Story for performance #883
webcast from Sydney at 07:40PM, 20 Nov 07

So he says to me, he says: ‘Oh man, it was beaut I tell ya. Y’know what I mean?’ And, y’know, I don’t even react. I don’t flinch. I don’t nod. I don’t tilt my head in that do-tell way. I don’t even pretend to pay attention. I’m stone cold. So cold, I am practically a corpse. You could put pennies on my eyes and take off my shoes, I’m so still. But it’s not like he’d notice. I could have flies buzzing around my decomposing head and he’d still be acting like I’m frikken Jay Leno kissing his ass.

Black skirt, grey cardigan, black pea jacket, skinny jeans, white blouse with pearl buttons, white lace bra, three pairs underwear, one pair socks, one pair tights, black boots…

I can see that his lips are moving. There are his teeth. He’s animated, baring gums, rotting gums. His tongue darts in and out and his face scrunches up and down, up and down. The sound is, sadly, not turned off, though it is muffled. I feel like I must be falling asleep but my eyes are wide open. It sounds like a radio in the house next door, waaaah waaaah waaah…”Y’know what I mean?’ I can hear that part, not that it matters. It’s a rhetorical question. I do not know what he means, I do not care what he means but somehow from the inside of my stomach comes a hoarse ‘uh huh’.

Toothbrush, toothpaste, floss, moisturizer, foundation, mascara, eyeliner, lipstick (two shades), tweezers, razor, hairbrush…

I’m just wasting, I mean killing, I’m waiting. I bide. Biding, I’m biding. But I’m working. I’m working on it. I can feel it coming, just barely. This feeling, I’ve been waiting for this feeling to fully form. For years, it keeps coming back but I just can’t put my finger on it. What is it? It’s like…a flavour? Maybe it’s a song. I’ve almost got it.

You know how your speakers make an electronic quiver right before your cell phone rings? There is a kind of vibration in the air. It’s a signal, some kind of signal but it’s getting garbled right after the transmission. So I don’t know what it is, I just know that it is. ‘Y’know what I mean?’ This guy! This guy is jamming with my frequency, big time. He is messing with my thoughts. I’m not getting anything, not what he is saying, not that flavour/song that’s now spiralling away. I am not even here. He’s acting like he’s got something going on, some kinda THING. I suspect that his something is actually nothing.

Journal, black pen, red pen, scissors, gluestick, watch, walking stick, hood…

I am not a prisoner here (I am a free man). I’m smashing rocks. I’m darning holes. I’m swinging my foot up and down, thighs pressed together. That foot is powering kitchens. That swinging foot is heating the swimming pool. That foot is lighting up the marquee. In a way, this is a good time. In a way, there is something important going on. I’m squeezing those thighs, my muscles are getting so strong I could snap this guy’s neck like a chicken bone, not that I’d let his neck near my gluteus maximus. He’s truly amazing, going on and on, completely oblivious to the fact that I…Well, I stopped being polite ages ago, years ago, eons ago. Entire geological eras have taken place in the time that has elapsed since I stopped nodding my head like a nice little lady. My body language is all but cursing. I’m practically walking out the door. I’m nearly gouging his eyes out with my cheekbones. He’s talking at the side of my face as tho’ I were a slit in a confessional. ‘Y’know what I mean?’

Black salt, lodestones, vinegar, Florida water, goofers dust, coffin nails…

The time has come, I close my eyes. Here it comes! It’s a song, a beautiful song that fills my mouth with flowering persimmon, it’s coming out my nose, humming like the deafening roar of a thousand bullfrogs. One…two…three…Slowly I open my eyes. The bar is quiet, someone slides a quarter into the jukebox, Atlantic rhythm and blues. The stool beside me is empty. The bartender slides me another drink. Nice. I’ve still got it. I’ve still got it.

Adapted for performance by Barbara Campbell from a story by Alexis O’Hara.