Fleeing corridors of dark paperwork, out into a sandy grey void, I am tossed in the silence of confused noise, into a maelstrom of tumbling toupees, wigs, and teeth torn from their roots.
The conjuring of the wind exceeds all expectation; toothless heroes of confused origin live and die in its breath. The dirty old man snogs scantily clad fantasies with mouthfuls of sandblasted chips. Cold whistles into motionless bones, and the void consumes fleeting distractions. The lost are torn apart. Wild mocks the words of cluttered mouths.
Tantrum stalks empty promise as stone roses churn in their grave, aching to rise and rehabilitate futile, soulless waves whose sound races to oblivion. The tethered Muse vomits neglect; while power presumes to be torn asunder, eternity and the myth wait: raised are their dripping oars.
Fire falls like a rain-curtain between me and the sea-edge of my nightmare; and one flame for every year of the lord wades into the black lap of the empty bay.
I want to enjoy
these moments of art.
that would speak to me
if I were not so
obsessed with detail.
If I didn't crave
some kind of perfection.
If I didn't need
Arts to be more,
and to be better.
Busy coping with the stress of getting there; the stress of feeling trapped and exposed on a viewing platform; the stress of chilled-to-the-bone induced pain and the frustration of Battle for the Winds apparent lack of professional polish,; the actual live performance of Breathe almost passed me by. But Battle for the Winds came back to haunt my sleep after revisiting Weymouth for 'Creating the Spectacle!' and discovering it's virtual return to grey normality - already.
I hope eventually to appreciate Breathe, with it's brilliant costumes and wild characters, through Diverse City's filmed documentation being presented as part of the London 2012 Festival,
30 August - 9 September