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5.5.03
From the Diaries of Witold Kazersamski, cahier 3.2,
...Is it ever possible? Were we merely illusionists with a talentlessness so relentless that it almost became convincing. What else could explain our presence on these stages, night after night, noisy pub after noisy pub? Was it stunned silence at something so horribly awry, they synapses misfired over and over, convincingly? We certainly couldn't believe it ourselves. And by some strange psychological victory, we'd been able to convince the others. Or confused them beyond healthy criticism. We began to accompany ourselves with three foot high inflatable chess pieces and had two volunteers play out famous matches on a 5 x 5 bedsheet painted as a chessboard. More confusion. The lyrics continued lifted out of foreign language obituary pages and stories of local interest plagerized as stanzas in a bizarre, low key baritone that sounded like scratching sandpaper with a two euro coin. Most importantly, the sax and the bass continued to play as basic and few chords as possible, applying repetition and sometimes extremely slow tempos to cover our lack of skill.
But a style that began with extremely minimalist tendancies slowly began to emerge as a spectacle large enough to divert attention from our increasingly frantic fear that eventually we would be found out. When Anastasia joined us with her compositions, her overbearing bossiness and clarinet, we responded with the chess matches recreated on stage, a few interpretive dancers we'd lifted from their classes with promises of popular relevancy, and a harp player.
translated song text:
Under Oath
I begin with placing my hand (or either foot)
on a thick volume of paranormal books
and swear, over and over again, inventing
a new glossary of the terms and bylaws of swearing:
under oath I swear I will never
under oath I fear I will fester
zoo oath, plutonium oath, preminatory and
philistine oath, sublime oath,
oath eat oath, our oath who guards in herrings,
one oath, under new management,
indispensible yet yellowing in the teeth.
I begin with touching myself lovingly
and growing old until the stone is chipped away.
I raise myself, I steal from myself,
I crouch and hide in myself, relieved that
there is still enough space in the cubby hole,
still enough wings in the stealth.
under oath I run from bad films, gone fishing
the subtitles read, garbled and off speed.
Down by oath, under the old oath tree.
I swear I will, I swear I won't, this oath or that,
I forget which oath has the most flavoring,
the hand upon the bible of food coloring,
the oath or the oath that began it all,
oath is dead, or bodily injured.
I will play this commercial for you in the middle of the oath:
Vote for Oath. Truth can't be trusted.
Have them put up party decorations.
Welcome Oath!
Wipe your feet on the oath.
Have some of this 1973 Chateau Oath.
Join us for dinner oath.
Fall in a hot vat of oath.
Melt the oath candles, sing the oath songs,
choreograph the oath dances.
Swear it on a stack of records
and play each of them daily.
The oath is not to be forgotten.
Someday, there will be books written
and the oath will be famous
and the oath will be all over the internet
and the oath will rule,
so swear it. Under oath,
between oaths, a few days before oath.
Oath your teeth with every meal.
So, I swear I will, won't I?
I swear it. Under oath.
I won't swear under anything else,
I swear.
5:19 PM
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