Improv #1
Exit-ing. We start as steam but quickly lose parts of ourselves to rubble-- bits of stone and gravel rumble 'round our valve, as steam-- moistureless steam-- escapes us. We stream it. We struggle with the tiny opening-- how much transmogrification must we endure to pass from one space, from one moment, to another?
As we condense into more graspable form, we march-skip-stumble through a padded echo. Murmuring moaning like mimetic mice, we crawl and grope toward an obscured sun.
Improv #4
Hound. A hell-hound, distorted jaw, glaring cross-eyed at the moon. Hissing, howling, hounding toward the sky, our luminous ball of light strikes back: hound-moon discourse sounds like waves of static undermining an articulation of horror. Yet once they open up this channel of communication, unforeseen moments of serenity, of ecstasy, reveal themselves. Chipmunks chew through the telegraph cords, nesting, making evil love among the fraying strands of wire; yet their vile chattering and hissing are punctuated by patches of prayer-like swoon, their stretches of cacaphonic infestation bridged by meditative vibratto, all elapsing in lengthening periods on a bed of softly coiling noise.
1 comment:
or "a prolonged hesitation between sound and sense."
- Valéry
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