performance 3/2/2010

Head pounding since I got home, a thud thud softening my thoughts into a muck of n’importe quoi. But no time for such things. Never a minute, or a second. There’s a drummer waiting in the atelier smoking a cigarette with the neighbor and the rest of the gang are expected any second. I’m making tea for everyone. Herbal for me. I can’t take any more caffeine or I’ll explode.

They pile in like the start of the parade with their instruments and amps, and there’s the painter with his acrylics and brushes and too much energy. And they’re off. There’s a good funky melody unwinding like a slinky gaining velocity down broad steps of rich brown wood. The clink-clink-clink still building in speed and volume and the artist swipes a thick black paint brush across the canvas forming shadows that remind me of a late night hurrying home from China Town, New York. Cold night, festive mood, just flowing out of a friend’s apartment after a good potluck dinner and too much wine.

Now the music building and the oranges and yellows and reds and illuminated pinks being splashed and flung across the canvas send me soaring above china town and dropped with a thud through the ceiling of this atelier in a dirty southern French city. A splash of cerulean Mediterranean blue like the savage sea embracing us in its choppy waves moving to the sound of the band. Green rain, scratches in the paint bursting city lights and water into flames. A splash of the shallow ocean off the white sand of Boracay in sun illuminated blue-green, midnight purple and the music lingering for a moment on a series of chords, descending and suddenly building again. White paint on the frozen cement floor and the painters fingers covered in thick paint finger printing the rest of the story of our journeys.

Colors on the artists clothes and spilling out into the cold air moving to the rhythm and the music slows and breaks in a roll of vibrations and silence…

experiment with jb, stream of conscious

Silent Sunday suspended between Christmas and New Year’s. The blue sky shine’s as brilliantly as it ought to in southern France and the recent chill foreshadowing the beginning of winter has passed
Far outside and a few days previous, it’s snowing in my heart like it once snowed in the city. What is this sadness shooting through my chest, the sweet sound of the snow on the ground and on the roof… This is the snow’s melody. It cries without reason in this heartless heart, so what! No treachery, this death is unknown in the falling wonder if snowflakes, falling, falling until they hit the beginning of the sky where no one dreams of flying. This is the most sadness not to know why without love and without hate my heart is so sad. In a vacuum is contained the shadow of the world when it was born and through the decades carried until a gentle day in December when no one was listening anyway to the sounds that never did exist.
And through the window shot 40,000 reflections shattered like embers dying. The fire dancing above the forest winds the blank slate of my imagination in despair and stamps out dreams until they melt into splinters and disappear, vanish into the air that breaths the weight of memories clung to then lost. The landscape weeps and recounts the story of nothing much really.
Water breathed over moss spread across the floor composes a sweet melody, crying lightly to seduce discretely, weightless floating, endless twirling, drawing you inside a silver cavern carved in the towering height of the mid-day illumination wafting faintly through a soft blanket of white.
Sitting loosely on the wood paneled floor in a check of sunlight, spread out upon the Sunday comics in color only once a week, content and smiling, not so much at what she reads but more at the perfection of late morning when little exists outside the scent of pumpkin pie baking and the sound of thawing crystals dropping light upon the balcony.
Thus the eventless non-events unfolded not so very long ago in a kingdom in the mountains. Still no happening has wrapped her up and carried her farther but nestled in the simple mattress, fingernails sprinkling chipped red sparkles two weeks old across a keyboard and Django distracting and inspiring behind the headboard imagined.

performance 12/29/09

In this momentary explosion of everything and nothing expressing an inside impulse of four people in a room. They play on forever and why not? What’s out there beyond that double glass door can be seen in here, compacted into a capsule of what makes our heart beat… Making shapes in the rhythm of our breath, that become letters and words and memories and experiences. Or maybe it’s just the paint fumes making us high. All that goes on here that will never be watched, only imagined. What happens anywhere that will never be seen… All some kind of expression in the dark, in a moment now then gone. Still the thumping low round strumming of a base guitar and the light tac-tac of my acoustic played always by someone other than me. But carries us anyway far away or drives us further into the ground.