Anyways, I’m sitting in the garden, looking at you porsche cap, not sure if it’s a comment or just a mistake. You brought me a very bad book and a very good one, and I am yet to decide which one to borrow.

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You keep telling me I must stop being a thief, I must stop stealing berries and ideas and start behaving wisely. You write me a poem about when we were lovers, I thought you had forgotten that we used to be lovers. I tell everyone it was for a weekend but I was obsessed for months. I had been involved in submissive acts, working as a performer, doing whatever I was supposed to do. At the time I took part in a voice work course that was  a cult. We fucked with our nervous systems and since then, in addition to most of my life, I have been utterly confused. I’m continuously grasping threads of dirty thoughts dripping out of my ears, nostrils and more common mucus membranes. Unruly malevolent utterances sizzle through the thin abyss between each tooth – and I dance because I don’t know how to be polite or how to keep a respectful distance.

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There’s nothing but poetry, in the way you’re facing me and I’m facing the floor, swinging my hips from side to side, releasing the space between my lowest and second lowest rib, some old mans perky fingers penetrating the space between bones: you’re still tense here. I love this kind of direct feedback, I pay for it. I get paid for avoiding it, in safer spaces, I’m kind too.

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Generally, I’m not kind but loving, I love tenderly and endlessly. I look through eyeballs, drowning in gaze and gays, over and over again, desperately and with dedication. I am yours, if you so wish. All whats mine is yours, if you so wish. And then I move on to the next move. There’s an abundance of dances out there, remember to tap in to them.

 

 

My practice is to arrive. I keep arriving, in different constallations, on different stages, sometimes on paper, but mainly like this, here, taking up just enough space to get attendance but not get in your way. I love virtuosic dancers, virtuosic musicians, ruthless writers. And then I choose the clumsy clichés and ugly moves. I love slipping and dripping in multiple directions, in fact I know no other way, sometimes I try to follow a path but get mislead by popsongs and cute dogs.

I am in the service of art, I choose it as if it was a choice, not a passion. You don’t choose your passions, you just simply give up your family’s dreams of going to business school or some other real place.

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I keep showing up, materialising the imaginary, again and again, obsessed with contemporary artists and their works, wanting to take part, be a part. I gather all confidence that’s gatherable and burst, can I join? And the maddest of moments, the silliest of sights, the most marvelous of all wonders, is that most often when you ask if you can join, you can. Help yourself, make new friends. And if you can’t you start a club of your own.

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Here’s mine. You are so very welcome.

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