last Words and Deeds class for this series, tromped around softly in a huge blue bag

all i had to do was be inside it. shuffle around the studio floor. when normally what i do is gravitate toward miniatures, as a way of crunching up, a tiny triangle of life outside gravity. (for a body that feels best in the moments before it gets out of bed, when it is still half asleep even, awake enough to be open to life, but unconscious enough to be exempt from muscle and bone) inanimate, figurina sleep.

(am not unaware of my grandfather's voice in my head, invoking a WC Fields tone to say "If you don't drink, well...when you get up in the morning, that's the best you gonna feel all day." Somatic classes are the only thing between me and the full espousal of this statement.)

a dark blue rice sack. like a bed-in-a-bag. this is what i have failed to explain to my counselor--Words and Deeds has made it more possible for me to approach new ways of being alone with my embodiment--as in, in my head with. while sustaining a connection to a web of dancing/performing/investigating others. a way to sleep while really awake.all i had to do was explore being recumbent and vertical, baggily. and approach Abby who was making her red wire-and-mesh laundry basket palpitate, a sacred redundant dumb responsive organ.

all these props, lit up from the inside with Violet Juno's animistic instructions. everyday objects beg her to take them home.  to her students--the kid kids i guess--she says things like "Your understanding of art is deepened by your engagement with recycling".

Harold and i were somewhere on the kid kids side of the spectrum as far as students go tonight. vast rigorous silliness. we were supposed to be watching each other give stream-of-consciousness monologues, the listener also noting the speakers gestures and turning that into a score. but everything was hilarious. and there was that curious inversion that i noticed through the whole Words and Deeds series--in which some of the movers (the dancer folk) seemed to become entranced by language while the word people (the writers, etc) fell out of language and were happy to stay there. so Harold spoke and i did not track his gestures exactly, not in language. i felt them in my body as the rise and fall of tone, the swish of intention/worry/exclamation. but when i tried to reflect them back to him, my body could not do the things his body did. so i found i could map them as a poem. ( i was returned to words differently. "recovery from language", per Violet's website). poem made up of his real words, but really,a topography of cadence.

he went kind of like this:

[starts off silently though his mouth is moving and he is talking]

eyebrows up and up and down up and down down 

   once i saw this performance lecture and big words big words and i don't know why  ___________people have to use big words and i
    was taking notes but really i was like wah wah wah drawing and i am thinking
  of your reading series and what would i read do i read, i would need to write, but do i write? i would like to write but i am a DANCER
    and oh but i did a performance too and we put on glitter, hella glitter hella hella hella glitter
  i love violet juno



To this tonal poem score recorded from Harold, I silently added--writing it on the giant piece of red construction paper where we were writhing:

                hearty heartsville





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