Wednesday, January 2, 2008
Towards the end of 2007, we transported the site of poetic practice from the page to the basement of a pub, moving impressively through group formations, bad dancing, horoscope recitals, costume changes, cascades of pages on the floor and a fair bit of random shouting. You might say meaning billowed up in waves, crashed and dribbled about, words were slipped on and grasped at, randomness was clung to in hopeless embraces. You might say the world at large was greeted with bafflement, childish imitation, gushing despair and perverse, willful adulation. You might say guiness and vodka and beer were drunk. It all hung together beautifully, at any rate, and we even came up with a performance souvenir: a fanzine called 'Wet ink'. Whatdowetink? We tink it went well?