“Starting from the Wrong Place”

Excerpt from the performance monologue

On the dock again; the colour of dark clouds on dark lake water; I see a small flat-bodied fish, a pike I assume, common in these waters, lying on its side—a red wound on its lower abdomen. It’s not dead yet, it’s gills rhythmically opening and closing as it drifts by. I am side-swiped by a grief that makes me cry out loud.

I sit up and bear witness as the small fish drifts, dying into the shadow-clouds of night.

I am dreaming of cows. I am dreaming of clouds.

Later, in my room (here / now), I wrap small pieces of stone with red twine.

It all hangs by a thread any way you look at it.

It all hangs by a thread.

Edge

Excerpt from the performance monologue “The Study of Nouns”

. . .Edge is the tattooed, pierced, chain-wearing, mohawked, perpetually hostile young dyke video artist, who confesses in a rare moment of intimacy as we are quietly watching a sunset together, that she feels bad because she is afraid of hanging. And I, recognizing the delicacy of the moment, the possibility for connection, some cross-generational rapport, reply that I too am afraid of hanging. But as she continues, I soon realize that she is talking about the SM practice of erotic torture with ropes, surgical hooks, and endorphins, while I am thinking about my own neck and dying. I feel a little on edge.

Edge is the consolation prize when you lose the world to fascists and fundamentalists. Edge is the discovery that there is indeed no exit. It is when you try to make sense of things for which there is no sense to be made. It’s piss and vinegar and a little rough. A table and a chair is easy;

there is no challenge. But a table and a chair and an ice pick—that holds promise . . .

Dinosaurs & Haircuts

Excerpt from the performance monologue

From time to time I do ask myself some questions: Am I still a lesbian? Is our post-modern understanding of the fluidity of gender and sexuality and identity making my identity irrelevant? Is the word, Queer, truly inclusive, or does it serve to erase me? Or, am I already erased? Am I soon to be a relic––Oh look, an old lesbian, how quaint? I am so fond of lesbians; I like to hold them in my arms, to touch them, feel them . . . It seems as though it took me so long to get here. Back when I came out, we didn't exist then either. We have not had a long run. I'd like to linger a bit longer. . .