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Bad defeat for a defeated hall | Painted theatre masks on hollowed out spaghetti squash © David Noir

Bad defeat for a defeated room

Why is it that when I walk into a theater, do I want to leave? Why when I randomly open a book, do I look forward to closing it? Why do I find it difficult to stay in my seat in front of the images of the cinema, its story unfolding and its actors parading? Why is it impossible for me to listen to several pieces of music in a row? Why do I suffocate in culture? One more thing. One more book. One more thought. One more pollution. The individual creates, the individual invents, the individual lives, the individual pollutes. His existence pollutes. The human species can only pollute what is considered to be virgin before its intervention. This is the price of his existence. Me, I want a body that carries me and legs that walk. I don't want to know who you are deep down if it means having to confront me with your superficial conviviality. I am a loose sum that can no longer stand the sterile ordering of thought. Stop your products. Hollywood gum or Pleiades, I don't care. Yet you see, I don't have a gun to reach out of my pocket to tell you that. No bowling, no Columbine. Adversity, are you there? One shot for yes, two shots for no. Civilization is better than culture. Dear Brigadier, my civilization is better than your culture. But you don't understand that it's all about hours, days, context. That in a little while you won't recognize me anymore. That you won't be able to say hello to me. At this moment you're holding me in your arms. What will it mean tomorrow, tell me? Society denial. Whoever gives me a gift obliges me... and grieves me.

Weep for your seed. Cry over your sentence before it happens... It's because I get rid of my daily writing output by sprinkling it throughout the various niches of my creation that I sometimes manage to do something with it. Every day I make sure that I bring back a lorry-load of it, which I unload in these pages so that I don't have to think about it any more. In this way I make my soil fertile and exhaust my need to write, which would be like a surplus of seed. I get paid in return when I come up with an idea, a desire, a desire to make something concrete that will give shape to a creation. But the direct link, from my head to creation; no, that's not possible. I crave freedom. I can't work effectively under duress... not even my own.

Meanders

To the bowels of the site

David Noir

David Noir, performer, actor, author, director, singer, visual artist, video maker, sound designer, teacher... carries his polymorphous nudity and his costumed childhood under the eyes and ears of anyone who wants to see and hear.

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