D8P

more about mario and his project Pathetic Hypermarket Orchestra Band here : http://www.phb.sk/kontakt.php

listen here: https://soundcloud.com/samba-de-dzura-v-nose

http://bandzone.cz/depressivedirections

listen: https://soundcloud.com/pjoni

follow: https://www.facebook.com/PJONIMUSIC

That is talk hitting

i lie at the bottom of hardly hearable rattles and thrums. Hardly hearable, yet persistent. They push through, intruding upon me from below, rubbing off on me, lightly yet very, very lightly they keep hurting. As if something frayed between the floor and the ceiling, somewhere in places where they cannot yet be told apart. Particularly that high-pitched, almost clear, at times intermittent quiver. That is talk hitting. It might be women chatting downstairs.

script, directed & performed by : Lucia Kramarova poster & hallucinations: Terezia Klasova

Description of the inscenation: The Dream of Mrs Bibiana is a play for one actor and one spectator- a private spectacle- all attention and creative energy focuses on the spectator (one and only!). The actor moves with him throughout the space and loosely interacts with him. Every inscenation si unique, based on actors improvisation and flexibility, even though it follows a set-path the dialogues depends on every spectator and his attitude to the play. The spectator finds himself in the middle of a strong, surreal vision of Mrs.Bibiana and becomes its living, breathing plot who pushes the plot until the end and transgression of the dream.

Who is Mrs. Bibiana?

The word “home” is foreign to her. If she ever became attached to anything, she left the touch-poisoned part behind her and walked away. She rememebers all the traces, but refuses to carry them further and leaves them to lead their own lives instead. She never feared stilness- she wanted to be able to get everywhere and thus her true nature had to remain unspoilt by commitments and connections. She wanted to ramify without limits, nor her death suceed to anchor her in reality- she refused to notice it and from that on her exil become absolut.

I met her in a tenement house flodded to the 7th floor by sea. The space where she lives is simple- its loneliness. Loneliness is a place. She is certain about that- I have seen her there by accident. I gave her name which suits her and started to talk to her confidentially. Mrs. Bibiana never heard about herself, but she wasn’t in the least bit surprised when I started to talk. I took from her as much as I can carry. She no longer fits into one human being. She exceeded the extent of one human gaze. In the slimy, dark ventricle of my body a trace of Mr.Bibiana grows- I try to understand her from it, but my life is being crooked and flooded by her vaporous, poisoned dreams. That, what lies deeper, I can’t read now...