"Resting Bitchface, they call you. But there is nothing 'restful' about you..." - Our latest work 'Ode to my Bitchface' is a dance film we made in reaction to the amazing fierceness of Olivia Gatwood's poem of the same name. Beautifully delivered by Olivia in a live performance, we felt like we had to dance the chills out of our bodies as soon as we saw her original video. - Shot & edited by our wonderful friend and collaborator Tim Davis (http://timdavis.me) Poem written and read by Olivia Gatwood (http://www.oliviagatwood.com) Choreography & performance by Rebecca Björling & Rebecca Rosier for We:R Performance Collective Shot at Tegelscenen
and i disappear from oncoming traffic into your lap.
you say some people need coffee, i need this. and i think to myself, it’s simple, really.
i do plenty of things once a day. shower, set my alarm, call my father to tell him i am safe
what is love if not being needed, and unzipping your throat, if not letting the rats underneath the sink live, because it is the middle of winter?
when you say, now you mean here and tomorrow here will be your bedroom floor a gas station parking lot, the dumpster s behind my high school
soon, the velvet of being desired begins to harden and i sculpt a new, doughy mantra to pass the time
i think, it takes three weeks to form a habit which means twenty one days until it is as simple as brushing my teeth. like any girl good at her job, i will teach my tastebuds to cover their ears develop some hack to tame the gag and share it with all of my friends
and, i do, of course i do, but your body becomes immune to the gift i can tell because you stopped flinching and stayed mad even after i was finished i know, i know i got lazy, i’m sorry i can’t bind my mouth into something tighter so the needs mutate into a tumor with a face and teeth and hands
and soon i am swallowing your pillow tending to the rug burn on my palms and knees, i think, twenty one more days until i master the art of separating brain from body until i am the girl in the magician’s box whose upper torso rolls away from her hips with ease and i do, of course i do,
but you know the drill, the need, the immunity, the tumor, the habit, and soon, you want it twice you want it four times you want it in the middle of the night but i am asleep but you want it so i wake up
watch this i learn how to not wake up while its happening i teach myself to lock the door of my dreams and stay there until morning
i detach like a classroom skeleton piece by piece
i share the trick s with the curious girl in geometry.
the boys and i are playing quarters with double shots of vodka and i am winning. by winning i mean i am not one of the boys but i am the next best thing. by the next best thing i mean i am a girl and i am drunk. every time i miss a shot, johnny gets to flick a quarter against my knuckles and now my knuckles are bleeding onto my thighs but every time i make a shot i get to knock back a throat full of liquor. i slam down the glass until it cracks up the side and now the game is about who will still drink from it, who will risk shards in the belly, who will cut up their insides for a pack of newports and it’s not that i even want the cigarettes, it’s just that i am not afraid of blood which is also part of being a girl. but being the only girl means making yourself lose when you’ve won too much so i bounce the coin off the rim of the shot glass and let johnny slice me open. in thirty minutes, johnny is dragging me out of the bathroom by my wrists and i can hear him saying something about blood on the carpet, about a drunk girl in the house who is staining everything and i think that means i must be the champion of quarters. johnny is the kind of guy who sleeps with a gun, not women. but johnny is always the one inviting me over for a game of quarters and sometimes i wonder if this is how johnny fucks. like maybe he is the kind of man who only screams when he is underwater or lets me feel how strong his fingers are without actually touching me. maybe that’s why we’re all here, even the boys, to let johnny hold us like a barred window. i work a double one day a week and on this day, don’t answer johnny’s call. by one day a week i mean two men break in and shoot johnny in the temple for two-thousand pills and i am scraping pasta from a business man’s plate into the trash. at some point i’ll tell you why i didn’t go to the wake. i guess i never really knew johnny like that. by that i mean sober or in a church. when i say i didn’t go to the wake i mean i drove by his house everyday for two years and the for sale sign never got taken down like the house would always be johnny’s, like maybe the whole town knew what happened there. like maybe no one could get rid of the blood.