The hoard
moves above her, swarming-- rhythmic. She moves, pointing through it, waving past it.
It moves, buzzing multiplicitous terror, alarming unity-- she pulls, pushing hole, resisting this force of the swarm. It insists, encircles, forms an insect-mirror for her; she moves past it, comes to haunt it with her soma.
She pushes it, angular, forward, forces fresh reciprocation, forming corporeal street signs that all come to meet it. She allows it to engulf her, insect-fan her into fevered slumber; drunken, she pushes walls aside-together, renders wings from nought but air, allows the swarm to form new wind-- wing at each heel, she breathes its rhythm, sings electric, pounds percussive pounds of flesh. Synchronic, pound for pulsion, she-it-they-her, he-we-him.
An ocean, wave by roiling wave she laps the final him of it, flesh-foam of movement, rubs us back to skin.
Asimina Chremos (movement and voice) and Carol Genetti (movement and voice), Outer Space, Chicago, 8/8/09
Feel the weight of this intricate, furred machinery: cogs and coils, belts and whistles, grind together, tense-intensing. One metal part follows another, snapping, squeaking, hurting, heaving-- a machinic Nutcracker nightmare unfolds in sneaky pairs, only to ebb as self-lingering tone.
One by one, parts mean themselves off into singularities, moaning against context until muscles scream-- render themselves hoarse-- breaking into stubborn idiosyncrasy.
In rending itself from the machine, a part stretches, lengthens, vibrates over, grows alone-ly into pattern. You can feel it when your finger runs across it: subtle scary ribbing multiplies itself out as it feels, extends its pattern through reflexive contact.
Folding back along its form, unknowing stretch of a de-structured mouse machine, it grates along across, back down its ribbing as it feels, taking quiet creaky care as it back-folds, building nests of breath and hair into each strip of involuted corner. Nesting leads to breeding, tiny Nutcracker exchanges, quickened amorous pliés of infestation take it, waking, into life.
One by one, parts mean themselves off into singularities, moaning against context until muscles scream-- render themselves hoarse-- breaking into stubborn idiosyncrasy.
In rending itself from the machine, a part stretches, lengthens, vibrates over, grows alone-ly into pattern. You can feel it when your finger runs across it: subtle scary ribbing multiplies itself out as it feels, extends its pattern through reflexive contact.
Folding back along its form, unknowing stretch of a de-structured mouse machine, it grates along across, back down its ribbing as it feels, taking quiet creaky care as it back-folds, building nests of breath and hair into each strip of involuted corner. Nesting leads to breeding, tiny Nutcracker exchanges, quickened amorous pliés of infestation take it, waking, into life.
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