Reading: Chris Tse and Emma Barnes (eds.) — Out Here: An anthology of Takatāpui and LGBTQIA+ writers from Aotearoa

Another in the small pile of books out of Aotearoa I’m getting all up in my memories about reading. I haven’t thought about Witi Ihimaera for decades. Same with Peter Wells. Old names in an anthology of mostly young Millennial and Gen Y poets and writers. Some of the other old names I can’t read past knowing they were rad-fem-les-sep transphobes back in the day. Cool if they’ve grown from that, but irrelevant to me; they did the damage then and I don’t need to read them now.

Dasniya said, on Thursday when their nohinohi little one was all big eyes and focus as I sung old Māori songs I seem to have remembered for them, she was seeing a show as Sophinesaele by Pelenakeke Brown and I said that name sounds familiar, reckon I’ve just been reading them. And I had. Her writing, A Travelling Practice, one of the couple of non-fiction pieces, and one of the couple that really stuck with me out of all the writers. The other was Jessica Niurangi Mary Maclean’s Kāore e wehi tōku kiri ki te taraongaonga; my skin does not fear the nettle, not the least for reminding me te Reo Māori is grammared but gender neutral, ia, tāna, tōna … like all the best languages. I photographed Pelenakeke’s piece and sent it to Dasniya before she saw her performance.

I should have marked all the writers I really liked. Forgot to do that with my usual oh I’ll remember of course I won’t and now I spose I could go back through. Almost finished my most recent stack of books and the upcoming pile is heavy on Māori Pasifika and I’m very fucking happy about that.

Reading: Caren Wilton — My Body, my business: New Zealand sex workers in an era of change

I joked I reckon I’ll know some people in this book. Turns out wasn’t a joke. Turns out it was much more personal than I expected, even when under that joke I knew I bought this book to remember history. My history. History around me. History I should know.

Long time ago, young me worked end-of-week nights in the needle exchange in Tāmaki Makaurau Auckland, binning returns and handing out fresh packs. Which led to me being nights at the NZ Prostitutes Collective drop-in centre, because being a young transsexual, the only work available was sex work. Or selling drugs or doing robbery, more or less in that order. I never did proper street sex work on Karangahape Road, but did occasionally crack it opportunistically, sometimes just so I’d have a bed for the night. All the transsexual women who worked the street passed through the drop-in centre of an evening, Māori, Pasifika, and the one of two Pākehā. Later, they’d be up the Ponsonby Road end, and when I lived in the old brothel, above the sex shop looking down Howe St, I’d see them on the corner.

My Body, my business: New Zealand sex workers in an era of change reminded me of a lot of history I’d forgotten, and connected things, filling in blanks, explaining details. Like the probable identity of the old Greek man who owned the house in Pirie St I lived in when I was (once again) homeless, the upstairs apartment home since the ’70s to various Māori trans sex workers. Or the doctor at Three Lamps in Ponsonby who used to prescribe hormones to all the transsexuals, also known since the ’70s. I don’t think I ever saw him, but pretty sure it was a woman Doctor in the same practice.

And just the general truth of it all, how it was in the ’80s and ’90s — even though most of the oral histories were slightly before my time. It was all so familiar, reminding me how deep I was in that life, how they were the ones who guided and saved me. And how it was so easy to have that all taken away.

I wonder how my life would look, would have looked, if I hadn’t been through conversion therapy. Would I have started dancing (probably, I was incredibly naïve about what trans girls and women could and couldn’t do)? Would I have moved to Melbourne? Maybe, though staying in Sydney is perhaps more likely. Gone to VCA? Realistically I wouldn’t have made it through the auditions, because being trans and a dancer has only been a possibility for the last decade or so. Even my — in current language — non-binary self bashed up hard against the rigid and strict cisheteronormativity of dance back then.

This is a reminder. Where I came from, what I lived through, who were my contemporaries, family, whānau, who I owe an obligation to.

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Dasniya Sommer: The Männy

Something Dasniya Sommer has been working on for an age and I really wanted to see her première (thanks poverty): The Männy at Staatstheater Hannover. Really, she’s gone to another realm of hectic with her rope work.

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Berlin is not Bayreuth. Vol. 1: Tannhäuser

Das Helmi on tour, all the way out east to Lichtenberg, in the shallow parabola of northern Rummelsberg right by S-Nöldnerplatz, where the rails form a curved triangle around the old railway workshops backing onto the roundhouse and railway turntable to the east, now typically Berlin ateliers and halfway to forest of the B.L.O. Ateliers.

Festival time. Wagner festival time. Berlin is not Bayreuth. Vol. 1. Six hours of Tannhäuser spread across at least four stages, meandering through the dishevelled brick and concrete buildings and fastigiate black poplars charging thirty metres into the dark, cloudless evening sky. Peter Frost wrecking it singing dodgy Schlagermusik, Cora Frost doing the same as a Pope to ruin The Young Pope. glanz&krawell (I think) working their way through the long shouty bits with proper opera singing. Das Helmi with their always always glorious, monstrous, chaotic stagings, scaring off people who though it was going to be, y’know, opera, culture and shit, instead of what the fuck is happening here, how did I find myself on stage slapping a stranger’s arse with twelve other people doing the same I should’a left when the Pope started kissing people’s feet kinda thing.

Mad thanks to Dasniya Sommer for getting me in, reminding me of a Berlin I utterly love, deeply pagan and animist, rough as guts and no intention of ever changing.

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10 Years With Dasniya In Berlin

We went and saw Mission Impossible: Fallout and laughed for 2½ hours at the brilliant kinetic absurdity: Tom Cruise, part of the Jackie Chan and Buster Keaton lineage of getting audiences to pay stacks to watch them do mad stunts. We ate chocolate and ice cream and nachos – cinema nachos! – and drunk Sekt. In the Kino. This is Germany and everywhere is drinking erlaubt. Ten years today, ago Dasniya and I met in her Fabrik studio in Uferstraße.

Dasniya Sommer — “Bondage Duell” At Sophiensæle Again

Dasniya Sommer’s banger, Bondage Duell is on again at Sophiensæle, part of Performing Arts Festival Berlin 2018, one of my favourite performances from last year, which I wrote about and photographed. It’s already on, two more nights, get your arse there.

Shibari & Kinbaku Classes in February with Dasniya Sommer

Three different classes with Dasniya Sommer this month in Berlin-Wedding, all on Tuesdays:

For more info, email Dasniya on workshops@dasniyasommer.de, message her on Facebook, and check out her Instabanga while you do (& sign up to her mailing list)

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My Ideal Future …

… is where Altered Carbon‘s Lizzie Elliot knifes the entire patriarchy in the throat.

Showcase Beat Le Mot — Super Collider, at HAU2

Second show of the week, and the one I’m seeing first: Showcase Beat Le Mot’s Super Collider at HAU2, with Dasniya Sommer doing rope stuff.

Showcase Beat Le Mot — Super Collider
HAU Hebbel am Ufer, Berlin (HAU2)

  • Sun 10.12.2017, 19:00
  • Mon 11.12.2017, 19:00
  • Tue 12.12.2017, 19:00
  • Wed 13.12.2017, 19:00

Laser pointers write “Game Over” in the sky. The performers of Showcase Beat Le Mot do not want to waste any electricity on apocalyptic resignation but instead to expand the frame of discourse to include outer space. That’s why in their new performance they’re sending danced messages and mumbled formulas into the outskirts of the universe. “True, beautiful and good were sought, skewed, quirky and helpful were found.” The antennas for the extra-terrestrial messages are switched from receiving to sending. This is not documentary theatre about the powerlessness to act in a surging reality but an experiment that works like a utopian slingshot. The stage setting is the message, the audience the amplifier. Space acts instead of fake facts. Always alongside trouble. Welcome to the half-truth about everything.

Concept, Space, Text, Realisation: Showcase Beat Le Mot
Shibari: Dasniya Sommer
Sound/Music: Sebastian Meissner
Costumes: Clemens Leander
Video: Alexej Tschernij
Light: Klaus Dust
Movements: Nina Kronjäger
Stage construction: Jörg Fischer
Production: Olaf Nachtwey & Johanna J. Thomas
Thanks to: Alexander Djuric and Etel Adnan