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It happens on a balcony — Beccy Shore SST10 performance draft

28 Jan

Hey. No idea what will happen to the formatting when I press publish, but I didn’t want to attach it as a file cause then you all have to go to the effort of downloading it 😛

 

It happens on a balcony

 

Like this isn’t extraordinary – being alive

without walls or ceilings, when we’re humming like fairy lights.

 

The generator, for a few beats

stops

 

breathing. We look up, like the eyes

of someone who loves you, as you walk in.

 

Constellations I don’t

recognise

flicker on. Clouds steal our breath

the moon shows scars

 

and all the stars point

to you

 

and to everyone else. To you –

all the stars point. The moon shows

scars.

 

Flicker on, clouds, steal our breath. Constellations

I don’t recognise, the eyes of someone

who loves you

as you walk in. We look          up,

the generator, for a few beats,

stops breathing.

 

We’re humming like fairy lights,

without walls or ceilings, being alive

 

like this isn’t extraordinary.

 

 

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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

Hayley Green SST10 Final

28 Jan

Scene One:

The stage in darkness, the 3 phases stand centre stage dressed in all black. A drumbeat is heard, and then music like a military call to arms. Figures gather around the phases, dressed in black, their hands and feet are visible through UV lighting. They judge them, studying them in choreographed movements. As they study them, the figures hang labels on the phases written in UV pens: flawed, scarred, cutter, liar, attention seeker, selfish, self harmer, crazy, morbid, Emo, mental, psycho, mad, weirdo. As the music begins to drown out to a single drumbeat, the light lifts on the faces of the three phases and the figures leave the stage.

 

Phase 3: I did not cut off who I am.

 

Phase 1: I don’t think it matters to

those without scars;

 

Phase 2: flawed is easier to say than self h-a—

 

Phase 1:

I don’t think it matters how

my skin hangs together;

 

Phase 2: flawed is easier to say than self h-a—

 

Phase 3:

I am not fragile,

my skin hangs together.

 

Phase 2: I cope with mechanisms like –

 

Phase 3:

I am not fragile,

I only trimmed the edges.

 

Phase 2:

I cope with mechanisms like

those without scars.

 

Phase 1&3: I only trimmed the edges,

All: I did not cut off who I am.

 

 

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”]

Mid Shelley SST10 second draft

8 Jan

25 mins late, but got there! Thanks for understanding 🙂 This is a bit of an experiment, gonna see how it goes…not perfect but hopefully gives an idea of where I’m trying to go with it. (This is the performance version, not convinced it works too great on paper but I’m planning on working on a more page friendly version for the zine).

Some secrets need to be kept in the dark.
And sometimes, with the really big secrets,
you need to keep yourself in the dark,
for fear the thing will ooze out of your skin,
plop itself into your lap while you’re sat at school
and say – hey!
You can implode my world now.

When I was seven my mum used to buy
packets of ten strawberry splits from the discount store.
I rarely remember eating a real meal,
but I remember licking them, one after the other
until I was so full of ice and sugar
I could trace the core of cold
right down the middle of me.
I was sat on the step with my best friend
eating ice lollies.
‘I can’t wait for it to end’, I said.
He didn’t know what I meant.

Flash –
Staring at her chest
Flash –
Waiting for her breath

When I was seventeen
I blagged my way through a tenancy agreement
by telling them I was twenty three
and a teaching assistant.
My pupils had eclipsed my irises
and left everything gray –
I hadn’t slept for three days.

Flash –
Staring at the mirror
Flash –
Reflection unfamiliar

When I was nineteen my girlfriend moved in with me.
She was encased in ice
but would spit sparks at me without thawing.
It seemed I was constantly breathing out smoke
even in the absence of a cigarette.
I didn’t know whether my insides were frozen or smoldering.
She taught me how to tie a scarf against the wind,
and I taught myself to pretend
the electric heater was an open fire,
to imagine I was warm.
Sometimes I would hold icecubes in my hands
until they melted.
Fascinated by the way they burned.

Flash –
Dirty wall
Flash –
Closed door
Flash –
Loud screams
Flash –
Bad dreams

As I grew I became obsessed with layers,
with silks and merino wool.
I would worship the cloth with my fingers,
amazed that things so thin
could hold in so much heat.
I sat around real camp fires,
and looking into them I learned
that it was heavens, not hells,
that are made of flames.
I learned to keep away the cold,
embracing strangers under stars,
and that dancing can make even the naked warm.

These
are the pieces of me.
The hard sharp shards
that add up to make me,
and I stand proud
and hiss to the wind –

I am a broken thing.

I am a broken thing.

So on the days I think I’m done
trying to sew myself back together,
and the only shape my lips can make is ‘fuck you’,
I curl my head towards my heart
and listen to the whisper –
you don’t have to stay where makes you ill.
You don’t have to sit if you can’t stay still.
And these scars,
they make us beautiful.

‘Coz sometimes I feel I could shake
the whole world with a whisper,
and that when I speak
the air will never be the same,
and that my heart is big enough
to hold the whole earth,
and I know that nothing stays the same,
except change.
When I was twenty five I learned how to breathe fire.
To stand on stages and to make ice weep.
I own more jumpers than I can make use of.
But sometimes I’ll walk barefoot through snow,
just to watch it dissolve.
And I still squeeze icecubes…
fascinated by the way we burn.

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