(In response (joyously, inevitably) to
Everybody is wrong. That’s the point. ASMIAD is the all the (wonderful?) activity in their heads; the dictators, the dancers, the musicians, the spectators, the question is why does it feel this way? That some (any) of us can coexist in this space? (My best friend had to leave the hyperbole as a stereotypical symptom of B.O. and it was fucking hot). (Others stay to leave to write about it, apparently). If we can coexist, these are the (operatic) ways you may cognize coexistence (I think); direction, production, pattern-identification, The Result – the opera is only as alienating as life itself. And so the question “what is real?” (in properly Absurdist fashion) is not an inappropriate result of observing this piece. Who can/is (co)existing in this life? Are you?
I mean, look. Look at what’s happening all around you, does anybody not see the velocity of thoughts that became a thought that became a book in an opera. On the floor. These bodies, they stink, the viscerality hovers. Inside a facial expression or operational tick or essential tremor and we all stand alone, I suppose, insofar as we follow/persevere.
There really is no sense beyond sense thank god.
So pay attention. Don’t go anywhere else before or after this opera, a reversion back to prior theories that properly distinguish chaos from pseudo-order. This never works, a purely aesthetic criticism, so don’t think about it. Then all the parts that don’t work in your head, aesthetically or otherwise, splat, lay em right down here. That’s what ASMIAD does. All the action dumped *right here* fulfills survival, (albeit under the guise of (co)existence, and the subsequent problematics of agency, emotion, intelligence, and cognition thereby). We want this (living) to work and so we have to examine it, create it, and most importantly, act as observers to this opera, this life. Fuck the semiotics of alienation. Fuck history. This is a process(ing) by which we are, and it’s kinda gross and primitive before we ever had a name for it. Sweat, yes. Smarmy birth, transgression, the inside of an ear.
A nasty net of hypotheses laying on the dance floor over the 7 week opera run in town, and now you have to cognize yourself but as soon as you’re cognized everyone will recognize you and so you choose to live wondering why they recognized you or to cognize them. There are so many ways to mirror these choices, sublingually, sonically, verbatim, and as many as possible are laid down right here, in a gallery made human but not forsakenly so.
So we observe, and now we may ask: what the fuck have we been missing? Why don’t we understand this, this opera thing and what it wants of us? (Because, after all, isn’t this what we are all responding to)? The fact is, ASMIAD has the missing parts and they are concurrent. They are touching. This is unity. Which is a very big bitch to grasp.
Just be fucking present. When you do this works.
On a deeper note, don’t be afraid to be entertained