Hey! So I worked with Jenna on brief 4, and her post can be found here (https://www.mediafactory.org.au/2019-material-choreographies-studio/2019/10/04/brief-4-jenna-duffy-with-alannah-burr-archaic-fragment/ ). In this post I will include my video response to the poem The Earth Shakes by Steve Sanfield, and my prose response to Jenna’s video.
- My Video Response – https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gG2Jlm3-0Dw
- My written response to Jenna’s video
Tick Tock.
Watch the clock.
Can’t be late.
You know what happens when you’re late.
Rushing about your life, swerving people on the streets, the cacophony noise of the city surrounding you becoming white noise as you speed walk to your next meeting. Unable to tell a police siren from a baby’s wail. As long as they stay out of your way so you aren’t late.
The clock tocks faster.
Are you early? Are you late? Where’s a phone? Should you call him? And dare admit you lost track of time? What would he say?
Passing by the boutiques on your way home where time seems to stand still. Layouts of chaise lounges and tea tables, only for those who have time. Which you don’t. Why are you stopping?
The Grandfather clock in the corner always taunts you. Running exactly a minute behind. Thinking you have a minute to spare. A minute to breathe. There’s no time for breathing.
You can hear it. A tick in one ear. A tock in the other.
The click of heels being the only sound you can hear. They sound like a clock. You finally find a phone booth. You hear the ringing. You miss the tocking. Ringing means waiting and who has time for that. The ringing lasts so long you realise you’re seeing him tomorrow. You’re a day early. Which means you forgot tonight’s commitment.
The tick’s tock so fast. Since when was a second this short?
You run back from where you came, as fast as your legs will carry you. You’re way behind schedule, how could you let this happen? Clocks stare at you from all directions. You can hear the biggest one chiming now.
A relief to not hear a tock for once.
You know this place well, running around every-day past the same boutiques, through the same subway where the trains are never on time, in and out but you don’t have time to stress. Otherwise you’d slow down.
And you can’t be late. Not when someone is waiting. They say it’s too much on your shoulders. That all you’re running around will get you killed. But they don’t know.
The tick tock in your head won’t stay silent for a second.
You get off the train and speed off on your way. Passing people who stroll about their day. A drop of sweat drips down your forehead and into your eye. You stop outside the boutique and look inside.
Your reflection is screaming. A pocket watch tocks.