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EPISODIC


Episodic was devised by Lucinda Lloyd (A Little Bird Whispered productions). It was performed at The Courtyard Theatre, Shoreditch in Jan 2013.


An eclectic company of artists weave a tapestry of episodes exploring the vulnerability and brutality of life in an attempt to find a balance.


Finding freedom of expression through multiple disciplines including movement, art, poetry and puppetry, the artists devise a theatrical event which also enables the audience to find their own voice and express their response to the work:  Participants are invited to enter a creative space within the theatre where their contributions will create an installation which will be woven into the performance.


For more information about Lucinda Lloyd visit her website:

 A Little Bird Whispered.

Teaser Trailer:


For a glimpse at the teaser trailer we made for Episodic, click here and take a look!

Sample from EPISODIC: 'WASHING LINE'


STAGING NOTE: The piece was designed for two voices each with a microphone, sharing out the lines and yet speaking as one voice, whilst in the middle of the performance space an accompanying movement piece took place.


These are his clothes.

We’ll get into his clothes.

His fine, fine clothes.

We’ll feel better inside them.

They’ll feel quite right.

Pants, his pants.

Socks, his socks,

Vest, his vest, and shirt, his shirt.

Trousers and jackets and anything else we find.

We’ll step into them, pull them around us.

Wear them as if we’re wearing his skin.

That way we’ll look exactly like him and smell exactly like him and touch and feel exactly like him; the only difference will be deep inside, where nobody else can see.


It doesn’t matter that none of it feels quite right,

That our feet get lost inside the warm expanse of his socks,

That our parts don’t fill his pants like his parts do,

That there’s a slit in the front that we have nothing to poke through but a finger.

And the vest is rather tight because up there, around here, just here, you see, is where our extra bits are, not his. Not his bits.

All of our various accessories are in the wrong place.

But we won’t worry about that.

No.

We’ll try something else, something bigger, something better.

Not these socks but other socks, not this shirt but another shirt, and certainly not these trousers.

We’ll find something in the end that fits just right.

Like the skin I mentioned. Like his skin.

If I could wear his skin instead, wouldn’t that be perfect?

If I could cut him out of it, snip, snip, and slip secretly into it myself, wouldn’t that be better?

The perfect hiding place.

 

Except that it wouldn’t be, would it?

I’d be just as lost in it as I’m lost in his socks, or his pants or his trousers, drowning in his excess.

Lost inside of him.

So, on second thoughts, perhaps it is not his clothes or his skin that I need to get into.


Perhaps it is his mind.

Yes.

That’s it.

If I can keep myself wrapped warm within his woolen thoughts.

Perhaps if I can cover myself up beneath the silky layers of logic.

If I could secrete myself inside his head and listen to his thinking, the murmurs and the whisperings, babbling like water, that would surely be a way to change from him to me and me to him, all of my voices into all of his, all of his words into my words, my way of thinking, not his.

Yet perhaps even that is too big for me. Too much.

Perhaps his mind is a slurry pit.

Perhaps I would drown in it, just as I would drown in his skin, in his body, in his vest, or in his shoes.


Could I hide myself then in his heart? Or would that, instead, be too small?

If I pulled myself in tight - tighter and tighter - until I am nothing but a small knot, or smaller. If I made myself the size of nothing, perhaps even then I would not fit. Even if I disappeared entirely. Perhaps even the sheer size of my nothingness would be too big and bulky, or too small and piercing.


Perhaps this skin of mine is just right then, even where it sags and gathers and droops.

Perhaps my mind and heart are just big enough for me, big enough to let people in and out, to let them come and go, and maybe sometimes, sometimes, sometimes maybe even stay.

Perhaps these pants, my own, are just right too. Perhaps this dress as well.

Perhaps if I slowly crawled my way back inside of it, I might hide here, in all my happy blindness, hide here safe and sound.