Drew Gardner

Julie Patton
Interview

Julie Patton: my schedule is murder. First ting on mind after lay down reading Zinc head dead on hand of sugar hard mike (a night pillow) tooth sweet forword proof that food and words surface out of the same oxygen tent is the notion

"speaking" is reading, feed back
the un-heard. Readings—a vomitorium

of sorts, speech sweat
the pore rationed libation. Bars strew hey, straw on the floor after the animal alphabet manges about, head to tails. The background is all vegetation, else the letters wouldn't go on walkabout, sssssssss, have nothin to roam in. Same the relation of mouth to ear, earmouth. Hay, the
words no longer on the page, stampeded into say, they barb to q r e s
rest stop as humans forget why they are saying ... and roots of

Performance, every time we speak, Adam-
ant about name-things, calling people out of they names and calling people "lions" and elephants. Everytime we speak, rehearding those animal calls, forgetting the sensual environment we owe our speech to, oh, those care-givers of food, shrill calls, hoop and holler; tree sways and water rhythm, aren't I on to this echo system, everything talking at the same time like water—in my childhoodhouse and book suites—crackle of arguments, a real vaporous page-turner. Paint in the sink with chicken and turpentine. Reading. A vomitorium. More chicken (egg) will stop the throw-up of wrong swallowed. The animal anima alphabet is what gives us real human relations. Caved in to get their powers, they rear their heads through my voice. (re call necessity of oinking mooing barking your way through kinder garden. Now I range over my own zoo-suited site in a caravan decor'd rome, reciting a poem backwards (the way I usually "read" flip through a book, diss lexicon, breach the written linetime, land fills. My "book" is open to puddles, other people's plops. Re verse order—like the Tibetan Book of the Dead for westerners—since our experience is considered the opposite of theirs. Yak yak. (did I tell you I can't go to maditation anymore, because I wrap my head, wear headgear?) I ain't changing who I am to sit nowhere ('less it's a lunch counter) and the lily of dharma wouldn't have no where to cry to "foul" if "we" didn't lay (o get laid as) the ground work for a march on anything. Now scarf this up.)

Talking shit from way back. See the sudden boog poem you made me bag in for my refusal to commit to type. Starting with Smokey reference, the other reader, Marco (perfect running mate), was also nauseous. We both read with our moufs full. He was talking oppressor, I, tongue depressed by a nervous system still re membering accident of doors opening and closing. Now, I dislike the line between reader and listener, performer and audience even more. Rant against it. Reading as a spectator sport. Constantly try to redraw the lines, except when to vertigo'd to move. Forced to read with head down, one word per minute builds in the space, silence of corral'd speech.

So accustomed to throwing my own voice I no longer own it. Who does? I take the words right out of the mouth-room ope ear do's, as don't perpetual openess write in the line of fire, eye
thought whizz by so I exchange the tone poem (courtesy) my pause, self-contained in a room colandered for pip squeak messages, every in an out. Ok, Drew? Now draw out the rest

stop

hic sunct leones ...
as in 'ere there are drums. Let the word games begin! another me ow in the hopening of the mouth ceremony. The interviewer behind the interviewer right to pass bat on to you. And that licking stick. (there's a theory ...the tongue taught the fingers how to articulate ... easy digits does it. As I read with your head in mind.

Drew Gardner: I'm not sure exactly what to say, though rivers of blam undulate in the reasons. How could anyone tell their voice from someone else's? I esp. like the letters that look the same as in cuneiform—K is a nice one. The activation and transmission. When I was a kid in New Jersey I saw a meteorite burn out in a bright green streak in the night sky. That was meteorite writing. Of course I thought The Russians had finally decided to kill everybody. ... What about Cleave-land? Where you're from. I tend to think Albert Ayler/da levy/Russel Atkins. Is that a shape? Egypt backwards? Or ignore this. I dreamt of sea water pouring over wheat fields. There is a thing about magical sweating in the Yoga Sutras. A secretion? Or like your cat getting sick, a correction? Or transmission like dinner became a poem. What happens between humans a kind of metabolism. I see you moving very freely between writing and printing, performance, music, photography, book art, film, often directly connected to or in collaboration with someone else- all of which seems leveled at activating a certain musical curiosity across politics, social structures, feeling, memory, domestic cosmos, human relation. A challenge, but also a kind of nourishment? And if these categories, which some people go to great lengths to keep separated, can be demonstrated to be so fluid, maybe... patterns of gum on the subway floor, from multiple mouths to constellation. What were you trying to say at that poetry and politics thing the other night that no one was ready to deal with?

JP: you can make an art of daily living so that everything is "art." There is no separation between art and life, sacred and mundane—it all depends on the awareness, attention we bring to the things we are doing—from cooking, to lovemaking, dressing, writing, walking, talking—finding the patterns that connect. It is all performance. An art to everything done well. I don't believe in the idea of artist as creative specialist (here there are artists, at the edge of the known/unexplored world). On the other hand, there is something to this category in the sense that people who "play," like children, and the elderly taken off the conveyor built of useful productivity, and the mentally ill are shut up, isolated, on the brink of society. Diss function, isolation terms them into artists more than the fat of creativity itself. The artist, like the shaman lives on the edge of society, near forest, city dump (soon to be so ho'd into prostition wariness) negotiating in betweens.

If we saw so-called Adam documented on film, we probably would have seen a man in animal skins, face painted, chanting and screaming as he cake-walked or watusied thru creation. I do the same. As vocalist, musicologist, educator Jeanne Lee calls it—the oral/kinetic tradition ... I just can't hep mysef. Gesture comes with the handshaking words out of skin, attitude, with face, quality of voice—intention, precise intonation, costume, dress is speech to. It all comes together with earnest communication. As Erica Hunt had me laughing, being "hooked-up." No, you just didn't walk out the door lookin like whaaaaaaa ... specially when "you" was the singular, sign for "all" yo people. No confusion about the I there. Early message and pressure—you have to speak for, and, you will be taken as speaking for ...

middle passage ...

between oral/kinetic and whaaaaaa ...
literary (colonialist basis super inscribed

so, the shaman gathers plants, paints the body, sculpts a mask, dances like a bill t., sings, screams like a sax, warbles like a bird, stages an entire performance with every sense of it. Wired, the form making sense of line extends to/through all my senses. It's all a matter of feeling, perception; looking, seeing, hearing (and being) on the periphery of things multi plys your possibilities, ways of walking one's talk.

Arts are meta-language, other means of communication, even a form of diplomacy—who else travels like. Let’s play real United Nations, not that tower of babble, and invite people to language in poetry, painting, music, dance, performance, film, photography, etc as a means of dialogue, articulate certain issues. Conventional speaking and writing in Chinese, Wollof, French, English, and what-not will be banned from this space and the "diplomats" can only use the above-mentioned forms to banter and trade.

First day, an item about starvation: Bound mouths and run the delegates through a gallery of photographs relating such, make them sit and listen to a various vocalist wail and cry, throw in some Dollar Brand, Miriam Makeba, World Saxophone quartet, Ahn sisters, etc. Then run them through a sculpture installation—yard of cracked earth, or Modigliani sculpture, stage a performance in which they are forced to stuff themselves with food while watching a documentary on oil spills and listening to earphones full of Vallejo poems then pass the m'f'n legislation. All the arts should be used to make a point—bricklayers, candymakers, seamstresses, etc—just like the middle ages. Talkers, rappers would be excommunicated. An interior "zoo" could be used as meditation chambers, one person per "animal" in a staring contest so people would be forced to contemplate their "humanity." Personally, although I am forced to use the term "art" I don't believe in it. I think about certain processes, skills, ideas and ways to put them into effect. The most important thing is a sense of making, combinatorics, transformative vision and instinct—the natural desire to change things, modify the world around you applies to everything. Artist, performer Lucio Pozzi makes his students cook in order to understand painting. While the shaky lines between speaking and singing, gesture and dance, writing and drawing dare me to do play, I don't have much patience for terms like multi-disciplinary, cross or inter dis or dat. They invite dilettantism. I am too humbled and amazed by artists who do this or that full-time to noun these categories for myself. I say I "do" things; emphasize the activity of, no reifying here. Uhn-hunh, not with my mother at the back of my mind. Now, she is a painter, and even though I was educated in the visual arts from childhood thru college and then some in terms of residencies, exhibiting etc, all the way up through my 30's, these days I essentially do the work of poetry, that sense of making although the fact that instruments tend to voice is nudging me to alligator cries, wolf woofs and smoky meows with altered books as my primary sense of sculptured space. I treat books as a 3-D space, leave reading to birds I augur with.

Perhaps I am primarily a visual artist, extending my early exploration of sound-sculpture, forever fascinated by the plasticity of words, trajectory of line, line, line. My early work, was all about line. I used to make huge three-dimensional drawings that was really my attempt to get sound of the ground, they were performed into being and visually speaking, had a lot in common with writing, calligraphy. The painter who performs painting (Yves Klein for example) is still a painter, not a performer and had no pretense to be one, same with John Hejduk, an architect who inscribed architexture with poetry. Thinking about this, I just realized that Hejduk used masks as a central element, motif in his work; perfect for a shh ... man on the edge of a theoretically built world, negotiating between zones, languages, hemispheres, materials. In another culture, he might have been considered a shaman (can someone get me anther term?). The education of an architect is a particularly interesting humanist field, it requires an understanding of art and architectural history and the built world—structures, form, drawing, painting, math, etc. and at Cooper Union, poetry.

I like to be in service of the materials, forget my "self" and become the page or the sound trying to have its say. My mother's father Roy Ezelle was forever making things remake him, his environment, mind, etc. He didn't call it art; just "making-do." He hand-stitched suits, knitted beautiful brown dolls, made collage paintings—used everything on hand. I'm the same, found objects, situations, opportunities, words, sentences and sounds form the basis of my work—and the reason for it. Cause—the world is amazing! What to do with all of this stuff? I am the one transformed in the process. The important thing is to try something. Look! I like walking down a street and being surprised by something. Forget people as the only or most significant domain of talking, everything is yak, yak, yak! Orange can with the swimming peanuts and writing (Japanese) I can't make out sid "Julie, pick me up!" I live in a Dick and Jane reality where everything is "see," "come here," "look," and exclamation points. Words of marvel.

Grandaddy also toured europe on steamboats with his brother Charles (poeteer and buddy of Noble Sisle of "Shuuffle Along" fame) with tuba, washboard, coronet, etc. Growing up, I recall him as a one man band, constantly entertaining with his jokes, expert whistlry, "u-ain't-got-a-sit-a-bense" talk reversals that seemed endemic in his family, and "guichee" talk which I was utterly fascinated by. I knew it was a real language when I first heard it. There was a magic in it; the tone ... His sisters were the same, and none of them called it art, that wasn't particularly useful language for people of african and native american heritage born in the late 19th century. My mother’s generation had different options and this term was hung around the house like carpet. Better word for "art'? Witchery. "Take something, do something to it." Stretch our skin.

DG: There are certain Siberian shamans who paint a star map on their drum, and hit different constellations to dial up whoever is needed at the moment. Ornette seems to do something like that. Coming out of the Grant street station to the baskets of fish and purple sky over Chinatown. You could arrange a performance were Monsanto can’t use language or numbers of any kind. They could only use ... brine shrimp ...

JP: That's hysterical. I'm goin t' hell in a brine piano. Crying shrimp over my up-coming gig. How I end up with a musician who never even heard my I tooth when I have so many musical pals nearby. You, Barney, Brad, etc. If I smash musicalpals together somehow I see scalps.

Fatigue blurs. Transitions—in work and in residence. What to do when the lights yellow. Naw ... I'm the one that’s yeller. Hi yeller! Calls to pubish are pulling on my chops, teeth I jest honed (more yellow!) in light of the fact that I'm about to take on the job of fronting for a group I'd like to call "spermkit." If anything should be cloned; it's womanmusicians. Meanwhile, I prefer to background music, poet up a wall of sound, shhheeit rock it, not up front strut. Rerouting my voice gots my body sinking into backyard evenings, scream doors, crepuscular harmonies, moss sofas, and pudgy baby kin as home turf trufs up a real gig (see me in a car I don't want to want as I went out of my way to concretize being here partly to avoid fossil fuel take out and walk my errand ways village style). Me no wanna go inclined the way my voice tells me. Like your shamanish drum, seems vocal palette's also got a way-out pattern; accent on stars I'd like to dust, leave behind. They also seem yellow.

From hear, seems somethin in b.culture argues to voice everywhere there isn't. It is the sound that fills up empty space. This voice comes from a hollow "I" shaped within. Doesn't need hands. Is it all that's written inside? The blood wills—like the mythology built out of my late sister's life. Lori lies against my ear. Last thing to hear the approaching silence. Ear as achilles heel. Listen; soul/sole, heat/heel.

Your turn.

DG: You recently did a gig at the Jazz Standard. Tell a little about that event—the performance space you navigated, the band and social space. How does it compare with other contexts? How does a space and an event like this effect what you do?

JP: Pushing the envelope, re-staging the page, paper is but one stage in a succesion of arenas engaging language. The JS gig was the most recent step, point of arrival in terms of these convergences.

I chafe against type, have a compulsion to free language from con fetters, make it breathe, walk, move—I am, of course, very walky-talky. On the re-staged page wondering as I wander em body of Language as multi-dimensional phenomena. Nevertheless, "writing" re mains the common ground most of my projects arch from. That's why I can float away from them, writing is as much in the body as out, it only gives the appearance of being outside it. Maybe we should replace the word writing with scoring. Still, for me, no matter the technique or form, this scoring (writing) is apriori—even if it's just the gesture, felt impulse per swaying me. You would never know this given my tendency to balk at fixing words to the page as forever condition—thass why per formance, I get to change the hook...run interference between page and stage for multiple interpretations, breath of readings, divining.

This feedback is essential to my work, mining the gap between sound and sense, how I hear and what I see—image and text and space—an architext, the Jazz Standard—how to score a room. I book on the stage, think aloud—on my feet, treat the stage as if it were more of a closet drama "reading" among friends, parle for a parlour. Bob Holman say he felt like he was "in an extended living room more than a jazz club." The Jazz Standard is some name to contend with; that's why I perched on my haunches from time to time, had 3 pianist for musical chairs. I didn't mean to make Lee Ann cry but she said she felt moved to do so. Wish I had miked her. Mo "voices" the merrier as I riff off a variety of texts, stress the changes between speaking and (my sense of) singing as extended breath. Edges, partitioning of space? Voice cuts it, softens it. Books fill it, tear down walls. The Jazz Standard and other performances were all about confronting doors. The late critic Jay Fellows said "writing has the pleasure of the door." My recent gigs were all shaped by my sense of threshold, 'the horrible inside/outside that all space is." Crossing the threshold always means double crossing it because going "outside" always makes me take note (in ventory of what I need to per from outside it. Outside is synominous with audience. This wind blows me back in the house. Outside is all breath. According to Vitruivius, this is where the amphitheatre takes it's shape—from ripples, waves of breath, audience windwhipped by the chorus.

On the stage, I take shelter in my library. Texts are my hide and seek.
The National Enquirer was the corner stone of my JStandard performance.
These days, I want to get as elemental, close to the body as possible. That's why the film "Palms" be projected on a petticoated book. I want everything close at hand. Books as tones, shape-shifters. Red for accent.

This flux is not ambivalence. Eye view publishing as site-specific temporary installation/ improvisational space; not a final resting place. Anyway, I don't have any such thing as a complete poem lying around the house waiting. I wish there was a way to publish in Etch-a-Sketch editions. It's portable, tablet like and Outer-Limitish. Low-tech and dissolve-able. Alka-Seltzer is my idea of a great poem. You jest wait ... my next project—pills with words. Publishing is good for mouthin off, statin intentions ... I'm'a gonnas. I do like it for this sense—documenting ideas, a more fluid conceptual framing devise. In this space, state it and it's just as good as done. And don't say the web to me, or Hypertext. I haven't quite gotten used to that glow-ball glare squared. Makes me claustrophobic. Too TV. I'd rather make little spaces and be happy with the intimate worlds they bring me. I'm not trying to address the w/hole planet. Not yet.

On the other hand, I tend to think of performance as publishing. Isn't that crazy? On stage-page, I feel like I am writing it in space, live, in the moment. As if my body were a stylo, pen or etching stick—this is the figure of the i, pointed down, gravity bound (perhaps I should have eye-skates then you could see the lines traced in the thin layer of what? Consciousness?)

This here insight relates to past experiences with print-making, etching in particular, where you have the sense of being in the dark and not knowing what is per or re seived. It's all anticipation (headiness of per forming) and dream because you're inscribing in this film and guessing the ground (subtext?) at the same time. The acid (audience) reads into it this commentary of sorts, and feeds back a template—image for you to continue working. But you don't know what you got till you get that pretty paper out and stick it to the ink facade.

In my so-called performances, I am more aware of creating, literally producing a text (of sorts), a body of writing, from the ground up, than anything else. The fact that the audience is witness to it, receives it (as I hand it to a multitude o thems) makes me feel like "publishing" hot off the body-press, albeit a very limited edition. Next project: publish a series of performance dates. No words. Come saw:

Julie Bulie
Carnegie Hall
April 15, 2002
"On the Up and Up..."
(a performance in

May as well use publishing to talk up a performance since I never have the time, money or wherewithal to video the dang thangs. Shoot! I did my best work this year and ain't got square one to show for it.

I'm crossed wired, got it backward cuz I tink any arena, wooden platform, protruding tongue (curtain'd by the soft folds of the mouth, veritable theater, in the dark) as a page and writing as an event per formed (mitt hands as fore-feet; pen—faithful walking stick or limbo stick I cha-cha under, head re
versed, as above so below, hoof in mouth, walking my talk.

This activity ("art")—nomadology between disciplines, edges, sites and planes is one way to be in the world but not of it.

Art affords opportunity for different grounds, terrains; a space-making activity in itself.

Line is the plot I path. My sense of the infinite—my real focus. Process is line, trace, momentum, thruway. Open doors, feet-fleet hands.
Motility is the point. I owe this way of working to chafing against the edges, limitations, desperate measures. An approach based on making do with what you have, joy of found objects, found circumstances.

A line goes for a walk. No direction but an inclination, lean into, an impulse to jump off a cliff...
            Sense of address ... tongue as lasso chorale my own voice—says-pooling voice-void stationary objects animate as chorus for sprecht-needs. More ventriloquist, puppeteer of books, aligner of tongues, I speak for things, plagiarize, confuse and confiscate texts. Of course my visual-book works as perf-objects, way of reading non con current wit flow of words, direction intended (just can't seem to pull open a book left to right) is stealth practice for juggling live.

Overall, I tend to make little distinction between my private artistic impulse and the more public one—I emerge the more I merge the two. Doesn't look like it, but my aim is to simplify or rather synthesis all these diverse elements. The Jazz Standard gig enabled me to bring my "performance art" into a music setting. A music context is quite different than one for arranged for poetry. There's a heightened sense or largess of public space and people enter a club with an expectancy that's palpable—they expect to be "entertained." Also, the curating focus rests on different schemes—you can't fill a club on personal taste and friends alone.

Poetry is close-circuit viewing—maybe because of the way it's bound by print, so hand to mouth. You wouldn't think a genre that engages light (reading, writing) would be so poorly lit. The atmospheric conditions weigh heavily on the poor try.

Overall, performance is about dialogue, coming to meet. This sense of engagement, communication is everything and context states the purpose. I might I expand, allow more room, volume to accommodate a bunch of instruments jumpin up and down on my face. I contract, shut out externals to accommodate the intimacy of a single voice. It's the diff between putting a frame around a 3 by 5 inch painting or sheltering a Richard Serra. Each audience registers a specific sense of approach. You can see listening and respond to it. I am a hearing voyeur. My own ears respond kinetically while watching people behold amazed ears, flaps closing in on eyes. Thass why I think there's this entire genre around jass photography, not classical but jazz, particularly black photographers.

On stage I gotta see-hear or else I'm really lost, especially since I'm just a neighbor from a visiting genre dropping in just to say hi on behalf of lost words—started out trying to re present poetry to relative disciplines then ended up speaking to the cats in their language. Don't know what bridge I'm'a take this to. Only know

How I stretch myself ... What you see is what you get. There is no other time but the time I am doing something in—or space! Weather wise. The real rehearsal involves getting up the nerves. Yes, the nerves. They put me over the edge. I try to go with the flow.

Folks call this improvisation but I'd choose another word—one I remember my grandfather using whenever I asked him what he was doing, simply making-do. I like the accent on the word "making" and the verb-activity of "do" (in line with the roots of poesis.

This was most apparent at the Jazz Standard gig, and accounts for the sense of spirit and mirth between musicians and audience, the kind of dare you see on a playground because no one knew what was going to happen next. The musicians didn't know the nature of my work (and neither did I because my nature always depends on the forest I'm gad about in, and I usually can't see the forest for the trees until they are felled in front of me. Whack! And all nerves. At the end, cuz I've been fairly indifferent to ego or end, and am usually more concerned with what I can "get away with it"—and totally spent, I gave up the ghost and let the musicians have it. At this point the gig changed hands and the emphasis was on watching listening—like "reading" itself, ball in socket, everyone's eyes was on the musicians earring. Nasheet (Waits), Taurus Mateen and others all exclaimed that particular gig as a rarity in New York. One would think that type of extreme playground would happen more often but it doesn't because of professional ism Careerism no vareerism! But my work and working identity is mutable and I don't care if I make mis takes. I risk. Reputation doesn't. People can seldom put their finger on what I do anyway. With work so dependent on context variation is the theme.

Blah, blah, blah ... what did you say Drew? I get tired of hearing myself talk—work produced by running away from my own flapping ears. Can't get them outta my head. Feel their holes like sink-holes. Poetry as a headache. Re minds me; a long, long time ago I wrote a bit about the ear as our achilles heel. This is where Death enters. Every individual has a certain reservoir, quota of sounds, the body-being can tolerate. You die when you've heard it All—get filled to the brim. At that point, silence overflows. I doctored that poem-theory a long time ago. But now that I've entered a stream of music, I'd modify it to state the relevance of the quality of sounds. And ratio to pause, now that I see silence as part of music. I used to separate them, but now that I've been forced to work with it as a listening space I feel the body-container differently.

Hmmm ...
                  dis re minds me of our double billing at St. Marks last spring. It was my first attempt to work with space, silence, build it into performance. I was tired, and deeply affected by the last NYPD murder. Sometimes there is so much talk around issues you can't hear or feel anything because the rhetoric and noise is deaf- and dead- ening. I was compelled to say something, the guys face (Patrick Dorismond) on the newspaper bothered me. I felt like I knew him, his eyes seem to plead for something, anything—just don't leave me in the silence, bespake. I felt like I had to say something but I didn't want to add more words; jibberish. So at the last minute, and I usually work on a dime, I grabbed a pot of ink and ran to the notions store for something to extend my tongue. I used the width of the stage (plowing right to left) to plot my course, stretch the pauses so I could re-feel the stage as a page, my old way of working with ink, show don't tell. I don't care if I "fail." I place myself at the service of the materials only. I can only work on the spot. As I said, limitations outline the work so limbo is a good word that points to obstickle—namely having no other space to work. I can't see myself in my own abode (don't got rehearsal space) and I need audience to ear myself so I risk my neck to crack open my head-heart in newly paved situations in order to see, hear.

Media, me di umm is seasonal for a migrating artist seeking wings in any fluid media that will have me! Can I fly with a typewriter—does it impress or depress me? I often find more joy in using it as a rhythm machine, like at the Jazz Standard, keying along with Barnaby McAll on the piano ... da da da ... percussion. And an unexpected conversation piece for musicians surprised in the act.

On my way out the door for giglet and sound check ... I thought, "Shoot! I got my own ax!" and grabbed it and a few other just-in-cases. This was my first time as a band leader so unsure of the rest I knew I could find my way on a keyboard. Hic sunct Snapping Turtles; for where exactly are the edges of a stage charting unknown spaces, locations-windblowing chora reaching (pre tend: shush!) a slender jazz stage at a tender own "I" place—staging ground for a restaging of words that might surface on paper although I don't write with intention to publish, just another turf to grow on—other media make the work be
seen and scene pro scenium ... Even so, these work—things resounding out of play ground are temporary shapes that will be shifted time again and again, re re re re
specting no thingness of it. Why I don't care too much for the word improvise—overwrought with reification. Biases. Cut on the bias.

The major constant in my work is change because I am not working at a work or poetry—I am working at myself!

And I'll put myself through all kinds of changes to trans form/scend me self. This was my initial modus operandi twenty thousand years ago when I became preoccupied with the malleability of paper. "Poems" will never wear out my sense of the page because I first approached the dang space as a "performance space"!

I used to place huge sheets of paper on the floor, get in them with ink, fire, indigo—and try to capture "sound" by toning down myself, feeling breath, gesturing toward the thinnest line, barest possibility. Interesting because I referred to my act at Jazz Stand as "intonation." In my early work (re search) music was an ample way of moving. A hesitation dance for space stressed silence. Now again, the page is aligned, meets the corners of the room but this time others are in the mix. Problem with jazz is there's little room to dance. Get the body in. Space is tabled.

At Jazz Standard I was inspired, in part, to work against the name, turn the tables on the joint and bring in a different format. I'm not ready to be a stand up at the mike kind of girl, not yet. I prefer to get close to earth (for want of table, place mat, playground) balance on my haunches, work from my knees. I encapsulate myself, feel my portability, smallness in a field of purpose. This same feel for paper, ink, line, light, movement, chance trail led me to poetry—length, breath wise seem of bolt and dash is as multi-dimensional as language! And I never saw it coming. Can't anticipate the journey while you are in it.

Paper is my sense of void, tree pressed blue sky (as if I grew up in them). What presences. That, in addition to woweeeee! horizon expanse, eye-breadth score rhyme shore rhythm reason empty Vo id bough bow humility, food for thought, self branching, and lines upon lines! I tell you ... paper to ponder, render and mulch. Basic ally, I like to get my hands on things—hand immediacy, low tech. Hands voice, animate so much! Toy with instruments. Do you know the one (theories—such one-liners!) about the Tongue teaching the fingers to articulate? Wouldn't that stem the tie mouths mould as tongues hand connections?

Trees make the best poets. Plus they draw in the sky (clouds sculpt). There is music in line of thought, body and action. And, to me, handwriting is "drawing" to the extreme and movement centered internal cadences. Anyway, music in the trees is mad Journey. Branching. Riffing, blowing in the wind. I can't articulate my own existence (all clouds don't spell rain). Clear of self, looking back, I sense a calling, a calling, a calling. Behind the scenes trump l'oeil of drawings and installation work (always a work at, to, against—like puttin head to the wall, feet to ground with nod to sense of surface, applique, Mother's canvass space, scenes though never seen were felt to be impressed some where, actions would re or unveil them. Same with my work today. Undetermined outcome, only a set of minor tools to, processes to move through then I see what I got away with—thought out an invisible hand, frame ... emptying out, fragile existences, contingencies, frayed hand (pen ultimate sense of void) and lightfloor also recalls youth of fabric covered floor areas ... arenas for pinning down sheer patterns, body parts (pants, salvage, dot ... dot ... dot, line, dash, cut on the fold led up to my becoming such a paper doll.

"Cutting up" at the Jazz Standard, and work against the name—not as deliberate ploy but as back-of-the-mind. Public squares multi ply the ruse. Chasing process. Line proceeds as my main line, processional ism as my movement. Creativity gets me into such tight corners! Jumped ship when the art world went fashion, jump poetry when it does same. Limbo through the loss of contemplative-art space as rite in world; happenstance, slowgrowth (not machine gunned down yet or, quick stamp hero name-fame game)

Artist-child's legacy of develop mental grace, ground surface, residency work with mature artists who did fleeting, space-centered environ mental work. Re re search, search of me dium and me dia. I don't know what remains of Jazz Standard. Fleeting arrangement of musicians, some of the best in town. The event was a discussion, a party, family reunion, nod to my late sister...I don't know what it wasn't.

Musical venues betray my sense of dash—flight outlined by the Morton Salt girl, a pattern memorized over the years. There was no edge to that infinite blue container and no horizon. Still running, still pouring. I identify with her

the mentality of the heard, stamp peed, whatsmatter of hooves on the plain open stage paging whatever comes in to play. In the midst of which guest arrive, enter the fray—As I Ching says: "We should do every task for it's own sake and not with an eye to the result. Then each task turns out well, and anything we undertake succeeds.

I am partly talking to or echoing myself, re siting the voice or presence-sing already manuevered (main dated as in (f) hand, manual) the re siting the so-called text delivers this communion-host, to those more or less prepared to receive it. "Voice" is beside the point of words.

This is what grounds my performance work, despite the switchback between oral and literary. I may not have a slate of purposes but I do have a sense of making things, practice of craft—building, shaping, constructing, etc—combinatorics, love of making connections, things being sex'd into being. If you don't like it lick it. Then the tongue comes into play. This is where process, composition, forces beside yourself come in. And that sense of animal structure built into letters, type lined tail-to-mouth. I like the beast. Animal language. Language is animal. Which reminds me, although my vice comes from many directions, I owe a lot to my cats. People who know them understand them to be quite voice-activated. Barney has dedicated his next to CD to my cat Smokey. And everyone is familiar with his answering-machine messages, and the fact that Puddin Tame started manipulating the answering machine to rouse me out of bed. Chatty Kathy ... she heard voices and knew where they were coming from.

so what kind of sound are
words?) ...
            herds and heards and ears and erde
            bird whirr woods
we[eeee air'd
wor[l]d
           a side: omagod, drew, I found the ket to my u-know-what-o 'em you can hear it in the ea
at the end of idea, a swooping sound as yeaeaeaeaea, certainly a couple dancing at my part-y, dip
thong along

sex is always in the work
(that ol Burn[t] treatment of p
b
s Jazz has occasional tid bits like re
winding me about jass, so you get
ass ...

reminds me ... there is not much
ass in jazz anymore, so dance, butt-switch swing
has given way to more literary (as sin writing) emphasis

so what I'm tryin to do
to it
is not get with it but rid
dle it with ...

            (
female hormones among other things, get the KY
jelly for all them men to bend
another en trance

but this is also how I treat books—as rip offs
off of sumptin else

process is like
ing
and
ing
and
ing
and
ing
and
ing
ing
ink! typing and taping
too

reading hasn't been reified way music has
unless you say it's a good "read"

and I read by placing my hands on books,
branded by the feel

Social space in that event? Someone said they felt as if they were in someone's living room instead of a club. Coincidence that my mother and older sisters were there, I felt like I just invited everybody into my own womb. Ultra sound! Ears develop first. As I've intensified my sense of play in this area, arena of work, I can feel the in sides—holy apertures! cathedrals! prevailing winds take over, the stage breathes, and laughs. Plato's chora. Working in their dark, half-blind, limitations of sight, sight lines affect my stage work and presence. Dis located. In space. Can't tell where the edges are so the audience always washes up on board, enter the situation because I have no stage direction, can't even locate sheets of paper. I just grab whatever's on hand and follow it's lead. Up to a point. Not seeing makes me dwell in my ears. I prefer Ms. Magoo to a Siren-Diva—don't wanna stand up straight and work from that showboat position. As the drummer Nasheet Waits said, "I like a woman who can get down and dirty on the ground." That's me. Girl in the mud. How else do u play with blocks, make a tonka truck roarrrrrrrrrr over vietnam? Sitting pretty ain't me. Too constricting. I'll do that at 50, promise.

Of course this X-stream informality has it's down side—when during the second set I was so affected by this
tide washing over the shore I let the band go
swept out to sea, swam over to one side to pull Barney (McAll) back in, (man overboard) but he, like Rod Williams, often preferred to sit back and sit out the set to watch the performance rather than make waves. No one knew what I was going to do next so this time the musicians were all agog, forced to watch and read the visuals while listening and playing. Normally a musician can just close their eyes and go, but they couldn't do that because of my antics, sense of erasing things as they came into being an also the fact that they had to cope with sound as well as words that weren't always up to their usual meaning. It was fun and funny because in many ways it felt like an old T
someone asked me if I was the Marcel Duchamp of Jazz. Too busy to answer I now wonder what he meant. Do you?

the musicians in kinder
garden

ope, penned
by a female conductor

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