Tuesday, December 02, 2014

now taking requests...

i saying in front, this post may feel erratic. but i figure few enough people reading and if i content to write it, well, is my blog, ent?
so, someting fun las' week, i in the car, alone, en route to rehearsal (the museum of difficult women performance was vibes) and they finally (finally!) play naughty by menace, sorry, m1 on the radio, which, by this point, i waiting on days now, and i get to take in them verses properly, and lemme tell yuh, halfway in, mr.menace, sorry, m1 had me blushing in the car all by meself! he hadda get big-up. he get on bad dey...
someting not fun las' week: asshole police. now i wasn' there; he tell me the story immediately after it happen but i wasn' actually there and i talking from memory, but that doh change this fuckery...so we rehearsing@ the bigblackbox in the blackyard maybe 9pm-ish the other day, tech week for continuum dance project's 10th anniversary production of sonja dumas' new ballet the museum of difficult women, and chinee on lights; he need to get some nex' equipment so he+roger walking the 3blocks back to lil house to jump in the car and go, in the neighbourhood roger living+working(+walking+running) in over 20years now. between the blackyard and lil house police roll up on them for a stop+frisk and roger find heself up against the wall, hands spread above he head. he point out they eh do anyting to warrant this treatment and get talk 'bout his all-black kit, including tam+hoodie (not up/on) and how if he only put up his hood he would look like a bandit. roger, of course, point out the obvious, that while wearing all-black+hoodie might be someting a bandit would also do, doing so does not necessarily or automatically make him a bandit. he even bother to explain that he in the arts, walking the few blocks from the venue he runs and operates from, to his home of many years to carry the lighting technician (and them done suspicious of chinee wrench hanging offa he pants) for equipment and we who work backstage in theatre wear all-black on purpose for the job...only to be told he have a right to carry a change of clothes so he doh end up in the street in all-black looking suspicious. because apparently it eh just police, is fucking fashion police we have out here now.
i cyah even pull together enough words for my outrage at this kinna profiling; all you doing is walking down the road; how the fuck the police could tell you what you can+cyah wear?! black clothes illegal now?! this is the shit that make me irate. this is why i have to immediately go in the opposite direction anytime i see police, because my arse will get in trouble when i lose my little mind the day they give me some fuckery like that to hold. better roger than me, yes...
[related thoughts?] my whole life i know myself to be bigger than i apparently am. i know i take up space. plenty space. i fill a room; when i enter my presence is felt through no effort on my part, i just being, but i occupy space and exert a force. i solid. i am a performer audience members are shocked to discover the offstage size of. and i eh know where this disconnect come from but the disconnect slowly becoming clear to me; i watching footage+photos of me onstage nex' to people i consider my size and seeing myself petite. i confuse. i know i bigger than that, i feel bigger than that, i am bigger, i bigger than that! but then i see more photos+footage confirm my tinyness...my dancing as big as i know meself to be, but my actual physical self, is small. i am distressed. i find lately i have to be careful i doh dance off all my cushiony parts and get skinny or i feel like only half a person. who is this little female dancing out my liverstring? i wonder if this confusion is like what gender dysphoria feel like; all i know is, it very disconcerting to suddenly find oneself not large enough to support one's lifelong invincibility complex...
and maybe said complex is wha's prompt me to do ting like read a brand-new, completely unvetted story in front an audience, and now this: sweet trini's urban folk tales, now taking requests!
i figure, i like to experiment, love a challenge as part of the writing process, and need/want/will be writing more, so why not truly challenge meself? so i taking writing/fiction requests and/or triggers [re:triggers, search blog for "fff"/"flash fiction friday" (buncha numbered triggered-story posts)] with the promise of writing to suit; and yes, i'd consider non-fiction requests but reserve right of refusal and will write@discretion (mine) only. so wha' you feel to read? request via comments...
and on that note, i fall for this poem so instanteously i hadda share:

The Writers
(On constantly mishearing ‘rioting’ as ‘writing’ on the BBC)
There has been writing for ten days now
unabated. People are anxious, fed up.
There is writing in Paris, in disaffected suburbs,
but also in small towns, and old ones like Lyon.
The writers have been burning cars; they’ve thrown
homemade Molotov cocktails at policemen.
Contrary to initial reports, the writers
belong to several communities: Algerian
and Caribbean, certainly, but also Romanian,
Polish, and even French. Some are incredibly
young: the youngest is thirteen.
They stand edgily on street-corners, hardly
looking at each other. Long-standing neglect
and an absence of both authority and employment
have led to what are now ten nights of writing.
Amit Chaudhuri

walk good.
ps: and watch dimitris papaioannou's nowhere (in memory of pina bausch); how much can be effected with so little, such simple movement with such impact...


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