October 17th, an operatic Bigfoot carries each of our infant selves on its shoulders after slowly stepping through a luminous portal. It treads on the creaky, almond-scented hardwood floors of a colonial cottage, singing its way up the stairs as we’re perched, curiously looking at what the dark journey brings. Arriving in the attic, we find our place of refuge roofless—that which we’ve given value is falling apart, replaced by cobwebs, clutching to the past.
All the power sources of that home & its possessions, and the power lines sustaining its neighborhood, too, topple over onto a pile of scorpions. Whispers of sinister jokes vibrate through the air; dark financial dealings happen behind swaying foliage and autumn smoke. Menstrual blood flows with a vengeance and prostates swell.
The hope and respite lies in the song of our voices and in the long-rejected, disbelieved parts of our souls, seeing the attic that lost its roof as an opportunity to sing into the sky. Can our sweet melodies of longing, revenge and regression, once thought urban legends, straddle the cobwebs, pests & old contracts, serenading the common light source?