writing during a performance

Gwrando showing some of their Capeli work at Capel Y Graig

[this means I was not perhaps as attentive as I should have been - can't read all of my scribbles]

This chapel smells like a catholic church. It didn’t last week.

An hum de run
An hum de run
An hun
Anhun
They are almost singing the word
they are almost chanting the word
they chant their song on the word
a mumble of speech on the word
[it is Pentecost, it is an almost singing]

Horseback now it has been deconsecrated although situation there are many don’t come financially corrugated iron overlooking the valley clean and fresh bright light keep chapel Sunday school celebrations we found to you trees marriage certificates pools of daisies the problem of capel also the service every Sunday throughout later this chapel sun he opened up for us the chapel itself inside the health and safety bars more best acoustics builders meant to have finished hadn’t thick dust spray polish silence shuffling whispering there was a murmur some intrigue he was waiting thinking fresh flowers the chapel inside very impressive of whom he is the carpet complain it used to be three hundred by the first time the cleaners arrived so much dust sound is wonderful vibrations rudely interrupted.

The insistent heart beat and the preacher punching the air

Great to pedal
Swell to pedal




www.gwrando.org

V V V

The multiple split book that meets at the fold, the one fold many times repeated. Only in our heads can we imagine this whole by imagining the pages sliding into each other, meeting at the fold. A projection of light images fired into the same space allowing a sliding into but not mingling not merging, they still need their distinct pages but allow blanks to be filled by the fullness of pages. Still that hint whisper of the blank of the nothingness of the silence
Beginning

after, in the wake of...crwydro'r byd

one speaks while hearing one’s own speaking, wedding the self and sound as a singular event... since the voice is capable of being internalized at the same time as it is externalized, it can spill over from subject to object and object to subject, violating the bodily limits upon which classic subjectivity depends (LaBelle, B. (2010). Background Noise. New York/ London: Continuum)

The voice is also felt in the body: it vibrates, through breath, in the diaphragm, the folds of the vocal chords and in the eardrum.

Words that desire to be said, that cannot be said, not publically said. The unsaid is part of us is held, holds us. Words woven into a nest that sits in the hand, long string imply possible future weavings. Words made material, 3 dimensional, words safe enough to give to you – but silent, unreadable words. I also give my words to a stranger [ripped into strips, rearranged, retyped, remade], he sits back to back with me, reads my fragmented words, I cannot see him, I can hear his voice as he spills his/my body out, I feel my words as his rib cage resonates against mine. Self and other.

I embody the words. I disembody the words – hand them over, both readable and unreadable, I re-embody the words both feeling/hearing them come back to me and as I weave. I hear and feel my words but do not speak them.

also see

scribble scribble

a poem or a drawing?

Ysgwydd

I've done it! Recorded a sound piece and uploaded it onto SoundCloud
Ysgwydd the sound
and the script

finding wings....

meaning in the poetic

It is poetics that can sometimes impart meaning...meaning that cannot be gleaned from more "unpoetic" writings. Came up with this thought whilst discussing translations of the bible with an anglo-catholic parish priest via Twitter. So these internet time wastes/side tracks are not such time wastes after all...

Dw i’n crwydro’r byd yn chwilio am nghrud

This was turned into a perfomance piece shown at Beyond text: making Unmaking at The Centre for creative collaboration, Kings Cross, London. I wove and sitting back to back with me was a man reading the text I was weaving but in a unmade remade state (it included the text shown below that is folded into the cradle. We weave our complicated lives. Behind the smile can be layers of grief, anger, loneliness. Vice versa that grumpy faced person might secretly enjoy life. Perhaps if a person goes through therapy they can unload some of the stuff. But also it is this stuff that makes us, forms us. Do we hold it or are we held by it? I print out my words onto old paper, paper that might be from my childhood, could be as old as, even older than, me. (The modern printer doesn’t like it.) It is torn lengthways and woven onto a warp of string…I have so many balls of string. These two and a half fragile pages become something else, a form, a cupped shape. I knot the warp threads then turn it inside out. Where the paper has been pressed against the card loom it is smoother. I present something smoother to the eye. I can hold it in my hand, something that can contain, something that contains in itself. Text textiles Weave leave weft left leave behind what is left? shown but hidden public but private domestic inside is a record of two strips, justified. A record of all the strips shuffled, of whole words, is made....this can be read out should I perform the making. With great care it might be possible to unweave it and make something of the written text. But then the container would be lost. The idea to create the “cradle” and the text to use for it came simultaneously. I wanted thin paper for practical reasons but also realised that I had the old typewriter paper and that it probably at least matched me for age, it was relevant. Fine paper, the sort of paper that was used for a duplicate on a typewriter, a trace a ghosting. A life time of weaving my tale, a tangle of warp that could take some more weft.
a longer piece of writing about this work will follow......eventually also see here
I have previously used the theme of wandering the world searching for my "nest" .
Dedicated to Rheinallt H Rowlands R.I.P.