Improv 2, Week 15

My second improv for this week comes from the piece, "Notes on Yellow Paper."

Notes on Yellow Paper

There are new colors in the leaves and the sky is white. A woman does
not necessarily recognized another one when she sleeps in a car. Where
are the children at two fifty five. Her body needs a change and she is not
hungry. That a flag quivers in the morning does not make her eyes. She moves as mercury to break its perfect skin. She was ignorant once and she threw a key to her face. Is utopia when dogs bite the flying dirt we kick with our boots when there is a meadow and trees when we never knew their names. Sometimes we can swim beyond the scenery. A horse collapses behind the daughter. They walked by the church at nightfall and bells were a sign. There is not always another way. They washed her soiled garments under the mink coat. She reads about Ancient Egypt and shaves her eyebrows.


The above piece seems to draw from the relationship of a mother to her children. In my piece, I added a father to the family towards the end and my language seemed to embody a sort of break down of construction. I attribute this to the use of words like "jackhammer," "cleaver," and "stabbing at a dew drop." Such imagery tends to suggest using tools to break apart something. In Byrd's piece, it appears as if the mother is trying to reach some element of peace and solace, a sort of utopia, "her body needs a change and she is not hungry," (3-4). There is an air of attempting to calm the speaker down in the midst of her chaos. This stems from the usage of words such as, "meadow," "chruch," "bells," and "swimming beyond the scenery." My piece, however, adds a bit more leverage to the chaos itself without giving its characters a chance to breathe.



Red Grass Inscription

There are dead leaves in the sky and the ground is white. A child never
really sees himself when he stabs at a plummeting dew-drop. Have the trees boiled at two and a half ticks. His jack-hammer must be appeased, and she is not thirsty. That a moth bled her eyes does not murder her ears. He crawls like ice to burn the inflictions of time. She was young once and she thrusted a cleaver to her breast. Is sanctuary when otters flick the petalled dress we bathe with our skin when the clouds dissipate into dirt when we never knew their age. Every year we fly below our fingernails. The cattle mewls above the father. They run past the preacher at daybreak and flying rocks were their key. There is never another option. We ripped his powdered hairs under the red rug. He studies Einsteen and clips her nose hairs.