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Felicity Fenton
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The Dreaming Dirt

Last night's Dreaming Dirt was a tremendous success. A perfect balance of words, images, body, motion, sound, humor, noise, heart and absurdity. Mary Edwards opened up with a virtual performance of her song Time and I . Stevyn Llewellyn made some rather beautiful discordance as microscopic details of waves and blooming flowers flickered behind. Gabriel Liston did live sketches (see below) of both the audience and the performers while sitting in a chair at the corner of the stage. Juliet Gagnon read a stunning prose piece all the way from Eindhoven. Lindsey Allgood considered feminine intimacy with the squeeze-pop of balloons and hand painted eggs. Shane Paulson screened an autobiographical animated video/sound work. Arielle Adkin discussed a new work in process in relation to post-breakup dreams. Stephanie Lavon Trotter looped and weaved operatic vocals through microphones and distortion pedals. Jay Ponteri read from Robert Walser, Mary Ruefle and Jay Ponteri. Gary Wiseman and Hannah Mickunas harmonized with a makeshift capo, eyes closed. Justin Oswald lubed up his body with lotion then climbed in and then out of a giant balloon. Jason Hughes went acoustic with a beautifully quiet folk/pop tune. My co-host, Stephanie Brachmann read two hilarious flash fiction pieces. And my wife, Felicity Fenton with the help of several whirling vacuums, read a list poem about dust. 

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tags: the dreaming dirt, Gabe Liston, The Waypost, Lindsey Allgood, Gabriel Liston, Juliet Gagnon, Mary Edwards, Stevyn Llewellyn, Stephanie Lavon Trotter, Jason Hughes, Shane Paulson, Justin Oswald, Stephanie Brachmann, Arielle Adkin, Jay Ponteri, Gary Wiseman, Hannah Zhalih Mickunas
Monday 09.12.16
Posted by felicity fenton
 

Dust

Alongside a vacuum ensemble, I'll be reading this poem tonight at the second rendition of The Dreaming Dirt. 

The dust of yesterday’s headache

The dust of blue balls in denim 

The dust of unanswerable mathematical equations 

The dust of hairless trauma

The dust of one broken patella

The dust of tiny people floating from a building 

The dust of looming earthquakes

The dust of bed wetting

The dust of fallen figs, uneaten 

The dust of a ripped vagina 

The dust of no no no

The dust of Are You There God it’s Me Margaret? 

The dust of ban-aid tantrums 

The dust of Albanian weathermen 

The dust of floating in the Ganges with castoffs 

The dust of heavy grocery bags 

The dust of all couches where breakups happen

The dust of panty lines 

The dust of lipstick on teeth 

The dust of no more salad dressing

The dust of a father yelling in spandex

The dust of a pillow hitting the floor 

The dust of a hand pushing a head further into water

The dust of mistaken identities 

The dust of vomit on a surrogate aunt’s tire 

The dust of keys lost in car seats 

The dust of a mother’s sadness in front of mirrors 

The dust of longing for other bodies

The dust of Alessandra De La Roca 

The dust of languages unspoken 

The dust of strangers climbing into a bed without permission 

The dust of gas masks and poison rivers

The dust of white bread wrapped in polka dots 

The dust of Mister Ed’s quivering mouth

The dust of casseroles cooked out of shame

The dust of obligations 

The dust of September

The dust of puberty in locker rooms

The dust of hot tub jet masturbation 

The dust of rummikub with Grandmothers

The dust of Cervantes 

The dust of eggs and toast 

The dust of projects unfinished 

The dust of basement makeout sessions with cousins 

The dust of hope

The dust of unknown plant species 

The dust of failed astronauts 

The dust of blood shed

The dust of hairpins tucked behind the ear

The dust of Gertrude Stein 

The dust of Tunisian rosewater 

The dust of haggling with small Indian children over the price of bottled water

The dust of a Walmart parking lot

The dust of a mother wearing a Pizza Hut uniform 

The dust of two pink lines on a pee stick

The dust of new shoes worn to blisters 

The dust of internet ghosts 

The dust of post-porn glum 

The dust of a horse back ride through a Chilean farm 

The dust of cats lost to cars

The dust of US military bombings

The dust of signatures on a line

The dust of halloween candy 

The dust of genocide 

The dust of a howler monkey 

The dust of misguided power 

The dust of professional mud wrestling 

The dust of Saturday morning cartoons

The dust of ramen noodles and international creamer 

The dust of typewritten missives 

The dust of hand jobs at the back of a bus

The dust of Coney Island batting cages 

The dust of patented air

The dust of crisis 

The dust of tulips in full bloom 

The dust of murder in front of children 

The dust of hangnails 

The dust of conflict minerals 

The dust of the Paleo diet 

The dust of as seen on TV 

The dust of The Kardashians 

The dust of Lucy the chimp

The dust of rewilding

The dust of horny ferns 

The dust of inhabitable space 

The dust of homeless camps

The dust of tumors embedded into lobes 

The dust of dysfunctional ovaries 

The dust of photo booth pretense 

The dust of jupiter  

The dust of happiness 

The dust of yogic poses in the nude 

The dust of cathode ray tubes 

The dust of Lou Reed 

The dust of corporate culture 

The dust of subconscious activity 

The dust of empathy

The dust of wanderlust 

The dust of this place 

The dust of breath 

The dust of blinking eyes 

The dust of tomorrow’s breakfast porridge 

The dust of New Jersey hair metal 

The dust of ragtime 

The dust of birds never known 

The dust of names like Millie and Bernice

The dust of walkmans 

The dust of always and never 

The dust of a scream 

The dust of too many cigarettes 

The dust of life before motherhood 

The dust of war

The dust of male and female 

The dust of skin 

tags: poems, the dreaming dirt, The Waypost, 9-11, vacuum ensemble
Sunday 09.11.16
Posted by felicity fenton
 

The Dreaming Dirt

Several years ago I attended this incredible weekly event in NYC called Surf Reality where artists, writers, performers and experimental others (comedians, cab drivers, opera singers, activists, dancers, zookeepers, pizza tossers, etc.) would get together and share their work. There was no critiquing aspect to this sharing, just applause and gentle nudgings, which helped shape many of the artist/writers/others into the brave beings they are today.

Thanks to The Waypost and the illustrious artist/performer Stephanie Brachmann, a similar event is happening in Portland beginning next weekend. 

Here are the details:

The Dreaming Dirt is a multidisciplinary forum for works in process.
This event is served open mic style beginning TONIGHT- August 7th at the Waypost (3120 N Williams Ave, Portland) from 7-10 pm.

A sign up sheet will be posted at 6 pm. Each participant will have 5 minutes to share their work. As this is an open-hearted event, we ask that you please bring pom poms or other cheering accoutrements.

This is an open space for creativity. You can perform anything, wild or mundane. You can read something you've written or something someone else has written. You can make a declaration about the state of the world. You can give a lecture on mud. You can sing an aria. You can play the spoons with your elbows. You can knit a tiny sweater. You can show up as the UPS driver delivering packages filled with dust. Come as your cousin. Come with your cousin. All human mammals and their various disciplines are welcome. 

by Stephanie Brachmann

by Stephanie Brachmann

tags: the dreaming dirt, open mics portland, performance, writing, music, UPS drivers, Stephanie Brachmann, The Waypost
Sunday 08.07.16
Posted by felicity fenton
 
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