The other evening I read back over some of these blogs, and it made me laugh how often and how cryptically I had ‘mentioned’ that I was making a new show. Like repeatedly saying I was going to do it would make it happen somehow.
Well, dear reader, I DID A THING. I managed to score some free rehearsal space at MAST in Southampton as part of their Artist Summer Takeover. I worked for a day and a half on the humble beginnings of ‘Jeu Jeu la Foille’s Pithy Obituary’ and showed about 15 minutes worth to two invited friends on Friday 16th August at 4pm.
This is what I managed to come up with:
Pre-show
The audience follow lines from a poem, like a trail of breadcrumbs to their seats. These are the words – they aren’t mine, but I had used them for a funeral I had been writing that week, and they were swimming around my head:
In times of darkness, love sees…
In times of silence, love hears...
In times of doubt, love hopes…
In times of sorrow, love heals...
And in all times, love remembers.
May time soften the pain
Until all that remains
Is the warmth of the memories
And the love.
Struggle and play with a big, blue exercise ball. This looked like me wrestling with the world. While this was happening I played a recording of me reading the translation poem that I did to summarise ‘Testy Manifesto.’ It had a disconcerting David Lynch soundscape behind it. Go back to the blog from 31/3/2023 and you’ll find the poem. It’s long and so weird.
Monologue ‘Going Home.’ I’ve been researching funerals and death rituals from around the world. Here is what I have so far;
Here, this.. sphere. This big, blue. bauble. Full of air. Full of people. Full of bodies. Space is at a premium.
The soul moves on, only the bones remain. We go home? But here is home? Then where is home?
Over here, the dead return to earth once a year. November is pleasant enough. Many petaled marigolds entice spirits with fragrance. A photo with a candle. Their favourite food. All Souls, for a day.
Over here, the one who is sick, the one who is asleep must wait to go home. The goodbye is lavish and expensive, and someone has to pay for all that.
Over here, there is a passport to go home. Tablets of metal or stone with instructions for navigating whatever comes next.
Over here, bodies laid on tall platforms of leaves, spirits depart on wisps of smoke.
Over here, ceremonial suits of jade, over here a burning of a bamboo bull, over here you will remain under the kitchen.
Over here, the bones are turned, there is perfume, dancing, fancy garments, offerings to absent eyes.
What is the vehicle for going home? Here, a sports car, a rocket, or here a biodegradable woven willow casket. Maybe a vertical departure in a hollowed tree, blindfolded and placed in the doorway, a lit cigarette placed between retracted lips. The dead don’t favour red, but a smoke puts them at ease.
Place them high up to go home, leave an outline of stones for waiting vultures. Or light fires on rafts, drift down a murky river, to a wasteland shore inhabited by dogs, the blood red sun keeping watch.
Encase them in earth within 24 hours, encase them in beads, memento mori, take the hair as tokens, hire a professional photographer to capture the grief. Weep openly and encircle. Don’t weep, don’t you dare cry.
Set them adrift, let them plumet. Don’t let them sink, don’t let the ground swallow them, rest them on solid stone. Waft a white handkerchief, send them home to deep, brass, jazz.
A piece of music then plays – it’s from the soundtrack to ‘Treme’ and is called ‘Just a Closer Walk with Thee.’ I wrote a poem based on this piece of music during a writing workshop in May 2023. I have been obsessed with New Orleans funerals for quite a while now. I combined this with a little puppetry piece using a white handkerchief, which I had devised way back during lockdown. The poem was unfinished when I began this rehearsal process, here it is in full:
Sigh, sway, stumble
Wisp of air through toothy gap
Hooves scrape on steaming cement
Wheels turn, barely
Slug drip from rheumy eyes
Swollen knuckles, frozen with upward palm
Bones crumble
A hollow frame housing insects
Hair falls, gathers with straw
Feathered alveoli grasps at nothing
Liquid seeps and oozes from crevices
Matter sinking, spirit rising
Cadent frills ruffle lightly
Still that secret smile
And a smooth serenity
Knowing there is nothing stronger than nature
A swagger, a jist
A step home.
Then there was another recorded voice over while I sat on a chair and put on my tap shoes. This part was very under-developed, but eventually I’d like to create some rhythm with my feet under the words. Here are the voiceover words:
Taut trunks elongate
Punctate space
In alien net of hanging breath
The road less travelled
A lone figure makes liminal traverse
A war of two worlds
Silently regarded amidst rotten leaves
Tiny branches imprison
Death surrounds
Death hovers
And static web draws the darkening of the dark
Here is the next poem – this is the one I am exploring the rhythm tap with. Again this was written during a writing workshop in May 2023. I’m not happy with it yet
.I am standing here
I am true grit
I am clinging on with a vice-like grip
I am glued to the saddle
I am the dust between leather and cloth
I am the single bead of sweat falling toward crevice of waist
Wasted in the sand
A drop in the ocean
The ocean that dried up, leaving hard, white, cracked sheets
Reflective after rain
The pebble that looks like every other pebble, but fits so neatly in your hand
I am the dew
I am the smell of the bark at twilight
I am the screech of a hungry owl
I am the greeting of someone you think you recognise
I am the velvet curtains closing on the coffin
I am the last rites
The desperate haggard breath drawn after maniacal laughter
The song deep within the cliff face
The song the river whispers
The song of stretching shadows
I then delivered the final poem, which I wrote in November 2020. I staged this against the back wall of the theatre:
In the house of self-undoing
A gradual drip fills a bucket overnight, and with a heavy slosh empties each day
Brown sludge clings to corners
Caterwauling creatures hunt for threads
And vacant spider-webs are hammocks for dust
In the house of self-undoing
A paint blob on the wall turns into a spindly bug, it’s legs rattle
Shower steam turns to green mould
Each day the doom-scrolling diary of a madwoman
Watches as the line on the graph climbs higher
In the house of self-undoing
A door frame shakes the frozen breath, a neighbours smoke unfurls
They are locked into screens
But taking no prisoners
Constipated hours pass, and no one thinks to help
Bags are half packed in the house of self-undoing
An endless drone makes sparks fly, there is blood in the toilet
The sweat is fresh
But I can tell it disgusts you
Deft spiders descend with alarming speed
The house of self-undoing has paper thin walls
Terrifying hallucinations that only arouse her curiosity
Her voice rasps
Her hand won’t write
She thinks of the last meal she had with her mother in Peru, the llama skin tablecloth, the clay pots, the gentle candlelight on sloped ceilings.
Loves washes through in convulsions
Just let me leave
No sound escapes
And passers by admire the flowers outside
And that was it. There are more poems I have written, but I thought that these were enough of a start. I had lots of space to use, so I used all of it, and the piece travelled all over the room. This new ‘Pithy Obituary’ has been in my head since 2020, it was good to finally get it into the space.
My friends gave me some feedback, and I made notes on what I could remember afterwards.
There’s nothing else for it – I’m going to HAVE to go to New Orleans for a research trip! And probably Mexico too. Maybe Indonesia 😊
Over June and the start of July I was involved in the opening ceremony for the 50th anniversary of Winchester Hat Fair. What a blast that was. Nerve-wracking too. I was very proud to be a Wintonian that weekend. This was my second writing commission for Playmakers, and I got to perform at the Theatre Royal again – in a white robe and head mic. I played the sentinel of ‘Look Forwards’, proclaiming the future of Hat Fair. The three sentinels of Look Back, Look Forwards and Look Up, were hoisted onto Autin Dance Theatre’s giant wheel and spun around while delivering overlapping text. Terrifying, but it had the desired effect – you could actually hear people gasp in the audience.
Throughout the month of August I’ve been making décor for The Peoples Front Room, which is an independent pop up music venue. We were at Wilderness and Shambala festival, which were both excellent in their own way. It’s been amazing to be part of a crew like that, and I definitely want to do it all again next year.
In fact, the whole of this year, especially the Spring and Summer, have proven to me what I’m capable of when I get out of my own way. I’ve loved the collaboration and the challenges. I’ve loved the chats, the laughs, the people, the possibilities…and all the sweat.
Over Autumn and Winter I’m going to turn ‘Testy Manifesto’ into a book. By chance at Shambala I saw my friend who I took rhythm tap classes with back in 2015. I’m taking this as a sign that I need to pick that up again. I need a stricter writing routine. I need the freelance work to carry on being abundant so I can save for a trip to New Orleans.
And one more thing - over this summer I also completed turning my van into a mini-camper. It’s all insulated, it has shelves and hooks everywhere. We will go on a few more adventures I’m sure.
What a bonkers year. And there’s still four months of it left.
Looking forward to conker season,
JJlF xx
Well, dear reader, I DID A THING. I managed to score some free rehearsal space at MAST in Southampton as part of their Artist Summer Takeover. I worked for a day and a half on the humble beginnings of ‘Jeu Jeu la Foille’s Pithy Obituary’ and showed about 15 minutes worth to two invited friends on Friday 16th August at 4pm.
This is what I managed to come up with:
Pre-show
The audience follow lines from a poem, like a trail of breadcrumbs to their seats. These are the words – they aren’t mine, but I had used them for a funeral I had been writing that week, and they were swimming around my head:
In times of darkness, love sees…
In times of silence, love hears...
In times of doubt, love hopes…
In times of sorrow, love heals...
And in all times, love remembers.
May time soften the pain
Until all that remains
Is the warmth of the memories
And the love.
Struggle and play with a big, blue exercise ball. This looked like me wrestling with the world. While this was happening I played a recording of me reading the translation poem that I did to summarise ‘Testy Manifesto.’ It had a disconcerting David Lynch soundscape behind it. Go back to the blog from 31/3/2023 and you’ll find the poem. It’s long and so weird.
Monologue ‘Going Home.’ I’ve been researching funerals and death rituals from around the world. Here is what I have so far;
Here, this.. sphere. This big, blue. bauble. Full of air. Full of people. Full of bodies. Space is at a premium.
The soul moves on, only the bones remain. We go home? But here is home? Then where is home?
Over here, the dead return to earth once a year. November is pleasant enough. Many petaled marigolds entice spirits with fragrance. A photo with a candle. Their favourite food. All Souls, for a day.
Over here, the one who is sick, the one who is asleep must wait to go home. The goodbye is lavish and expensive, and someone has to pay for all that.
Over here, there is a passport to go home. Tablets of metal or stone with instructions for navigating whatever comes next.
Over here, bodies laid on tall platforms of leaves, spirits depart on wisps of smoke.
Over here, ceremonial suits of jade, over here a burning of a bamboo bull, over here you will remain under the kitchen.
Over here, the bones are turned, there is perfume, dancing, fancy garments, offerings to absent eyes.
What is the vehicle for going home? Here, a sports car, a rocket, or here a biodegradable woven willow casket. Maybe a vertical departure in a hollowed tree, blindfolded and placed in the doorway, a lit cigarette placed between retracted lips. The dead don’t favour red, but a smoke puts them at ease.
Place them high up to go home, leave an outline of stones for waiting vultures. Or light fires on rafts, drift down a murky river, to a wasteland shore inhabited by dogs, the blood red sun keeping watch.
Encase them in earth within 24 hours, encase them in beads, memento mori, take the hair as tokens, hire a professional photographer to capture the grief. Weep openly and encircle. Don’t weep, don’t you dare cry.
Set them adrift, let them plumet. Don’t let them sink, don’t let the ground swallow them, rest them on solid stone. Waft a white handkerchief, send them home to deep, brass, jazz.
A piece of music then plays – it’s from the soundtrack to ‘Treme’ and is called ‘Just a Closer Walk with Thee.’ I wrote a poem based on this piece of music during a writing workshop in May 2023. I have been obsessed with New Orleans funerals for quite a while now. I combined this with a little puppetry piece using a white handkerchief, which I had devised way back during lockdown. The poem was unfinished when I began this rehearsal process, here it is in full:
Sigh, sway, stumble
Wisp of air through toothy gap
Hooves scrape on steaming cement
Wheels turn, barely
Slug drip from rheumy eyes
Swollen knuckles, frozen with upward palm
Bones crumble
A hollow frame housing insects
Hair falls, gathers with straw
Feathered alveoli grasps at nothing
Liquid seeps and oozes from crevices
Matter sinking, spirit rising
Cadent frills ruffle lightly
Still that secret smile
And a smooth serenity
Knowing there is nothing stronger than nature
A swagger, a jist
A step home.
Then there was another recorded voice over while I sat on a chair and put on my tap shoes. This part was very under-developed, but eventually I’d like to create some rhythm with my feet under the words. Here are the voiceover words:
Taut trunks elongate
Punctate space
In alien net of hanging breath
The road less travelled
A lone figure makes liminal traverse
A war of two worlds
Silently regarded amidst rotten leaves
Tiny branches imprison
Death surrounds
Death hovers
And static web draws the darkening of the dark
Here is the next poem – this is the one I am exploring the rhythm tap with. Again this was written during a writing workshop in May 2023. I’m not happy with it yet
.I am standing here
I am true grit
I am clinging on with a vice-like grip
I am glued to the saddle
I am the dust between leather and cloth
I am the single bead of sweat falling toward crevice of waist
Wasted in the sand
A drop in the ocean
The ocean that dried up, leaving hard, white, cracked sheets
Reflective after rain
The pebble that looks like every other pebble, but fits so neatly in your hand
I am the dew
I am the smell of the bark at twilight
I am the screech of a hungry owl
I am the greeting of someone you think you recognise
I am the velvet curtains closing on the coffin
I am the last rites
The desperate haggard breath drawn after maniacal laughter
The song deep within the cliff face
The song the river whispers
The song of stretching shadows
I then delivered the final poem, which I wrote in November 2020. I staged this against the back wall of the theatre:
In the house of self-undoing
A gradual drip fills a bucket overnight, and with a heavy slosh empties each day
Brown sludge clings to corners
Caterwauling creatures hunt for threads
And vacant spider-webs are hammocks for dust
In the house of self-undoing
A paint blob on the wall turns into a spindly bug, it’s legs rattle
Shower steam turns to green mould
Each day the doom-scrolling diary of a madwoman
Watches as the line on the graph climbs higher
In the house of self-undoing
A door frame shakes the frozen breath, a neighbours smoke unfurls
They are locked into screens
But taking no prisoners
Constipated hours pass, and no one thinks to help
Bags are half packed in the house of self-undoing
An endless drone makes sparks fly, there is blood in the toilet
The sweat is fresh
But I can tell it disgusts you
Deft spiders descend with alarming speed
The house of self-undoing has paper thin walls
Terrifying hallucinations that only arouse her curiosity
Her voice rasps
Her hand won’t write
She thinks of the last meal she had with her mother in Peru, the llama skin tablecloth, the clay pots, the gentle candlelight on sloped ceilings.
Loves washes through in convulsions
Just let me leave
No sound escapes
And passers by admire the flowers outside
And that was it. There are more poems I have written, but I thought that these were enough of a start. I had lots of space to use, so I used all of it, and the piece travelled all over the room. This new ‘Pithy Obituary’ has been in my head since 2020, it was good to finally get it into the space.
My friends gave me some feedback, and I made notes on what I could remember afterwards.
- A lot was achieved in a day and a half
- Good writer, good performer – can the work be less ‘patchy’?
- I need a narrator character to string this all together, but who is she?
- Jeu Jeu’s funeral – saying goodbye to my youth?
- Patchy, or a patchwork?
- I’m not fond of narratives, but structure and contrast are important to me
- Lots of ideas but they need development
- I need a tighter writing routine
- The speech on death rituals at the start works well – my friend recognized her contribution from when I asked for input over the socials
- Universal theme, liked the start – following breadcrumbs
- Later in a text; ‘I admire you tackling such a difficult and important subject matter…it’s good to see someone who takes the arts seriously for a change.’
There’s nothing else for it – I’m going to HAVE to go to New Orleans for a research trip! And probably Mexico too. Maybe Indonesia 😊
Over June and the start of July I was involved in the opening ceremony for the 50th anniversary of Winchester Hat Fair. What a blast that was. Nerve-wracking too. I was very proud to be a Wintonian that weekend. This was my second writing commission for Playmakers, and I got to perform at the Theatre Royal again – in a white robe and head mic. I played the sentinel of ‘Look Forwards’, proclaiming the future of Hat Fair. The three sentinels of Look Back, Look Forwards and Look Up, were hoisted onto Autin Dance Theatre’s giant wheel and spun around while delivering overlapping text. Terrifying, but it had the desired effect – you could actually hear people gasp in the audience.
Throughout the month of August I’ve been making décor for The Peoples Front Room, which is an independent pop up music venue. We were at Wilderness and Shambala festival, which were both excellent in their own way. It’s been amazing to be part of a crew like that, and I definitely want to do it all again next year.
In fact, the whole of this year, especially the Spring and Summer, have proven to me what I’m capable of when I get out of my own way. I’ve loved the collaboration and the challenges. I’ve loved the chats, the laughs, the people, the possibilities…and all the sweat.
Over Autumn and Winter I’m going to turn ‘Testy Manifesto’ into a book. By chance at Shambala I saw my friend who I took rhythm tap classes with back in 2015. I’m taking this as a sign that I need to pick that up again. I need a stricter writing routine. I need the freelance work to carry on being abundant so I can save for a trip to New Orleans.
And one more thing - over this summer I also completed turning my van into a mini-camper. It’s all insulated, it has shelves and hooks everywhere. We will go on a few more adventures I’m sure.
What a bonkers year. And there’s still four months of it left.
Looking forward to conker season,
JJlF xx
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