Text for Performance

Wet in the Deeplock
at Subterranean Worlds, Open School East, August 2017
Written and performed in collaboration with Emily Whitebread

The dredges of mud had undercover.
An under the head glance and gloop edged refrain, of all that we took.
To go further down into wet, to allow our feet to be wet, to allow our skin to become porous and our feet sob into the ground. Each step mangling anarchic sentiments into the crust of mud pools, each tearing a glance from the mush.
A tearful laugh down the roots, as they climbed across landmass, landmarks, the outer shell, the cylindrical, the inner shell with pulling skin sags, all the while occasionally coming across an ulcer of the cave that begged to be tongued.

Red walls that poured iron fumes, the taste of blood from a snag wound.
Noxious pockets. Wet in the deeplock.
There were landmarks of all sorts, the occasional disruptive presence,
but those could be seen to, by just moving the clay and resorting the mess.
These things can be seen to. These things can be sorted -
With only a slight beckon to the ground, the ground will beckon back; just remember.

Plunging my face into the darkness
I push down further and further
I move my hips and kick my legs
Reaching forward pulling it tight
Keeping hold
Pluck it let the vibrations distribute
Oh the tautness!
A resonating chamber
Pass over the bridge

Find the dark
We are part of evolutionary time
From the microscopic to the easily visible
Burrows a suitable space for habitation
Look at the pulverised rocks and minerals
Rappelling our way through a spectacular array of crystal formations

See the silt, the boulders the microscopic submersible
These aquatic creatures swim in the narrow water channels of the upper soil horizons
Dive deep into the cold
Deeper still into the steamy zones heated by upwellings
Dip into the underground
What can be found here
Not one world but many

The soil a complex organic whole
An earthly scent and digested soil
A partnership
Tactile sensitivity and oral sensations
The hunger of the eyes
Subliminally sensed by the tongue
The interior sensation of the mouth
The world returns to its oral origins
Compelled to kneel
Touch with your tongue

What magical adventures could take place?


Written in collaboration with Emily Whitebread
Sound and instruments built and recorded by Lou Lou Sainsbury, Kris Lock, Jacob Woods and George Harding

Exposed shine and headless blue fell into molten dew blades and rumbling fields. Beaver’s head stuck long ago, before this. There was a shuddering in the surface of sight and the heads turned and broke from the stone, crumbling at the necks. Drapery fell over stone mountain naps for gaze, and the statues stopped staring back at Lucy. The great big cracked and shifted, tectonic eyesore monuments moving, plates left for eating and game hunting trophies smacked right for false records.

Lucy’s feet went deep wet in the marsh, finding stability on stones in haptic chance - “That’s funny, I haven’t felt the fields open like this for centuries.”

The Seer, a reaction to the scientific realisation of nature.
A quest to find the living thing.
The long term affect on nationalism, the body to stimuli.
The glorification of ALL the past and nature.

The body cut in two and half a stimulus couldn’t tell the last of what was leaking through the panes. Lucy trudged further down, while sky circle embryo moved closer and no one particularly payed much attention to the way the rain moved anymore.

To trudge through the mud is to kneed into the weight of one’s own body, and foraging Beaver’s body was twice as hard when weighted amongst the grain of soil, within the body of subterranean mud-earth kinship gestures.

Door sealant death and asking every moment. Every moment gone to enter to always approach - and approach to enter to go and gone. To heal in a divided space, they congregated in the masses, murmured reprieves and responses, from touch of face, Lucy remembered this brush from many times before. To be touched and not to touch, to turn a doorknob without entering, to latch on to the key with no aims in leaving or desire to be left. To step twice to the door, or to be still and watch the door edge all the more closer. Wonder had etched onto winged stone, in animal carvings and Lucy read out with braille fingers - “I am not living to heal men, my breathing, my breathing, but my broken vessels shoot liquid and my breathing beats.


Gardenbody - Releases