Undoubtedly the primary reason for this level of emotion is the aftermath of several days of hypnosis. The hypnosis I experienced as a participant writer in Ron Athey's latest production of 'Gifts of the Spirit'. The words simply don't come out any more, they curl and weave around every fragment of my tired brain as if to torment me, because as I part my lips the words never leave. The day has passed in a haze of melancholy transitions; the most painful being the goodbye.
So picture it now...
There's the room.....a derelict building site of a space, with beams and a soaring glass roof, piles of rubble littering the floor. The icy chill in the air almost adds another layer to the experience as you might question whether it's the weather or the concept which has you shuddering, irrespective of how many layers of fabric protect you. In the still of night the roof acts as a mammoth reflection of the performance, showing each participant from above as well as below. At the hub of activity, the table of vocalists sits poignantly, waiting to send the first sparks of electricity to the waiting writers; the seance machine. Othon, a musical genius in boxing gloves, sits at the piano, commanding attention in the room for all the right reasons. The outline is defined by tables of typists, washing lines and pegs and a vast white cross of paper for the outpourings of 16 hypnotised minds. There was a suggestion that to comment on the aesthetic might be rather pretentious or limp, however one could never deny the outlandish beauty of the stones and the enhancements, merged perfectly with just the hint of flamboyant.
The master himself, Ron Athey, leads the production line of sounds, layering typewriters over his gentle entrancing voice, injecting the piano sounds, ecstatic vocals and eventually speaking in tongues. Every element of the crescendo sends the writers into a wild frenzy.It seems as if every noise releases a new tension. On the command 'unhinged' it is evident that the writers are far beyond the point of no return, with bodies scattered carelessly over the white cross of paper. On reflection the discovery was somewhat chilling, with the news delivered to me that I had been on my back, eyes closed, spewing ambidextrous Latin in mirror images. Recorded footage had this freak show behaviour confirmed to me and the shock resonated inside my skull, knocking the breath from my chest. This was me, I had done this, and yet the sixty minutes I spent scribbling had passed in a heartbeat and not quite etched the memory I would need in order to understand it.
In the few hours that followed, I made sense of nothing, I understood nothing and I recalled nothing. All that remained was a sinking feeling in the pit of my belly and waves of extreme sadness. The only thing easing the pain was the stolen comfort of those who shared it, which is why I leant on them and talked uncontrollably of my ecstasy and discomfort to anyone who would listen.
This leads me to the boy. I should have been a boy myself, after all I surround myself with male companions on a daily basis. This boy though, this boy was different. Perhaps it was the penetrating eyes and the way they melted into my bloodstream, I don't know. But oh the boy. Beauty personified. If I can meet someone in a bizarre situation and feel like a part of me came home, then I want to hang onto that feeling. Inevitably, the sense of euphoria in having discovered a thing of beauty was marred by the crushing realisation that our lifestyles would clash inexplicably. What I would have given to be able to walk off into the distance for a while and bask in the loveliness of the moment, but I couldn't. I squeezed the life out of every single second of the last part of the day. The safety of the arms that sent me to sleep will replay in my head over and over and over again. The boy. It is with a heavy heart that the goodbye was given and the tears have fallen ever since. You don't always encounter a soul mate.....but I ponder.....is this what i did? So many times I thought I found perfection prior to this day, but now I can see that this is what it feels like to love. For whatever reason I sit now, elated yet wallowing in self pity and bereavement and I will soon close my eyes to hold that hand a while longer.
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