Jumping Some One Else's Train...

We may have shared the darkness together, but this does mean that we are in love. It does not mean that we were made only for pleasure, nor does your voice in my ear assume intimacy. I may trust life less than theatre, but I do not ascribe equal reality to happenings in both spaces.

I am wearing your headphones and sometimes I am watching you. You reveal a memory that may or may not be true. You are busy, you are busy playing the game of boundaries. By resisting the conventional in performance, you may be challenging the perception of the form. This does not give you permission to challenge the nature of the real.

I think I understand your questions. I think that you are recollecting the nature of being incarnate. Against this, you claim that "outside, we are dying of boredom." I am not. I am dying of  fear, of hunger, of sleeplessness and the wrong chemicals entering my body. The theoretical space, virtuality, the metaphysical planes. These are not deadly. These are not real. They are fictions and while they have their own orders of coherence, but are not equal to brute physical existence.

Is it escape that you are requesting? Is it a call to arms, to the sensual touch, the remembrance of the rewards given by desire consummated?

Can I decode your meaning, or is any assumption I make privileging a particular path through your monologue. When you pull down your pants, I am not sure whether it is signifier of violence or eroticism. The single tear than runs down each cheek, painted by your mascara, could be sweat or grief. You may be prerecorded. I may be struggling with ideas of authenticity and, as you note, it is impossible to know what I am thinking as I listen to your speech.

You intrigue me. You tantalise - theatrically, I hasten to add. We sit in the dark. We listen to your voice. Your thoughts meander. It's all so dreamy. It's all so seductive and seductive to somnolence. I wonder whether you wrote these words. I wonder whether you believe your statements. I cannot assess the truth of your claims. I have no language to explicate your philosophy.

I can only reject my habitual path, the concise analysis of intent (my own faulty reading of same), followed by a few descriptive passages, the lining up of your worth against other performances of similar price, scale and intention and opportunity. You encourage the body to float free and recognise the experience that happens within. I cut the bindings of my profession and float free of the review. We may meet. Nothing ever happens twice.



Summerhall, 10 -26 August