dialogue 1
project by Mary Bellamy & Sarah Rifky
Download an MP3 sample of the track by Mary Bellamy

dialogue 1
compose.write. exchange.respond.

From the artists' statement:
"...we have setup a dialogue through exchanging short fiction and musical compositions; exploring communicative possibilities through artistic mediums, and developing a relationship through interpretative exchange."

Text by Sarah Rifky:

I blink. Young and irritable rays of sunlight play with my lashes. I blink. Dust speckles, flying around and a little insect whirls the chaos of dust in the sun. The fantastic animals on the massive silk rug sprawled beneath my body are looking at me. I stare back at the a burgundy reindeer's head. My fingers reach out to touch the green-golden mane of a lion. I inhale the dust. My hair is covered in dust. I push myself onto my back. I spread my legs. The cobwebs tear. My tears create pools of mud in my ears. I can no longer hear you. I try to blink the dust away. I see the streets of Basque Spain. I turn on my side. I hold myself. I cough, but my throat is dry. I cannt hear myself coughing. Don't make me go to the forest. I will not hear the rustling of the animals in the bushes, setting out to devour me. I am happy here. I release an inaudible groan. Little trickles of saliva abandon the curves of my lips. The saliva melts into the little silk hairs of the rug. The animals drink my saliva. I stare back at the burgundy deer. I want to ask her if she is still thirsty. I cannot speak. The lion's are starved. They are unsatisfied by my saliva. They want my blood. I spread my legs. The warm thick liquid wraps my inner thighs. I experience uncomfortable warmth. I cough again. I let the fluids gush out of my body, streaming into the silk forest. I cannot see the lion's anymore. I am giving life.

I run up the stairs. I look at the glass stained windows. I can't see the cobwebs. I cry. I howl. My face is wet. My tear drops run down my cleavage I run up the stairs. The staircase is spiral. I run. I am tired. It is tiring. I cannot lift myself upwards anymore. I get at the door. I cry. My tears don't stop. I stand here. I stand. I don't move. I want to lift my hand to knock at the door, but I cannot bring myself to do it. I am standing here. I don't move. I look around. I look at the stained glass windows high up. I cannot reach them. I look at them, and the red and green colours reflect in my iris. My tears brim. Fill up my eyes. Dissolve. Light fragments. Red. Green. Spill. They form over and over again. I look back at the door. I am losing my energy as I am standing here reading the maps of lines in the wooden oak door. I am dizzy. I am out of focus. I am looking for something to hold on to. I. Cannot. Find. Anything. To. Hold... 'knock at the door. KNOCK at the door. KNOCK..' I cannot lift my arm. I cannot stand upright. I stumble. Backwards. I lean- against the wall. I look around. Circles, forms, lights and shapes. Beautiful complementary colours. I float. I fly up and down in the hallway. I fly downwards, penetrating the spiral staircase. I am satisfied by my presence within this architectural negative space. I stretch out my arms and touch the rails of the stairs. I pick up the dust with the tips of my fingers. I lick my fingers. I fly further down, I let my moist fingers touch the cold marble floors. I trace the coloured shadows. I lick my fingers. I make sommersaults all the way down the staircase. I am free. I cannot feel my body. I am so light. I laugh. I shriek. I laugh so loud you hold your hands to your ears. The marble stairs laugh with me. The spiders in the stained glass so high up are also gurgling with small spider chuckles. This is happiness. We are all happy. I lift my hand and caress my bare arms. I caress my shoulders, my neck. I caress my thighs. I caress my legs and stretch to touch my feet. “There is no elevator in this building”, he says. To them. Not to me. I want to tell them I have already been there. I don't want to go up. I have been there. It is not important. I remain silent.

One, two, three, four cats are scratching at your door..five, six, seven, eight, there is no love, but simply hate...

She reads Anderson's fairy tales to her children before she fetches a kitchen knife and chops off her fingers

With a sharp pencil, I draw patterns of flowers across his body

I lick my fingers. I swallow the charcoal streaks off my fingers. I need to be clean.

Explain to your daughter that she will never find what she is looking for.

I pant. I run. I draw my breath. I want to hold my sides. I can't. I run. I run. I run. I pant. I run. I don't know where I am going. I cannot see. It is dark. I cannot stop. I am tired. I run. I pant. A breath. A step. I cannot. Dark. Pant. Run. Dark. Cold. Dark. Hurt. Pain. Run. Pant. STOP.

I am dreaming. I am dreaming. I am dreaming. I am dreaming. WAKE ME UP.

We sit there for hours on the bed, we braid each other's hair. We are so in love. I am so shocked that you are telling me she has committed suicide this morning. But why?

When you add two circles and two squares and throw in a little bit of virgin olive and maybe a teaspoon of honey...I couldn't really tell you what you get...

I really love him and I cannot live without him. I cannot imagine why he would run off. Is it my bad cooking? Is it that I don't show him that I care?? TELL ME! -- Yes.. Every time he penetrates me I throw up..

There were times when I tiptoed around the house in order not to wake up the anyone sleeping. I know have taking to howling in my room whenever I feel I am loneliness. They come running to me. They push me into the bathroom or stick a bottle to my lips. It is still better than being alone.

The two of them look at me quizzically for a very long time. Then, slowly one of them nods to the other who titls his head in reponse. They bring out a large roll of black sticky tape. I am attentive. I am seated upright in my chair. They start with my ankles going upwards.

For further information or materials relating this project write to unideeweb@cittadellarte.it