New Year's Dragon

'In the east, dragon is originally the combination of more than 20 parts of different animals, with Camel’s head, rabbit’s eye, cattle’s ear, snake’s body, hawk’s claw and etc. It is the representative holistic hybrid creature, which means natural flow of energy. Dragon is a symbol of transformation and metamorphosis: continuous energy flow in nature.'



Semi Ryu, a Korean-American puppeteer with about many whirls round the philosphere has gotten me thinking (no discredit to her, but it's really not hard). Navigating performance studies is a bit like trying to fly that dragon. Today, my arse is sore and I'm not sure whether I'm facing a a camel, a chicken or an egg. Hybridity has manifested in alien sightings, multidimensional beings, great titles. I'm ready to unleash burny words on all who hunt commercial value.

Why puppetry? Why not. Something has to be pulling the strings. And the more I search around, the more I find that there the other philomancers have been busy theorizing links between virtuality and puppetry, and these are the links I am searching for. Plus, I want to go back to Tehran and study... any excuse. Then there are the shadows on the wall, the hammers that extend our powers, and something about avatars... playa names... I dunno. It's still up in the cloud.

As the beginning of the rest of my blog, this post is never going to be able to tell you everything I've been thinking about since the last time I 'blogged' (inverted as my March post was as close to blogging as whistling is to giving head). You'll never read how Tehran gutted me, how much I love churning cob with my bare feet, or just how crazy I went after rubbing liquid yoga all over myself at Burning Man. But it's ok, the (records of) funs start (again) right here...

Zaltash in, Zaltash out. Zaltash shaken all about.

Goodnight. RIP.

P.S. Sorry, but I today I also found Annie Sprinkle, and that is certainly worth remembering. Bit of PhD with your porn, sir?

Tongue

Last night I went...

This morning I saw...

The women...

The guards...

And many other such beginnings

To blog entries I will not complete.

Take your pick

Know nothing

Write it all out.

Pfffffffffffhhhhhaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kuZKbXNGDs4

No Barking

Cris is ever so good at regularly publishing his posts. He is also ever so good at expecting people to read them. I think I just post this shit so that if the shed roof caves in beneath the bonfireworks tonight, and I am found impaled on the tails of the beastly Crocosaurs and Robo-Dogs with which I share this 'room', when my slug-appareled, unplucked and unblown form is recovered from the dust of the big man's broken dreams, then one of the somebodies that knew me won't have to delve too far to see that, huh, you know what, she wasn't shit. Right up to the end, she was not shit, ya know?

How's that for posterity? I'll make it reallllllly easy for you not to forget about it.

No Barking

What use are baked eggs
in the morning?
Before coffee or doughnuts,
The acquisition of rest
Thwarted, recompense
Suspended in a jellyroll
Dial tone.

What use are pink pyjamas
in the evening?
When oil magnetizes wine
Plucked from the bare bones
Of an almost hairless chest;
Matrimony a matter of milestones
And memories.

What use is a lie?
Drawn up between two posts,
Each strung out nerve host
To the latest version
Of the last goodbye
That got away;
No barking,
No use.

Receding

This January, whilst trying to squeeze, squish and maim my round peg through London's various, interlocked and rapidly disintergrating square hoops, I wrote this. Promptly forgot all about it. But it's not rubbish, is it? xxx

Receding

Some trotters roughen
In delight, my mind
Coughs. Toughened toes’
Fair white hairs curling
In contented toil.
Chipped, chalky heels
Soldering sediment, stacking meals.

Amazed, by the parting ways
Of a horseshoe?
Slack shod concepts track
A jealous politics, a narrative
Of two looped misfunctions
And dispronounced frisson,
Running ten minutes late.

Nothing is typical in mirrors,
Votive facades, arrowed alcoves.
Five seconds silence
Rushes tough above,
Obscuring the passing
Fission of mutual accord,
Bloating those strong disappearing legs
With all you can’t take back.

Avoes

For Eric

For you to save these broken avocado shells
I'd throw the stone over the wish won rainbo.
Cos all shades meet change,
And all lights have hours, my friend;
Even mother-brother's sheltering souls.
The room fills up
With lavender cures.

What will we do now we can't smoke,
Or scream at the ceiling
For keeping us down?
You built me this bed
Out of quinoa and hope,
I missed the start
Now I must depart
From the rotting heart
Of you big bad nut gone wrong.

These darkest days are impenetrable.
This scribbled light can't scratch the surface
Of grief,
It's claws climbing flaws
Beneath,
Before,
Behind.
Be lungs, be bones, be spine,
Be nodes, be hips, be silent.
Be strong, be there, be kind.

The Shahnameh and Me (and you, and you and you).

There has been a call for me to start keeping a research blog on my work on this project, and especially how I think a feel about this work in the light of current political developments in the motherland (Iran, for those ever-imaginary new readers). Well, here's the first update - up to date and excited about taking you on a date some time soon:

I'm making a play. Again.

More updates to come! xxx