Documentary footage and text for performance, 2012.

It was on the last day of documentation.

Between tying the strings and cutting them.

Where that feeling became a regular occurence.

Place yourself in a container, spin, reduce. You are home grown, cultivated, disastrous. Your mastery is just so endless. Permit yourself to two extra conversations an hour. Please yourself. Reach your hands out sideways and slide them beneath another human being. Don't explain yourself.
An addiction.

We stand against two places, our left feet slightly elevated on paving slabs. A gaze turns into a stare after too long, and it empties itself of any kind of resolve. Feeling ten things for two routes, I can stand, and resolve myself within it. The first person, they do lines they say, 'let us do this eternally outdoors', free in a lawless state of contradiction. They forget, they misplace, and step upwards onto stage. The other, they place cold hands in warm places, they stretch one arm into the soul and the other into psychiatric assistance. Look to the left for guidance.

One man with a tall face, wearily disheartened cufflinks, can step thirty feet away from the future, one night before taking it in his hands. And run the paint parallel across self-made boundaries.

But we are ordinary. We are the boundary. Look to the right for answers.

Shutting eyes to force back the images of days that give clarity, absolute clarity of what meaning is. Meaning is meaning is meaning.

For the difficulties I am, for the edges that we suffer. Taking into ourselves, a deep step of alcohol and misery, to gain the other side, the mutual wisdom of inebriated sufferers, against five meaningless conversations. There is clarity in the silence of not knowing. There is more comfort in the lack of categorisation. Keep us free from these edges, this billowing smoke, and its poison who suffers every individual relentlessly.

Hammering nails

It's a strange set of ambitions
Your houndstooth collar
Your uncollected ephemera
Plastering my walls, forgetting the concrete
The flaking of paint
The circles in your eyes
The ring light, the capture
And an escape into lights I imagine, I imagine so. You, sir can be rigid peacefully without ever touching a pair of hands.

Desperate inventions for the masses.

Leaping from buildings and counting to ten, surviving six flights and failing just one.
I can stand here daily, blissed out on malnutrition and panegyrising all the substances in my bloodstream. Your saviour! My saviour! We share ourselves in the most vulnerable circumstances, in whispers, fragmented and for five minutes only. A durational crack in the building in between earthquakes for us to push buttons and seek answers.