Los Angeles. Part One.

Imagine there is a stack, a collection of photos here from last March until now. ​

In that time my younger kid went from so fresh (3.5 months earthside/1.5 months adjusted) to a cruising, babbling, laughing, speed crawling, teeter stepping, putting things inside other things big baby/young toddler. Carpet Womb went from an idea in my mind and on my freshly, wobbly postpartum body to a score, a DANCE form, collectively held and activated by the performers.  

Time moves fast. 

It feeeeels like we just finished the LA presentation of Blood Baby at ONE Archives (INCREDIBLE), but it was actually now a month and a half ago. Eons in the time of the imagination, nothing in the processing time of the body and less than nil in the time of rocks. 

In no particular order…

12 stations of Touch Library with durational Fabric Rock Pull/Eruption Touch Librarian practices. Missing Time was a new station created by Rabbit’s response to the architecture of the space in collaboration with the stretchy tension of cord holding a teal colored pencil—so as you draw, participant, the cord builds in tension until it won't go with you any further. 

Someone wrote Ceasefire Now HUGE in cursive, and I imagine the tension ebbing and flowing as they loop through the letters of each word, matching their intention and commitment, to statement. To peace. To justice. 

The prompt was to draw Earth’s timeline, then your own, and I imagined what would resemble a geological drawing of rock strata, but instead people took it over, which perhaps is more appropriate. They filled in the blanks and responded to those who came before. 

People listened to the original Communion script and drew and drew and drew. The archive grew. 

Communion played with lights (the lights at ONE were confusing and we started after the sun had already set and it was dark), a living room feeling, a common, domestic reflection and ceremony. The preciousness of archive both true and something we made—those words and lives came from people living them. It’s developed a multiplicity, a fractured timing, and it doesn’t make itself make sense, it layers. I talk about not knowing how old my children are or the process of watching a person form—all the forms, the wiggling flesh sac that is a baby to a bundle of desire, curiosity, and observation that is a young toddler and a blossoming KID with language that digresses from their family’s because it embraces the culture of their own particular interests and then the bridges of communication attempted to share, to be together. And how is that instance of togetherness manifested? It is another form, coming and being together, a collective body moment in time.  

The LA basin is 6.3 miles deep of sentiment—clay, sandstone, loose loose material, material from something else that has broken off and down, eroded and recollected. Beneath that the "basement rock"—the bedrock—is broken and faulted in a way that creates what's known as The Great Unconformity, pulling mountain ranges into perpendicularity and East-West spans. 

To be continued...
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