Sol begins, deep and hollow, echoing:
My surface has no ports. No place to tie your boats. I welcome only my sharks. Only the parts that navigate with edges
A few minutes later, Chaski begins:
I pound my heels into this grotesque mirror and a profound, fantasmic loss submerges me. Soon enough I have forgotten the last sequence of events, and I am walking past the person, myself, crumpled on the floor, into the room I destroyed myself for. But at that instant, an orange salamander walks out from under the door, and the timezone collapses to the polyrhythmic beat of the salamander’s meander. Here I pause, recalling the river I lost in my childhood. And I’m pulled under, I give in. Back to the oceanic feeling. Sunk by the intimacy of strangers, the pressure punctures my insides to pieces, one by one. I expel every sound I am able to make. A million windows shatter. A million fall as they do every second. I have lost my object. I am boiled in and yet I still stand against, disintegrating into objects that saved me.
Like that micro-plastic the scientists warned you about. My continuity is limitless, void of foundation. We’re just microscopic participants in an indefinite number of microbial communities, our co-descendants are without graves, and make themselves apparent to us in passing. She always said you looked too long. Studied the echo like you had to study the enclosure, the curves of the surround, the encircling, you had no choice! But we revel in the breaks—we refuse to name organisms from the outcome of their relationships . . . after the first new moon, we become the animals that are green and can also be called plants with muscles.
By way of sonic diffusion and shattering resonances, we are placed in an erupting meditation on the nature of objecthood, aesthetic looting, avatar production, and above all an aesthetics of the earth. This performance began when Chaski fell severely ill at the end of the summer causing a disjointing of their exteroceptive sensorial perception. Around the same time, Sol began her transitional hormone treatment. It was out of these states of infliction and pharmacobiological spaces of intoxication, and in the ruins of their senses, that “Fever” was born. A multiform elsewhere whose fabrics leave spaces of order warped and altered forever, our performance drifts between ambience, queer club aesthetics, monologues, theory, and movement.