#2—

<sup>My performance at PHONICA on March 26th 2018 was a breakthrough. If there is ever a recounting of my ‘career’ in literary performance, one of the many terms I use that no one else really seems to use, then this would be a dramatic scene. Let’s be honest with ourselves. There will be no recounting.

This evening in SMOCK ALLEY THEATRE, I wasn’t very well. It drew down my scant nerves, or better said, filters. Not towards antagonism, as had been the case in the past, but towards almost pure improvisation, as a mode towards a live, living poetry. The work I did on that night led me to think through liveness in a concrete way, it led to THIS—a nice juicy section on my website. I describe a TALKING performance
thusly ...</sup>

_{A SPECIFIC KIND OF PERFORMANCE WHICH EXPLORES TROPES OF PUBLIC SPEAKING, RECITATION, READING AND INTRODUCTION, WHICH USES DERIVATION, PROLIXITY, MENTAL ASSOCIATION AND SUBVERTED EXPECTATION TO MAKE OFTEN ENTIRELY IMPROVISED TALKING PERFORMANCES OR TALK-POEMS.}

_{I’m the child of a salesperson with an unfortunate ability to speak quicker than I can think—naturally distrustful, then, of the capability to express at pace, of bombarding with words. These TALKING PERFORMANCES, ranging from the combative to the comedic, attempt to examine the persuasive context of speech, its manipulative and fraught relationship with truth and belief. I also wish to join a tradition, specifically in live poetry, from the 14th century Italian Improvisatori to 20th century poet-artists like David ANTIN.}

_{My talking performances tend to grow from small gestures around audience expectation into weirder things, explorations of what a live literature is or might be—time, space, human interaction, spoken language. I’ve often used props or situational setups to work these live poems too, like powerpoint presentations, eating, dancing, masks and puppets.}

_{Back to Dublin. I was performing last that night. It was a brilliant night. But it went long. Really long. By the time I performed I’d say a third of the audience had left. I awaited my slot high above the stage, right at the very top of a tower, up a spiral staircase, lying flat on my back for over an hour, with the technician. The technician was gently suspicious of almost all the work, and he, not knowing I was to perform, was easily egged on to further suspicion by many questions and company. I watched the performers, some of whom have gone on to be important in my life, meeting them that night, and made no mental notes, had no plan of attack, except a powerpoint slide, an apple I had asked Colm O’SHEA to hold, and a piece of music.}

_{I lay and watched and listened and waited. When it was my time to come, I could feel the audience was resilient, focused, not wanting to leave, as I would be at this point, and I stomped down the stairs, loudly, banging my feet on the metal staircase. They did not like it. People never do. For me having no introduction, or piece of paper, it just suggests threat, or possibility, or that I’m a dickhead. I asked if anyone had food, I was starving. I got some chocolate bars and Colm threw me my apple. It was so warm. He had held it for hours. I ate it and starting talking.}

_{I am not a shy person. I don’t understand why some things that seem to affect most others do not move me an inch, and certain experiences which people bat away render me jelly. But feeling sick, and thinking of that technician, I just talked about what I thought people thought I thought. I talked about a kind of truth that many people find alarming which is actually quite boring to anyone who thinks at all concentratedly. My work is useless, it is unpopular, people do not like poetry, I wing it, I have no discipline, I am impatient etc… I made up some stories, that were obviously lies, and made up others, which were obviously not truths.}

_{When it was finished, after I played Harry NILSSON’s cover of John LENNON’s song (‡) and flicked through all the slides with my clicker, not quite understanding how profitable that interaction would be for me live, the writing of the slide jarring with what I am saying in real time to audiences, I collected my shoes and walked off. People were generous, but then that is Dublin, they are incredibly generous, or have always been to me when I’ve read and performed, and perhaps shaped by the curatorial care of Christodoulos Makris and co. But there was something else in people’s eye contact with me, and their words. I made sure I found the technician in all the departures. He didn’t make eye contact with me, but said, “you're very honest with yourself,” or something to that affect, I misremember. The great achievement of this work, of course, is that the exact inverse is, and was, true.}

_{The song played during the performance described above was not the song posted here, but the sentiments of this NILSSON original felt appropriate. Fowler’s reminiscence of the events of 26/03/2018 are accompanied by a selection of photographs of the poet’s right and left hands, as scraped from a search engine, and edited accordingly for emphasis.}