I've spent the weekend without Eleni.
She's been in Greece performing the piece we were touring, so I'm very jealous as well as lonely.
We're half way through the project and I can't believe how fast it's all gone. When you think a month, it feels like a long time, but it's going by so quickly! It's been a really good experience so far, it's so nice to have the time to concentrate on our practice, it feels like I've learnt more about myself and what I'm interested in, in the past couple of weeks, than I have in a long time. I think it's just the different way of working I'm not used to, me and Eleni are together all the time and always working towards a performance or creating something, but then there's the forty hrs a week at a shit job which depresses you beyond belief, to contend with at the same time. I think the head space and rest from 'up selling' side orders has done me the world of good.
I'm still not really sure what to write on a blog, when I read it back it all sounds so boring, can't imagine who else is reading it? But then I suppose it's just supposed to be a cathartic way to express myself.... I never have been too good with doing that with words.
There's nothing I really want to say about the piece? We've not really set anything yet, but it has been good having rules to work with, both of us find it easier creating material we find interesting, but alot of the links can be fairly tenuous and hard to find; having rules has at least meant the material we have so far, all has an under lying link.
I have a lovely rash on my face today, which is making me feel attractive. That combined with my inability to write any thing particularly interesting and the knowledge that Eleni is doing a radio interview in Greece, is all making me feel rather glum and self pitying.....god Bethanie get a grip , and stop writing stupid things that make you look like a tit..oh no can't stop typing rubbish!!!!!! Arghhhhhhhhh!
I will be 26 on Thursday. We're going to Blackpool.
We've been thinking of births, deaths and marriages for situations you both internalise and are bound by.
I'm going now as I'm even boring myself.
I promise to pray to Jesus for more chirpiness before bed tonight.
Waffle, waffle
Bethanie x
Monday, 14 April 2008
simone: beating the bounds ( with the patter of feet and fingers)
Having just spent too long constructing my writing into the imaginary border of Blackpools district, the bloggs seems to like a more linear approach. Therefore a straighter version for you all about my other visit to Blackpool. I already feel behind on my blogging status so i defeatedly give you my wandering thoughts and feet in a straight line of words. If anyone has any tips on how to be more adventurous in the layout of this blog please do send me some advice. It does not translate the constructed page onto the published post. I am apologising already, this does not put me in a favourable mood. A much more deflated version to follow...
I trace the border of Blackpool and highlight it on the map. i take a piece of string and measure the distance. Its about twenty miles, including the sea front. The thing that stumps me is that the border continues out to sea. I dont have a boat to follow that part of the border line. I stay on land. The beating of the bounds ritual is an action that was supposed to bring communities together, a celebration of us and the land we inhabit.
So i start here , where the sea starts / stops. its the North Pier. The sun is out. The concrete seperates me form the sea. KEEP OUT.
I talk to a guy who is fishing. He explains that he is on the corner of the wall. The Bass prefer fast flowing water.I watch it skidding around the shape of the wall. I like his tactics, but he says he has not caught anything for a month. The Codling season soon ( they get braver, come close because of the dirty water) then he will only keep the ones that look older than 5 years, otherwise he throws them back, got to keep the numbers up.
The old boating lake now full of tyres and go-carts still locked away in containers. The fisherman told me this place was completely flooded in the winter. I imagine the rusting go-carts floating in the darkness of the containers. What will the new season bring. We talk about the strength of the tide.
I think about the tide and how uncertain it seems to me here. I think about surfing and how dirty the water is, do people still go swimming here? is it safe? . This walk is making me miss the pembrokeshire coast, its clean water, quiet surf spots yet to be explored and its un concreted edges. Walking makes me too nostalgic sometimes. All these imagiinings and imaginary lines I am following. Yet still i am very present in the coastal wind, its all good.
Dont go down there, people have not come back.someone leaves a note. I dont know who wrote this.
'Piece by piece, I re enter the world.
A new body, A new voice.
Birds console me by flying,
Trees by growing,
dogs by the warm patch they leave on the sofa.
Unknown people merely by performing their motions.
It is like a slow recovery from a sickness, this recovery from ones'self.'
A few weeks ago, a taxi driver told me what he was doing on his weekend off. He said he was taking the grandkids to go see the ship that was stuck on Blackpool beach. He said the kids loved it and it was their third time back. Its better than the telly he said. they love it.
I had forgotten about this conversation and the story about the ship that had been on the local news.
Then i saw it.
it is true , it is better than the telly, its quite surreal.
It gave me motivation to keep walking in that direction, growing in size as i sped up. I felt excited, just like those grandkids probably.
When i get close up , im stopped by a security guard. there is a 400 metre no go zone around the boat. I can see its name.
RIVERDANCE
Get up Riverdance. Show us your tricks , show them your size and style. Its not even trying, defeated by the sand bank.
It looks dead, like a beached whale, like my broken double bass, laying on its side. Everything is still inside, the contents. they will start to cut it up soon.
It does make me think about the coastal motions and getting lost in your tracks, or caught in the tide. This boat has lost its way. I think about migrating sandbanks. They move faster than this boat now.
The boat is right on the border of the cleveleys and Blackpool beach. The cornered off area means i have to walk around the edge of the imaginary border. I get to the start of the border line where i walk away from the sea.
There is a sign on the sea wall.
I head along the street right on the border line, it feels great to be right on it.But not for long, i have to take detours to get round train tracks. With this imaginary border always in sight , it begins to cut houses and churches in half . I have to start watching it in my minds eye. i follow main orads and get lost in a cul de sac. I ask a local resident the way out. I continue into fields and farm houses beside me. i dont want to tresspass so i follow the line again with my eye, walking parrallel to it. So close yet so far. As the crow flies i am weaving in and out and here and there. I think i must be adding up quite a few extra miles.
I am surprised at how suburban the outskirts are. that sounds like a silly thing to say- okay , i was expecting it to be much rougher, maybe ill get to those places later , but for now its all a bit quiet.I can still see the tower every now and again creeping into the horizon
My feet dont feel like they are beating the bounds anymore.
After six hours i feel like the bounds are beating me. No not really, but i do have this pain in my hip socket from the continuous grinding away.
It is this that reminds me of another longer walk, across the yorkshire moors. The Lyke Wake walk challenge. 40 miles in 20 hours. I get lost in a bog at the 18th hour , my hips are teling me its allover.
They are telling me again today.
I head of the imaginary line to the trainline, homeward bound.
I trace the border of Blackpool and highlight it on the map. i take a piece of string and measure the distance. Its about twenty miles, including the sea front. The thing that stumps me is that the border continues out to sea. I dont have a boat to follow that part of the border line. I stay on land. The beating of the bounds ritual is an action that was supposed to bring communities together, a celebration of us and the land we inhabit.
So i start here , where the sea starts / stops. its the North Pier. The sun is out. The concrete seperates me form the sea. KEEP OUT.
I talk to a guy who is fishing. He explains that he is on the corner of the wall. The Bass prefer fast flowing water.I watch it skidding around the shape of the wall. I like his tactics, but he says he has not caught anything for a month. The Codling season soon ( they get braver, come close because of the dirty water) then he will only keep the ones that look older than 5 years, otherwise he throws them back, got to keep the numbers up.
The old boating lake now full of tyres and go-carts still locked away in containers. The fisherman told me this place was completely flooded in the winter. I imagine the rusting go-carts floating in the darkness of the containers. What will the new season bring. We talk about the strength of the tide.
I think about the tide and how uncertain it seems to me here. I think about surfing and how dirty the water is, do people still go swimming here? is it safe? . This walk is making me miss the pembrokeshire coast, its clean water, quiet surf spots yet to be explored and its un concreted edges. Walking makes me too nostalgic sometimes. All these imagiinings and imaginary lines I am following. Yet still i am very present in the coastal wind, its all good.
Dont go down there, people have not come back.someone leaves a note. I dont know who wrote this.
'Piece by piece, I re enter the world.
A new body, A new voice.
Birds console me by flying,
Trees by growing,
dogs by the warm patch they leave on the sofa.
Unknown people merely by performing their motions.
It is like a slow recovery from a sickness, this recovery from ones'self.'
A few weeks ago, a taxi driver told me what he was doing on his weekend off. He said he was taking the grandkids to go see the ship that was stuck on Blackpool beach. He said the kids loved it and it was their third time back. Its better than the telly he said. they love it.
I had forgotten about this conversation and the story about the ship that had been on the local news.
Then i saw it.
it is true , it is better than the telly, its quite surreal.
It gave me motivation to keep walking in that direction, growing in size as i sped up. I felt excited, just like those grandkids probably.
When i get close up , im stopped by a security guard. there is a 400 metre no go zone around the boat. I can see its name.
RIVERDANCE
Get up Riverdance. Show us your tricks , show them your size and style. Its not even trying, defeated by the sand bank.
It looks dead, like a beached whale, like my broken double bass, laying on its side. Everything is still inside, the contents. they will start to cut it up soon.
It does make me think about the coastal motions and getting lost in your tracks, or caught in the tide. This boat has lost its way. I think about migrating sandbanks. They move faster than this boat now.
The boat is right on the border of the cleveleys and Blackpool beach. The cornered off area means i have to walk around the edge of the imaginary border. I get to the start of the border line where i walk away from the sea.
There is a sign on the sea wall.
I head along the street right on the border line, it feels great to be right on it.But not for long, i have to take detours to get round train tracks. With this imaginary border always in sight , it begins to cut houses and churches in half . I have to start watching it in my minds eye. i follow main orads and get lost in a cul de sac. I ask a local resident the way out. I continue into fields and farm houses beside me. i dont want to tresspass so i follow the line again with my eye, walking parrallel to it. So close yet so far. As the crow flies i am weaving in and out and here and there. I think i must be adding up quite a few extra miles.
I am surprised at how suburban the outskirts are. that sounds like a silly thing to say- okay , i was expecting it to be much rougher, maybe ill get to those places later , but for now its all a bit quiet.I can still see the tower every now and again creeping into the horizon
My feet dont feel like they are beating the bounds anymore.
After six hours i feel like the bounds are beating me. No not really, but i do have this pain in my hip socket from the continuous grinding away.
It is this that reminds me of another longer walk, across the yorkshire moors. The Lyke Wake walk challenge. 40 miles in 20 hours. I get lost in a bog at the 18th hour , my hips are teling me its allover.
They are telling me again today.
I head of the imaginary line to the trainline, homeward bound.
"The Only Way Out Is Through"
When whichever slap dash guru first penned this helpful sentiment, did they imagine it to include "through the heart with a rusty lancet"? "through the spleen with a desert spoon"? "through the head with a hunting knife"? I have my doubts. But hey. Rules are there to be interpreted.
I am still waiting for the muse. thanks to a wonderful set of workshops last week, there now exists molecules of inspiration, bits of texts, feelings, that are circling my mind but failing to land. I am dreading Blackpool. People trying to have fun...
I have been thinking of a new way to structure. this was was of the rules. I am interested in up and downness, and so I went fell running in Ennerdale this weekend, in the hope that I would be inspired/contained by the landscape I ran/hobbled through. In effect, it all whooshed by in a blur as i tried to concentrate on not breaking my legs before i got back to the car. It went up steeply, then it levelled out, then it went up a bit more, then it was very rocky, and then it went down and down and down. Unless I want to do the Ingmar Bergman version of theatre, this is possibly not the best route to take.
And then i was thinking of the big dipper. I love rides. Perhaps I'll give that a shot. It's quicker than fell running and probably a good deal safer.
I think that one of the reasons why Blackpool fills me with dread is that i went there every year on holiday with my family - some of the most stressful times known to mankind are there to be had, down the old fun fair, with two neurotic parents and two fighting sisters, one of whom (me) is a total scaredy cat and just wants to eat candy floss and watch other people on the rides.
I think I might just book myself into a hotel and write the show. The whole twenty minutes. And whatever I come away from Blackpool with, that will be it... meanwhile I feel sick whenever I open my e mails, and my mobile phone feels like a brick in my pocket. At any point the delicate imaginings that have so far formulated, can be blown to smithereens in an instant by the wrong word form the right person. I dream of sitting in a deep old chesterfield by a fire, deep in a book and safe from reality. I am generally against the Tracey Emin approach to using oneself as the well spring. Especially as mine looks so dry. But denial of this sickly mournful state feels almost impossible. Even if I only use it to make gags.
The only way out is not through. It's comedy.
03_NC: workshop swapshop
03_NC: workshop swapshop
Simon invited us to Morecambe. Morecambe with me, him, Bethanie, Christine, Eleni and Simone. We all went to Morcambe with him. We left early we got the train at 07:10 we met lots of people stepping off the train from Morecambe. We were the only people going to Morecambe at this hour. Simon read us John Berger in just the right places. We walked in pairs. Eleni and I walked along the coast and back again. We rejoined in Rita’s café. We went to the post office and sent a postcard to a loved one. On the train home again…Eleni and I discovered we were born on the same day, we are the same age. There is a little girl and a mother, who Simone and I share a table with. We laugh together. Back in Lancaster, a little bit of Morecambe stuck with me.
I lead a workshop. I am torn between doing what I know will work, trying something new, doing something to help me, to help them – so that we can all make it through to the other side. We have walked together, we have talked, but we haven’t really worked in a studio together. I feel I’m still just getting to know these people. After an early morning we start gently, we move, we sing, we write, we compose, we show, we write, we go. We go with a little big of each other stuck to one another.
Michael Jackson, Charlton Heston, Buster Keaton, God, Madonna and Hitler enter a room with a song and something beautiful, they come being prepared to get messy.
Eleni and Bethani ask us to guess who we are whilst listening to the music. It is that old party game where you write a famous person on each other’s foreheads. I always found that hard. I am one of the last to guess that I am Michael Jackson.
They ask us to create a character from what they have on the table. I am bemused at first, there just appears to be food on the table. But then I watch them dip their faces in syrup then hundreds and thousands, rub food colouring into their skin. I leave like a child at play school learning how to play with a new toy. I leave with a cheese string and several cocktail sticks stuck with me.
Simone starts in the studio, in pairs we haven’t worked with. I feel a sensation on the end of my finger – It is Bethanie’s face. I feel my own face, through Bethanie’s direction. My finger feels but now my face feels too. I feel the space through my finger and I am surprised at what I feel, or cannot feel.
She takes us for a walk outside. She asks us to spend time in 3 different places. I cling to a tree stump and imagine I am a sailor in a storm on the top sail. I lay in grass, and imagine grass growing through me. I leave a trace by building a dead branch mobile. I watch the branches swaying and I could watch them for hours, articulating the wind. Back in the studio we bring these experiences into a composition.
I leave with the wind in me, the grass growing through me, the mis-remembered memory of a sailor stuck with me.
Driving down the M6. Dreaming. (Any dream will do). I wonder who will surface. I am gutted not to be there, but I have to be in London. I drive into the dusk imagining what is going on, in that little church in Morecombe. I drive into the dusk imagining the multitude of events, that are taking place at this very moment. I imagine that some are beyond my imagination. I start to think of friends and family, now dead. What would they have to say to me now. How does this world look from the other side? How does my life look to them? A little bit of them is always stuck with me.
Simon invited us to Morecambe. Morecambe with me, him, Bethanie, Christine, Eleni and Simone. We all went to Morcambe with him. We left early we got the train at 07:10 we met lots of people stepping off the train from Morecambe. We were the only people going to Morecambe at this hour. Simon read us John Berger in just the right places. We walked in pairs. Eleni and I walked along the coast and back again. We rejoined in Rita’s café. We went to the post office and sent a postcard to a loved one. On the train home again…Eleni and I discovered we were born on the same day, we are the same age. There is a little girl and a mother, who Simone and I share a table with. We laugh together. Back in Lancaster, a little bit of Morecambe stuck with me.
I lead a workshop. I am torn between doing what I know will work, trying something new, doing something to help me, to help them – so that we can all make it through to the other side. We have walked together, we have talked, but we haven’t really worked in a studio together. I feel I’m still just getting to know these people. After an early morning we start gently, we move, we sing, we write, we compose, we show, we write, we go. We go with a little big of each other stuck to one another.
Michael Jackson, Charlton Heston, Buster Keaton, God, Madonna and Hitler enter a room with a song and something beautiful, they come being prepared to get messy.
Eleni and Bethani ask us to guess who we are whilst listening to the music. It is that old party game where you write a famous person on each other’s foreheads. I always found that hard. I am one of the last to guess that I am Michael Jackson.
They ask us to create a character from what they have on the table. I am bemused at first, there just appears to be food on the table. But then I watch them dip their faces in syrup then hundreds and thousands, rub food colouring into their skin. I leave like a child at play school learning how to play with a new toy. I leave with a cheese string and several cocktail sticks stuck with me.
Simone starts in the studio, in pairs we haven’t worked with. I feel a sensation on the end of my finger – It is Bethanie’s face. I feel my own face, through Bethanie’s direction. My finger feels but now my face feels too. I feel the space through my finger and I am surprised at what I feel, or cannot feel.
She takes us for a walk outside. She asks us to spend time in 3 different places. I cling to a tree stump and imagine I am a sailor in a storm on the top sail. I lay in grass, and imagine grass growing through me. I leave a trace by building a dead branch mobile. I watch the branches swaying and I could watch them for hours, articulating the wind. Back in the studio we bring these experiences into a composition.
I leave with the wind in me, the grass growing through me, the mis-remembered memory of a sailor stuck with me.
Driving down the M6. Dreaming. (Any dream will do). I wonder who will surface. I am gutted not to be there, but I have to be in London. I drive into the dusk imagining what is going on, in that little church in Morecombe. I drive into the dusk imagining the multitude of events, that are taking place at this very moment. I imagine that some are beyond my imagination. I start to think of friends and family, now dead. What would they have to say to me now. How does this world look from the other side? How does my life look to them? A little bit of them is always stuck with me.
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