The weather is mild. A light wind modulates the leaves beyond the window.

A low, folk-cabaret melody

gradually emanates from somewhere in another room; it is a womans voice, seductive, almost indiscernible,
intoxicated, heady. The room is empty except for some simple, neutral-coloured furniture around the edges;
generic style that matches the world beyond the window. The light is moderate; it tries not to show emotion.
A woman wearing a thick white cotton shirt tucked into belted shorts enters the scene, hands on hips, head
turning left to right, she is looking for something, her name is Gia

GIA : [loudly] also as / ciphers / phor / subjects

She paces the space, stopping intermittently to glance around pensively, or at her watch. She is impatient,
but understands rooms disclose at their own pace; she cannot impose herself, she must be humble, even if
eager. When she stares at her watch she pretends there is something urgent to be seen there, a new sight, as
if its the first time someone thought of a timepiece. She is highly conscious that other presences in the room
may think it improper to spend too little time. So she marks her contribution by a ritualistic glance-and-pace.

GIA : exestentisl

The low, sexy singing voice emanating from elsewhere continues while another woman enters, slowly. Her
arms hang heavily at her sides, almost limp, her hips slink onward, head tilted slightly forwards, her eyes look
up through her eyebrows, her lips are rosy and moist, eyes active. She moves as if surveying the space with
every fibre of her body; toes and soles feel their way. The nerve endings that reach the skin-layer of each
shoulder blade, exposed through a silk camisole, prickle at the thought of a breeze. Her right hand suddenly
wraps around her front and slaps her own left shoulder and upper back; her head also turns to the left. She
sees Gia and looks her up and down. Her name is Michelle

MICHELLE : [slowly] I spent some time looking into the definitions of the above words. I think I understand
you, but you know language isn't my medium. And what does it mean to really understand a word?

Gia looks at her with a combination of irritation, surprise, confusion and desire. They both continue their
respective movements, circling the room, but at a slower pace. They dont make eye contact.

MICHELLE : Sometimes I find it difficult to articulate things into words, like I can't find the (right) words.
Sometimes a gesture like a look or a glance or a simple movement seems to communicate (or embody) what
I want to say or what I mean

GIA : [interrupting] The sent box is much neater than the inbox. Accident.

MICHELLE : [continuing] or at least what I think I mean, like a method of secret writing that uses
substitution, a carrier.

GIA : "To construct the stage with the direction of a glance" Antonin Artaud, The Theatre and its Double.

Both Gia and Michelle have slowed their motions to such an extent that they have stopped moving. They
stand on opposite sides and stare at one another. The room spins. The wind howls. The music grows louder.

MICHELLE : [after a pause] Idle, idle idol, idle, idyll.. Idve, Idll, I dun know, I would, Ida, idle, I would
have [deep breath, brushing hair from her face] I wouldnt want to fail on that scale.

GIA : The bigger the scale, the better the fail.

MICHELLE : [after a pause, abruptly] So when we touch lets keep in mind, this flesh is rotting all the time.

Michelle and Gia take a silent step closer to one another. Gia glances at her watch. Someone walks over
Michelles grave.

GIA : [softly, eyes lowered] Im feeling anxious about writing to a writer.

MICHELLE : The body never believed in progress. Its religion is not the future but the today. Octavio Paz.

GIA : I think I understand you, but you know words are not my medium.

Michelle shifts her weight in anticipation; one of the shoelace-string straps of her camisole slides down her
bicep.

GIA : [looking at Michelle] Sometimes a gesture, like a look or a glance or a simple movement seems to
communicate and embody what I want to say or what I mean, or at least what I think I mean, like a method of
secret writing that uses substitution, a carrier.

Michelle, suddenly bored, not sure what to do, takes herself to a stool and perches on its edge, looks
sidelong.

MICHELLE : It doesnt matter what you create, if you have no fun.

GIA : [hastily] Form A New Society. Take something old; renew it. It is a mistake to think everything must be
thrown away, overhauled. Its all here; its a question of responsibility. Educate in the art of responsibility. Do
not fear signs of excess and crisis emerging daily through people and institutions; invite them as symbols of
truth.

Gia feels energised, enlivened by the room and its surroundings. She glances out the window and sees that
the sun shining on the glass windows outside, opposite the room. They reflect her own figure back to her. She
smiles, lost in thought, still motionless, surrounded by domestic anticipation.

MICHELLE : Lovers are strangers, theres nothing to discuss.

Michelle makes a move to stand up from the stool and leave, but stops herself, feigning attention to
something flickering on the floor a reflection of light, quivering.

GIA : Let this love be what it wants.

MICHELLE : It wants to be fucked up.

Gia and Michelle both look up and grin. The music quietens again. The wind returns to a breeze, evidenced
outside by the swaying leaves. Inside things feel still. Becoming awkward, Gia suddenly remembers her watch
and looks at it.

GIA : [mumbling] Watches, whiches, witches, warriors, worriers

MICHELLE : exestentisl

Gia looks up from her watch, stares at Michelle, looks around the room, and starts to leave.

GIA : [to no-one in particular] What are you waiting for?

MICHELLE : [to no-one in particular] Everything: living every day for a future that may or may not come.

GIA : Trying not to use words that imply binary structures.

Gia exits. Michelle finally stands up from the stool, lifting her eyes. She begins to move on the spot, hips
swaying in a figure eight. The smooth, looseness with which she entered has retreated; she works to get it
back. She drags the palm of her clammy hand heavily across the bench beside her; a squeaking sound is
made as her body weight and sweat meet the laminate. As she opens her chest, stretching her clavicle,
loosening her neck, she begins to slowly circle the room one last time. Observing her surrounds inattentively,
she wonders how long is the right time to wait, to watch, when is the right time to leave so that no-one would
think her to be the auger of an inopportune moment.



a text by someone who could have done otherwise,
featuring Eleanor, Elena, Chinawoman, Gia, Peter, Michelle, Guy, et al.