“You Are My Petrichor” explored intimacy between handheld devices and the distinct, shared space of collective anonymity. The performance was within the context of “OK Avant Garde,” a salon-style text and language performance exhibition. In the performance, I utilized the traditional trappings of a stage, mic, and forward-facing seating as an opportunity to facilitate private and individuated circumstance between the audience and myself using text messaging. In disrupting the designated norm of reading text aloud within this space, I explained that I could not share my words out loud, due to the words’ grammatical intimacy. I then gave the audience my phone number and invited viewers to text message me their number with “yes, you” if they wanted to receive writing about Tulsa. The writing positioned the reader as “you:” activating the viewer / reader as subject. Once I sent individual text-writing to viewers, I reminded the audience that I cannot read these pieces aloud, and that we could read the hand-held poem—silently, together. Due to the use of “you” within my text, viewers felt immediately connected—some thought I sent individual texts. Once everyone had finished reading, I sent two more writings, with consent from the reader / viewer via the texts “ more, please” and “you are here.” The performance lasted twenty minutes, and unearthed ways of understanding text-performance work and utilizing our phones to generate collective intimacy in real-time / space.

The following is the first text sent during the performance, and informed the title of the performance:

You are my petrichor / Aching for the chemist-bargain / I am dry and listless, here. When we combine / A wave of calligraphy washes over everything / We touch and witness, leaving a hue of earthly smells. / Three months of a dry spell is a quarter past due for rain. / I lean my head back, open my eyes wide to see a poultice sky, / Reveal my mouth and an extended tongue toward an aerial byline / that cannot deliver any news. / So I wait, a parched and gaping body, / In the midst of tangled-burnt land, / For that serendipitous skyswell to burst and pour into our meeting again, / And for savory scents to envelop and nourish our tendrils.