It’s the last full day of tasks. Tomorrow we start trying to resuscitate one and an half weeks of self-indulgent dross in hopes someone will like it on the weekend. This also means Nigel has had a week to get a fairly good handle on each of us and in fine psychiatric style start pushing our buttons a bit. Today’s task: you’ve each got your own little piece of hell to quit avoiding. For me it was ‘grief and loss, oh and no music or watching films’. Nice one, ya bastard.
The morning got pretty heavy, Anna, Tim and the young and disgustingly talented Fillip went there every time, but I had that too familiar air-sucked-out-of-the-room feeling of digging a hole best left filled. Over lunch the realisation of the complete absence of black humour and self-deprecation got me back after lunch as sprightly as a young raindeer in the sights of a gun.
So, what exactly did I do? On the weekend, Nigel and I had a long rambling conversation that included a history on my most recent relationship, and it’s glorious demise. Nigel seemed to think today it was a vibrant source of theatre; I suggested he was something I won’t repeat here. We drank rosehip tea. Lucky I had my computer, where the detritus of that relationship litters the harddrive in so many molecular pockmarks.
This is certainly the most personal and probably self-indulgent piece I’ve made, and I can’t call it shit or even have an opinion, in the same way you can’t be sure it’s an elephant when you’ve got your head buried up it’s ass. Either way, it began with Tim and Fillip masturbating convincingly to their favourite fantasies while Anna read a page-long list of ‘everyone I can remember sleeping with and the drugs I took’. That in itself was for me embarrassing, humiliating and left a pervasive feeling of uselessness, in no small part because of all the names I’ve forgotten, and even entire people and times, all lost. To get Tim then to read the email from my last relationship, the dumping, it’s over email, while Anna and Fillip did a bang-up job of fucking was possibly not going far enough, or possibly the most inane, art-therapy piece of shit ever to pop its degenerate and malformed head out into the first sunlight in Zurich in a week. I was cringing. Noone was laughing. They finished by all lying on the floor and getting themselves off. The icing on this awful cake was them whispering, “I love you, Frances”, which brought the house down in around four seconds.
I still have no idea if it was shit or a step into a bigger world, but the response was unnerving, as it seemed to deeply affect alot of people. Or perhaps they were being polite in the face of watching a car crash in slow motion. I needed a stiff drink.
Yes, it was sunny, the sky was that European iridescent blue, the jet planes left contrails like fluffy cotton wool across the stratosphere, we sat, twenty dancers in the rich evening light, beside the river on the long steps of the cafédrinking, talking until midnight. I’ve got that DanceWEB feeling again, I never want to leave, I never want it to end.