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BeaBop: Tribute (SST10 Final Draft)

28 Jan

 

She lived for that green
the shade that bled the sun through
tall stems full
of the stuff of life
laying foundations in the moss
cultivating a kind of eco-festival
full of cool, hip-for-you stuff
-BEAT-
She hailed from Masaka in royal Uganda
she whispered evergreen national parks
wore celebrations piled atop afro coils
a silent disco danced behind cocoa eyes
and like a sister
yet more a daughter, she wrapped me in tribute
Pursing lips to my dimples

Once, I thought I had jailed my chance
to mother after severing myself from a house
full of too many women
growing big for their boobs
I kicked the dirt and left my idea of family
to flap in the cross-winds
in a pea-green boat
-BEAT-
She was the road sign green
that directed me back to motherhood
back when truth was wedged
between puberty and middle classdom
a detour made through males too old to be boys
I would hide my dreams behind
a padlocked Brady Bunch

Her face was the key
opening the old fashioned golden door
a beacon for folk to stay awhile
empty their souls
rest up and ease lines
carved across play dough
whilst sharing a little philosophy
-BEAT-
Her voice was the architect
plucking my dimples
to loosen my shadows
The chef: pressing jerk, pimento
scotch bonnet, garlic cloves
into my middle
seasoning me for motherhood
-BEAT-
She loved the little bit of apple mixed with olive
the kind that took the edge off a hard day
of walking wards
in worn-in clogs
her uniform a starched green
the type that made you stand to attention

Or hide your boyfriends attitude
until he wanted to do the right thing
all by himself

And she would call me

-BEAT-

Now she whispers to me

-BEAT-
And I mother a handful now
using those tints
of her cool, hip-for-you, stuff of life

BeaBop SST10 (3rd Draft)

8 Jan

She lived for that green
the shade that bled the sun through
tall stems full
of the stuff of life
laying foundations in the moss
cultivating a kind of eco-festival
full of cool, hip-for-you stuff

– Beat –

She hailed from Masaka in royal Uganda
she whispered evergreen national parks
wore celebrations piled atop afro coils
a silent disco danced behind cocoa eyes
And like a sister, scrap that –
a daughter, she wrapped me in tribute
Pursing lips to my dimples

Once, I thought I had jailed my chance
to mother after severing myself from a house
full of too many women
growing big for their boobs
I kicked the dirt and left my idea of family
to flap in the cross-wind
in a pea-green boat

– Beat –

She was the road sign green
that directed me back to motherhood
back when truth was wedged
between puberty and middle classdom
a detour made through males too old to be boys
I would hide my dreams behind
a padlocked Brady Bunch

Her face was the key
opening the old fashioned golden door
beaconing for folk to stay awhile
empty their souls
rest up and ease lines
carved across play dough
whilst sharing a little philosophy

– Beat –

Her voice was the architect
plucking my dimples
to loosen my shadows
the chef: pressing jerk, pimento
scotch bonnet, garlic cloves
into my middle
seasoning me for motherhood

– Beat –

She loved the little bit of apple mixed with olive
the kind that took the edge off a hard day
of walking wards
in worn-in clogs
her uniform a starched green
the type that made you stand to attention

Or hide your boyfriends attitude
until he wanted to do the right thing
all by himself
by presenting himself to her
to ask to place a ring on your finger
before even thinking of
taking your crown

And she would call me

– Beat-

Now she whispers to me
And I mother a handful now
using those tints
of her cool, hip-for-you, stuff of life

 

[Tech requirements:3 – 4 colour washes – different shades or intensities of green cycled for each stanza. Timing/length : 2’25”]

I love this Idea number4 ss10 Raisa

14 Dec

Light line

I’m holding
Up my right arm
Looking
for
The life
line
Squashed against the
Bollards
Of my
mind
In this cold climitised
Life…
Holding up my right arm
With hands
and fingers stretched
Over and out
As though trying
to
Hold hands with the moon
Will save me.
Or save us…
It’s 4 am and the streets
are lonly
Just like the single beat of
My heart missing the beat of another’s
Heart.
Pulsating calmly,gently
Why does it feel
More safer
At this time of night/morning?
Where most uneducated
Street wize persons
would be
Freaking out
dodging there own
Reflective shadows
Jumping at the own
sound of their breathing.
I
just strive by
like
the night belongs to
Me..
Streetwise
Is what it feels like
Allyways become storey tales
Doorways become beds…
Anxiety becomes a mouse.
Whilst I’m sensitive to sound
My pupils like huge binoculars
Adrenaline gets a journey beside me.
My energy is abundant to the
Spacious energy.
No one but me
Walking on the streets
But the creatures of the
Night
Nocturnal
Like me
I guess we both share something
Special.
This is talking about homelessness. How being or imaging how someone who feels safer on there own. Knowing that it’s not normal to society but it’s become normal to them. They may not be completely homeless as in sleeping on the streets full time but it’s more of a lifestyle for them. They find likeness and light in there own company. And comfort at night time. I am inlove with this one

Jeiran SST10 Idea

3 Dec

Okay so this video is AMAZING. It’s beautiful, sweet, gentle, and experimental. Almost, docile. Anyway I really really adore the use of projection in this video. I think I definitely want to use it in my own piece.

*also very lightly considering making a filmed piece instead of performed

Here  is also a doodle:

Snapshot_20151203_1

Really explicitly thinking about all the lights I could use, I really like thinking about the non conventional lighting. The one that really sticks out for me are the fairy lights, as they link back to the sweetness of the first video too.

 

Mouthy Prep session for SST 9 – BeaBop

4 Jul

After missing from Mouthy for a few sessions, it was great to return yesterday and get straight into it.  I was involved in an exciting session where Emily had everyone hug her; some of us crawled with the Mouthy baby and we explored the emotions within our SST9 poems using different techniques.

To cut a long story short, it was refreshing to know that my poem had neither a male or female voice, which means there is plenty of legs for taking my Carnival Queen in any direction.  I also, whilst work ing on a body language exercise with Chris, affirmed that my poem is about regret.

I am going to use an acrostic to get this across:

[R]egal traditions – Queen, royalty; transferring culture through rituals

[E}mpty jealousy – A flat emotion brought alive by memories of her

[G]reedy self – Macho behaviour of narrator was about ego

[R]eality reveals true nature – Now the narrator understands her spirit

[E]ach moment lost – Their connection is lost

[T]ime cannot return her or me – Time cannot heal all wounds or wind back

Chris observed that I use my hands alot to shape my words and emphasise my conviction right down to the syllable.

Again, I know that there are layers within this piece that I cannot wait to explore – with hands!

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SST9 BeaBop Final Draft – Carnival Queen of Fights

2 Jul

She senses that I am watching
Again.

I am crouching tiger,
Hiding my aggression.
She is my Queen.
Queen of fights.
Queen of the carnival.

I try connecting my thoughts with hers.
She jolts and
A fountain of feathers
Spews twelve feet high
From two dimples at the base of her back
Shielding me from her nurturing rhythms.

I remember in HD how
I would lord all of my yesterdays
Along her undulating vertebrae.
Cusses, flinging
Acid from my mouth
Taunted her to glitter
Like schizophrenic sparkles
Tussled atop
Hundreds
of
Sequinned
Thousands.

I used to be her masquerade
Bringing messages of expectation
Dressed up in crimped coca-cola tops,
cardboard mâché Ikeji masks
and tricolour ruffled trousers.
She would flirt with my djembe and
Surround my pan-pipe
Band of merry macho-men
Vibrating their pans of steel
Waving opulence at demure crowds
As we marched
On
‘Road.

Tomorrow,
Her chariot awaits
Waist wines carelessly her wheeled hooped skirt.
Framing her girdle –
An aluminium corset
Covered in purple batik and red raffia
Into which slots left wing and right
Her right to taunt me in the custardly light

On her right glows her Mas band,
Angels trouped ready
To set firework rhythms.
Stomps pierce the tarmac
And yes,
Now I can feel her vibration
And I feel like marmalade – thick cut.

On her left
I see my spirit jump and wave
Tempted to touch
A body which defined my mood for years.
My masked taunts
Carried along rainbow-veined tendrils
Collapse her soft-skinned sonnets
To feed a cockiness with no soul.

Now.

I sense her watching me –
Again.
Scraping at my heart
With grooved toes, clenched.
She aims her vibranium-tipped arrow
Knocking me off-balance,
Krumping my spirit.

I have lost our connection.

However her crown
Reigns historic
A rock ruling for equality.
My Queen
My Carnival Queen of Fights.

BeaBop SST9 Carnival – DRAFT

16 May

Marmalade is the new brown. One half dipped in Marmite. The other rotated in a vat of feathers.  Frantic streams of rainbows popcorn into summer soca. There is a bass urge to screech from the bottom of magnolia-lined lungs. Profane examples of society prefer to jam like berries in Tory blue. I breathe in candy-floss coated chicken and a float whirls by carrying a super-princess wearing steel pan pants, thumping her feet to the rhythm with pride eminating from her waist.  Her beat wakes up deadbeats resting in the ruts between cracked cobble stones. De road marches from The Forest to mirror the sky.  I am greedy for more magnolia clouds.  Around the corner a page is turning again. An eruption spews Nepalese rocks from my chest. As I exhale I m