‘disfrazarme, enmascararme’ (mask up) & just act.
We must rehearse a different way of moving, of walking, of talking… We must dress up, exaggerate the edges of our pandemic props, become a character.
Theatres are closed but the streets are pure theatre. We wear our shields, our defence weapons and follow the marks on the stage (walk here, stop here). We must live through it and learn a few things.
Hay que disfrazarse, actuar y realizarse como personajes de tragedia. Sonreír y encontrar también, los acentos (terribles) de comedia
≈ Comments Off on A room of one’s own | or | Las Moscas
[Sound recording, as an extra treat… with a couple of sound ‘typos’, unedited out…]
Every time I go up to my study I hear the sound of flies
They accumulate. They gather against the window sill.
They dance, in a frenzy. They never stop
I see them dead. Six or seven at a time. I collect them, one by one, grabbing them by their wings. Delicate. They look ugly and precious.
They die and they breed. There are always more to come.
I do not know how they enter my space. What holes. What little doors remain open. Inviting. Enticing. Welcoming.
I do not go up my study often.
It is a beautiful perfect room. Covered in art & crafts flowers, lit by art deco lamps, warmed by exposed floor boards.
I worked hard at this space. Many helped me. Moulding it, from unpromising origins, into the perfect room of one’s own.
But perfect things are always flawed.
The sun does not visit often
The door does not close
The flies own it more than I do
Darkness and buzzing. This is my room
Gloom and dances
Shade and insects
A dream gothic corner. To concoct twisted fantasies. To horde made-up memories. To sit down and squint, listening – intently – at the regular deaths. Seeking the oblique lights of yet another absent sunset. Guessing the errors in the walls – that bit of paper that does not fully fit the angle; that flower that was unfinished, unintendedly deformed by a lazy crafting hand.
This room has a strange disorienting power. Perfectly failing to offer what I think I need. Probably offering what I should seek.
I avoid it.
Fabulous paper cuts accumulate on the floor. They are full of beasts. Full of gold and of leaves and of goblins.
The old chest of drawers harbours inks and dry pens.
Ribbons overflow out of that frustrated piano seat, the one that has not been put to proper use in fifty years. From music throne to bow-making box – is this a dignified ending for servile furniture?
Photographs. Many photographs tip toe over the inclined ceilings. They talk to each other and to the golden papers, to the inks and the ribbons and the wall flowers.
Often alone, all of these objects, these desires, these ingredients in the perfect dream of a study, of my room, they pursue lives of their own. They are splendid. What a marvel to behold.
And the flies go on and on, following their own business. Breeding. Dancing. Kissing the windows. Dying. They enter through the room’s secret holes, they line up, they lick their little feet, they enjoy the dust and the quiet in this perfectly flawed room. They wait for me to visit. They tremble and go zzzzzzz zzzzzing into the frozen view, into the dirty glass, into the tiny blind window, under the stiff and beautifully unloved lampshade.
I’ll sit down and admire this musty sight. This study of mine. A study where no studying occurs. Where no work gets done. But where fantasy lives flourish. The lives of abandoned pretty things, animated only through the relentless, buzzing dance of endless tiny impertinent intruders.
Go keep breeding and dying. Go kiss my wasted dreams. Go reign in the room of one’s own that I have never owned. This room that is mine but only you, dear moscas, truly know.
feet becoming leather becoming crust becoming a hard landscape a map of all these years all these roads all these ill advised shoes all of these pilgrimages to nowhere to being lost to escaping and inventing or better reinventing what is around what is inside what is below and everywhere and all of these runs sprints races against time and against the odds against demands that one imposes and follows and rejects and remembers and wants to avoid and hide from but then one returns to because it is all part of the same old big adventure and it is such a dare and such a wonder and it is so beautiful to be seduced by a city and another and it is ever so surprising to look again and realise this is the first time and this place is always new and changing while remaining the same and growing just like one just like me and adapting and embracing and kissing biting my feet that keep walking and racing and dancing along the pavements and the steps and the puddles and the mud that takes you out of the urban and into the absorbing forest and the water and the beach that is here also and is keen to shape and sculpt keep sculpting these feet that are now yes have become ancient creatures with a rugged mind and a body of their own
life’s bruises emerge through my teeth. all the ugliness the pain the holes and darkness concentrate there. amongst these tectonic plates. plates that move. but move slowly. they struggle in their contained space. in this mouth that is so unforgiving and so narrow for them. the mute beasts.
ivory monsters they are. silent and watching. rooted but wanting to get out. sharp sharpening. cutting through. pressing so much. in the corners. to the front. they want to move. they push forward. they reveal their hidden bodies. flesh withdraws. gums letting them get their way. very very slowly. like flowers you’ll never see them grow. never see them change. but oh they are scheming and gaining territory. yes they are.
this lazy gullible tongue sleeps inside them, unsuspecting. this tongue oozes her fluids and unwillingly, helps them. tongue helping my scheming dangerous teeth. these teeth who know so much of pain and fear. these teeth that have always been there. and want and need so much. and will use so much. and will win.
they will devour what is left of me. they will emerge the victors. in my mouth and out. they will crack my face open and transform flesh to precious living bone. they will grow and make of me a yellowing white mask. a living treasure. a crown sprouting from the inside. biting and gnashing. beautiful. terrible. primitive. unstoppable. t-e.e:t~h…
I sometimes wish I’d had a more exaggerated life. Reading about theatre divas in murdoch’s The Sea, The Sea I have been reminded of how much explosive drama has been missing in my life
This may just be a strange fantasy to have. Why idealise the thought of living in an operatic hell? I just read about ‘massive symbolic moments and operatic gestures” in connection with Andrei Zvyagintsev’s ‘Leviathan‘ and I guess I have liked the expression and what it conveys in my head. I had the same feeling reading Peter O’Toole’s obituary. A hunger, a craving for the excessive being that I wish I had (I dream I have) in me…
I love the idea of exaggeration. Of overdoing it. But, I must admit i mostly love it in my head, in film, in books. I cannot think of a single truly exaggerated person I have been able to stand (other than my wonderfully larger-than-life grandmother, perhaps!) Certain relatives (C code) and, god-forbid, that ‘I-wish-I-could-obliterate-from-memory XXX (I can’t even spell the name!!), these are people I cannot bear. So perhaps my love for the overly dramatic is just a rhetorical ploy. Or just a carefully managed inner persona that I only truly want to feast on in my imagination.
I should surrender to it in my writing. This could be a way of enacting my fantasy. The fantasy of an over-the-top, drama-queen me… … In love with all divas, as long as they are invented, acted, narrated on paper, drawn, sung, danced.
It is the gesture, the idea, perhaps, what matters most. The possibility of… the possibility of allowing oneself to be lost, to scream, demand… tener pataletas y tantrums… but always within the safe measure of the imagined, the carefully crafted, sculpted, designed, directed… faked?