Simple structures of Parkinson's wash over a death of lines and shapes and AAAAAAAHHHHHs through oval and round mouths. A lady, naked and free. We circle and she dances. She dances, we look. Somewhat in awe, somewhat embarrassed, somewhat involved. I never asked to be here. I sat over there. I said. She said.

We said.

Not knowing fills me with the know HOW. Knowing how I can sit, and watch and let my mind play and be played with. Taken hand in hand through a journey. Again I did not ask to be taken. I just came. I don't remember going. I am just here with you, with them.

The lady is naked with clothes on. She wants to be seen not wanting to be seen. This makes me want to see her. Vulnerable as she is but strong as she must be sitting, standing, moving in front.

'How dare you?' She says to him. The rumble and rustle. She is scared to answer back but does anyway. I am with her. There. Its gone. I go. I come back. Mildred? Yes george.... I love George. George is dead. George is. George was. I thought of a Syncamore and I scratched my name into its trunk. For you.... George.

My automatic responses to Stranger Than Fiction 2nd December 2010 at London Met University. Performing:

Trumpet Creepers
Colleen Bartley
Stranger Than Fiction Collective

Improv is great but sometimes it lasts longer than that one moment.

S x