Skript/ #especes

Skript 140313: While watching an online version of the live performance, #especes, by Rosalind Crisp (Australia)

articulating, articulate bodies. four of them, no five. a black space. the lights go off and come on. come on and go off. articulating space. i feel a familiar rhythm of continuous movement, the torso caves in, ribs shift to one side, a leg lifts, toes splay outward and up. down to the floor, smoothly moving as if seamless, jointless. working in the fluid of the body, the fluid body goes to the floor without bone.

we stand together, you and i, a fast walking with arms somehow not involved, you do not involve you arms and we move together around one another as if we were, as if we are... squeek and flaps of feet on vinyl, the pace picks up, the movement resists me as the lights take you from me. feeling my way into your space, i am in darkness and now light, moving still. still moving. point and counterpoint. your arm lifts with the weight of a swing and soars over his head, his chest lifts and lowers, a gentle shake or is it heave. breath of effort. sound. some mechanical sound. my mind wants to make meaning. a toilet flushing. a machine for drying your hands in the toilets. why these imaginings? bodies. bodies do that.

i hear your breath as your torso collapses over straight legs. at home, yes of course, the warm sensation of the bodies plating out their own journeys. i sense the stories in them, me, the connection between me them, each other. They (dis)appear, i peek into darkness and a lift (or what sounds like a lift) rises and falls, entering the darkness, like an echo of their (dis)appearing.

The movement - half danced - arms and limbs not quite...quite their/there. reaching to drop, and as i write i feel the pauses and not quiteness of my own patterns.. my own hestitations pause. and move again. darkening the space the sound of a lift, how does a lift sound. a sounding lift. lifting sound. my heavy body weighted to my chair struggles to hear a sounding lift.

The lifting of bodies from the floor, but not into flight... a skimming across, through. i see my dance in their bodies, i feel my breathing in the searching (no not searching -- too direct) in the being in. just being, in the dark spaces. spaces mark the movement.

we find our way in space with our moving body or does the space mark itself out like we mark our movement. i see the space unfolding, retreating and re-appearing. i see you move in and with the spaces, arms, torsos, legs, heads...all jostling with the space, all equally drawing my attention. the jostling, wiggling between each other, between the detail of the fingers, legs over the head, toe coming in to contact...

the small small screen , the reflected light of the sun contrasting the depth of a not quite visible space. peering in, and down, dreaming in to what is escaping me in this space, small space.. perhaps that is what there is... all we have is what is there. and all i have is what is here. i dance. my torso rises and falls. my hands move across the keyboard as if a hand were a full body, complex articulations appearing and disappearing. i dance.

I am drawn to his dance and her belly -- which i notice only fleetingly (but love). he encloses his arms, crosses the legs one over the other.. his fluid yet stillted moving - like, well like what? like a bird..not in flight but hopping, walking the stuttering turn of the head. I imagine myself not here,, not here with a small image on screen, but in the space... i try to dream into the being there... it has a low ceiling and a wide space, corners i cannot quite see. the sounds vibrate like a background drone... in my imaging of the space of the dance i shift with them, and like them don’t soften into, but tease and test around the other... following my own path.