My name
is Heather. I’m a performance artist at the South Bank centre. I am 27 years of
age, I’ve been performing since I was a child. My backstory is the occult and
technology. I mix my words with stage design, mostly self-made wallpaper and
statues I sculptured myself. I know an electrician who has wired my statues and
made them respond to me when I vocalise my lines. I wind him up by saying they
sound like parrots, so we jig together and create new inputs for them. My
statues have always looked like me, I model the outer layers in paper mache. Before
the wallpaper and the sculptures I used photographs of my own face, big and
small, hi-res and blurry, greyscale and colour, all types of my own face
everywhere across the stage.
I spit
spoken word about a restless spirit that has entered my head. It came from the
brain of a woman who looked like me, somewhere else on the spectrum of cyclic
space and time. I’ve seen the woman mentioned on the news this week, she was a red
flag clone who got whistle-blown for a violent crime, I know it goes far deeper
than a fleshy remake of someone though. It was like staring at my own image on
the screen, I thought someone had set me up via duplicate body swap AI
industry. I know all about that.
My latest ‘poem/rap/soliloquy’ is about the dualism of a cyborg. To me, a cyborg is a robot with a biological brain. A mixture of breathing matter and blunt steel. Or carbon fibre. Or whatever. But what if the brain component was outside of the pulsing robot? In a different location, like. Does the brain have to be attached to the hardware, or can the brain be disassociated and interfere with software only? I’m talking bollocks, aren’t I? You should try and grit your gnashers through my twenty minute sets; last week I was yarning about demoniac/angelic offspring. Mixed with giants. Sprinkled with a hint of hybrid animal. And finally dusted off with the consciousness of a psycho-tronic interface.
Usually I sing about fairies and leprechauns. It all depends really.
At the
moment I’m on about a hive-mind isolated brain which picked up a disease from a
ghost. Both the brain and the ghost speak to me. They inspire me, they haunt
me, they are me. I’ve been receiving all
manner of visions and provocations, hallucinations and voices, nightmares and
daydreams. Something out there is corresponding with me, I see myself related
in the media and in Hollywood, another image stares back at me from the
bathroom mirror, my voice sounds different when I’m talking out loud.
I am Heather, H for short. My twin sister was H for short as well, but her H was short for Hazel. Hazel died in the womb. I consumed her corpse in foetal formation. Hazel was born somewhere else, and lived her own life, as part of a reincarnation project authorized by the Gods. This is what I have been led to believe, by my spirit guide. Call it what you want, rip and mock me, tell me I am nuts…all I know for certain is that Hazel is out there, safe and secure, holed up and able, postured and exacting, both waiting and busy at the same time.
She is part of something far bigger than my knowledge
of the spirit realm and artificial intelligence, she is a part of the sum of
the cosmos, if not the sum of all the multiple universes combined with cream
filling on top. I am merely an insubstantial vent for her awareness to work
through, bringing her to me and thus on to you.
Wait until you meet her. H for Hazel. I’ve lived with her all my life, although it’s only recently since I’ve grown to know her in full. I guarantee it, you’ll love her when you see her, she’s a blast.
Cheerio, H/H.
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