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THE MAGICIAN (AND OTHER DOCUMENTATIONS)


The magician carefully pulls the tablecloth from beneath our bottles and bowls and words on the table.
Hopelessly hoping they don’t fall over.
We lock our gaze to each other.
If our bottles break, if our bowls crack and if our words melt into the floor, at least we have a story to tell together.
And I will be sitting in the corner, writing what happened, until I get tired.
I am the magician.


I dream of a pile of white paper and blue brown black pens.
I dream of a mask that will protect me from this chaotic mess.
I dream of a juncture to lean against.


I pickle my context in a jar to forget.
I walk into the building to see a face.
I sharpen my blade and prepare my ice.
So that my knees my wrists my feet my eyes can walk miles.



(and for that I embrace)
(the changing of the gear)
(this time next year)
(the last time I was here)
(the evening where I feel)
(the murmurs we all hear)







1



(05.07.2021)


How many versions of the same story can be told? I guess the same amount as the people in this room, or in my head, or the amount of days already spent telling the story. But as I wrote before in some past life, words feel old today. All of them, all I haven’t said yet, all I haven’t even heard yet. The kind of story you will hear today, take it home and sleep with it, for it is yours and mine and ours, and only today you’ll hear me what I say. Don’t waste your words, keep them, for I didn’t at the time. And I wish I had realized what is ephemeral, earlier. But are things even things before you know what they are?


2



(date unknown)


I look at this paper now, just like I look back at the past months, last three years, as if they were so full of emptiness. How did repetition and comfort took away our juices? Was it ourselves that we were getting acquainted?
Getting scared as we were dancing. A fish told me I could hang my papers so that, when we look back, we can (finally) make sense of the creature that ate us. And perhaps our attempts to glue each other with tape comes from our hunger. Sitting in someone else’s stomach. So we come here everyday, craving and scared, and she said today and everyday, let’s start writing.  






Written during the collaborative writing and performance work ‘Rehearsal’. Documentation by Naomi Moonlion