we are not [ listening]

Screen Shot 2015-06-08 at 15.49.06

A film for Big Noise Festival 2015.
Music: Ohara Hale. The Reeds ( in Moonlight)
Text: Beatrice Jarvis
Film by Beatrice Jarvis
Berlin footage: Benjamin Bailey


we are not [ listening ] where does memory hide. It comes early and we are late. It takes us and wrecks us. Dust. Ash. Rubble. All to moss. We are not

it is a matter of attention and memory in this quiet place that neither you nor I know. Such richness we destroy. Dust passes through our hands. We are lost. Lost for a sense of never quite becoming and we shall never know.

this is the land we cannot forget. Everything underfoot has a name. Is named. Each anonymous grass, repeats a history. I gather your fragments and store them in the pocket of my man made smock. To be an imitation, to cover the old façade with breezeblock and stop it from telling any secrets.
with measured steps, with deliberation, to walk a quiet path, between time and the grey fold. Hide me here, and I will sit, naked and think of marble and skin. Whose voice is this, beneath the shoals of our measured steps, the ship wreck of ambiguity, I am clutching at you, you fall, out, and out back to the place.
[my] deepest breath will bring no more air, the walls are departed, where does memory hide, what do these walls contain. The tree speaks, enlarged and bulbous with such acquisition. I will not beg you, the soil wraps me, the sky melts in hot pool of darkness. Unclench your teeth and loosen your jaw, do you continually bare this need, are you entertainment, clap, clap your hands.

Tell me a secret.

where are you. the stars have broken into pieces and they still clap. The man has no voice and he does not speak my name. The stars in spasm, the stars in cloud are still present. Do not touch this memory. My flesh crawls with it. Writhing in pastness and forgotten intimacies.

The candles have all burnt down and the palace falls to moss and ruin. Who are you. I walk beside the swing of your pulse and your heart pumps in both directions at once, the lines of my body and your heart, does memory have soul. The construction will not cease to frown. The asphalt courses through thick blood, progress will stop nothing . I breathe cement.

[my] self falls into marble and the crowds relinquish. This show has always been over. The hill takes me and the sky hits me. Where does memory hide. The man sits against the fresco and rubs it off with his nylon shirt. This is where the heart is.

we are not [ listening ] and

the day breaks again.

[Beatrice Jarvis]

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~ by beatricejarvis on June 9, 2015.

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