open

And if I asked for a reflection,
You’d say it had been given
And I’d hidden it before your eyes

And all these small patches of things I regret turned to smoke
And tinted the memories chrome,
Pushed them to the back of my answer for where I’d been

Inside myself
The silence of an empty street grew too alluring
I couldn’t resist plucking out the sound of receding footsteps
Again, away from you
Towards the night,
Or any gentler place

And the door that I opened never closed
My hands finally put to work
Patching up the endless splinters it sent out on the wind

(…)

It wasn’t a long or very wide road from where we lived. 30 seconds to the roundabout juncture between 2 areas which are defined by their peripherality. In the many chapters of my childhood, I never thought one could end here.

Tonight I’m walking this lonely road, nestled between money and emptiness. Tauntingly warm houses rise up on either side, filled with a love I can’t believe, and I’m angry towards everyone.

(…)

Arrows firmly set on two hours ago, we wait for a moment to debrief more fully, look into each-others eyes like water, open mouths finally flowing truth. Except I never make it. Dissembled from the core, the hole has grown too big.

Open

(…)

Soon enough I’m lost, deeply, in the way that only an immigrant can be, twice removed from the country that did this to me. I’ll always claim it as the source of all my problems, it never got to be a home.

Stumbling through blurry darkness and all I can really see is my position of lack, the love or respect I could have if only my tongue didn’t fall away like a husk every time I tried to use it. My intentions stay misunderstood, meaning always snagging on subtle corners that others feel grateful to understand.

And the door that I opened never closed.

(…)

She isn’t caught up in the trappings of femininity.

She sees her face reflected from within someone’s vehicle, in their car mirror, and smiles. She’s relieved to know that she exists.

(…)

The root of all my thinking floats on a cloud of my own beauty, but what a quiet world it’s turning into…

Negativity gets easier every day just as a way to help make sense of it all

The fact is, my life is smaller with you in it.

And all these small patches of things I regret turned to tiny, pastel spores, and clogged my vision
Stretched out over the internal frame I used to use to make sense of my life, pulled open

(…)

The character that she becomes: follows a clock that tracks from high to low tide, cycles around with a chain in his mouth, lives in Bermondsey and works in some sort of urban maintenance [preferably also by the river. Exploitation is easier seen in low tides]. He cycles everywhere and lives alone, doesn’t own a TV, prefers analogue machines to digital technology. His walls are covered with images of cubes and holes.

(…)

Life was telling me to slow down
I wished these decisions only happened at night

And without this, what is there?

And this is what I can handle.

This is what has been given.
This is what has been given.

(…)

Open

PERFORMANCE TEXT

A performance consisting of 2 screens, a projector, a microphone, and a backing track made up of distorted samples of famous Russian and Soviet songs.

The piece grew from a poem I wrote about a memory, trying to conjure the feelings of the night it happened. I'm interested in how the vehicle of memory keeps time an open and fluid substance, which can be reinterpreted and re-experienced outside of a feeling of one linear present moment.

Formally, the performance looks at how a voice can be used as a texture, and how meaning can be diluted between light and sound, to create an impression of an experience. Almost like building the corners of a space and allowing the viewer to build the walls themselves.

Reflecting on the piece, it seems to me as though I was almost trying to build a time machine: the cubicle (from which I was reading) feels reminiscent of a tardis-like, kitsch, sci-fi movie prop.

A video of the performance and the full text I read from can be found below. The isolated backing track is available upon request, just email me on sonya.woodruff.art@gmail.com