The Temp Job: A Performance Piece from Issue 10 - 2007

The Temp Job: A Performance Piece

The Set Up

This is the original documentation of three out of five days spent on a temp assignment in a major corporation wherein I had virtually no work to do whatsoever. After I had done two books of crossword puzzles and attempted to read a few books, which proved difficult to stay with after 8 hours of sitting in one place under fluorescent lights, I began to write down every time I looked at the clock and how much time was left in my day. On Friday, I began writing down some things about what I was doing at the time.

Documentation

Director and theorist Richard Schechner describes performance as “twice behaved behavior.” What follows here is the “documentation” of the original impetus for this performance—the transcription of my time logs from my temp job. These logs can serve as the basis for a performance, reading, etc. as well as serving as the blueprint or instructions for a newly generated piece.

Theorizing

As Andy Warhol once said, "we figured out how much we thought the audience could take and went about 10 minutes beyond that. Leave them wanting less was always our motto."

The point, of course, of an installation piece such as this is to highlight the passing, often slow, of time and to emphasize both temporality and space. In this case, it is the confining of space and time into a cubicle and a workday.

The Performance

In the performance, a desk should be placed in some public place and the performer should go there eight hours a day, preferably for at least a week.  Every time the performer looks at the clock he or she will say the time out loud and make some kind of repetitive action. Whenever anyone comes near the performance piece, they will be asked "are you the new temp?" When some smart ass says yes, he or she should be "trained" on how to do the performance and then the original performer can take a break.

Thursday

8:20
8:09
7:59
7:40
7:20
6:37
6:10
6:01
4:55
4:39
4:38
4:01
3:43
3;33
3:24
3:22
3:17
3:10
3:09
3:08
3:01
2:44
2:20
2:19
2:15
2:10
2:02
1:57
1:51
1:46
1:40
1:20
1:14
1:11
1:06
1:04
1:00
:55
:39
:37
:36
:33
:24
:21
:19
:15
:14
:10
:07


Friday variation

I left early today, so starting with 8:00 rather than 8:30.

8:04
7:56
7:45
7:44
7:39
7:33 Called to check my bank balance
7:20
7:04
6:54
6:37
6:34
6:33
6:26 Took a bathroom break
6:18 Made a phone call
6:13
6:08 Distributed mail
6:03
5:49 Went to the store to get money and buy a chocolate milk
5:23 Read Skyway News
4:58 Went to the 4th floor to visit old co-workers
4:52
4:43 Talked on the phone
4:35 Spilled water on the message book. Copied over 1 page of phone messages
4:29
4:01 Did the daily crossword puzzles. Could not finish New York Times Puzzle in the Strib. Finished LA Times Puzzle.
3:32
3:30
3:03 Lunch
2:53 Talked to Cheryl on the phone
2:48 Called Aramark about the beeping vending machine
2:43
2:41 Personal phone call
2:29
2:00 Read the Star Tribune Front section
1:44
1:40
1:32
1:02 Hung out with Ryan, former co-worker, in the breakroom. I ate popcorn. He spilled ice on the table and on me.
:51
:39 Copied over my notes from a seminar in December
:38
:21 Had a coughing attack. Had to run to the bathroom. Hacked and spit up a little. Hurt my throat for the rest of the day.
Ish.
:18
:15
:09
:08 Boss told me to go ahead and leave and thanks for covering this week.

Poems by Ric Royer - Issue 10 2007

Here are a few poems that we published in our last issue, which was almost 10 years ago now. These are Yoko Ono-ish in that they are small instruction pieces.

Poems by Ric Royer


Atmospheric Poetry

Speak into a paper bag.

When the paper bag is full of air,
hold it up and pop it. Watch the
words float around.


Sleep Action

Piles, piles, piles.
Goodnight, sleep tight
under piles.

Website update

Hey all. We have a website update including information on the grant we received in the Quad Cities, an update on submission guidelines, and an update on our merchandise.

We also have an increasingly active Facebook presence as well. Check it out and like us on Facebook.

I will be posting more updates and samples on this page in the weeks and months to come!

David Christopher LaTerre from Issue 7, 2002

This one is also from Issue 7 of Karawane. David informs us that it has been revised several times and asked if he could send an update, but I really wanted to include the one we had originally published.

This one did not have formatting problems. If you have ever heard David read--in Minneapolis, in Seattle, or anywhere on the road--then you know that he reads as he writes: in one huge breath/block of text.

So here is David Christopher LaTerre's Dogme 2000.



DOGME 2000


Interesting people are loners. you can’t meet them. get out! can’t break up their marriages or usurp their secret fire escape lovers. there are none; the walk alone. who produced these individuals? not Madison Avenue or Milan. tattoos, interesting? piercings, interesting? very long hair, very short hair, interesting? vintage clothing; high fashion? interested? interested yet? bisexual? interracial? boho? like on T.V.! not weird enough. who paved the way for identity (not these people). consider the intelligentsia of time: bit thinkers in smoky backrooms. all in ugly suits & ties. members of the Bauhaus, of Dada, private salons & think tanks. outside the university(often); outside the court. creators of the thinking-edge. can’t even read their writing! they looked like narcs! they were uncool. they were very uncool. so square, they’d level the world beyond its shrunken-head tattoos & all its affect. they freaked out. & it freaked people out. like Ulysses & The Rite of Spring. when we rant that ‘it’s just looks’ or ‘all is vanity’, we imply that there is
something else. there may NOT be! What do people care about? look at the pyramid of THINGS, PEOPLE; IDEAS(materialism, Jerry Springer, & original thought) interesting? why did the punk cross the road? he was stapled to a chicken. what do you think skinheads talk about? punk rock? they talk about their families & their jobs. WHAT is interesting? WHO is? what is radical? who made the PROTOTYPE? why copy it? my moral: why copy anything? you want to be unique but first you have to be a true individual: that means no more cliques. no more TEAMS. no more GIRLFRIENDS. no more BOYfriends.
NO MORE PROPS. but see how eventually the underground goes middleground...’Liberal’ sees expensive copper pan at Williams-Sonoma. want-to-buy. forget about grassroots & Marxism. artists& cultural neighborhoods strews with 100lb boys (crystal meth bulimia) entire city of boys & that prop: either a girl, a dog, a cellphone, or snarling or spitting on the street with that ridiculous SWAGGER. where have I seen
that before? oh yeah. EVERYWHERE!(or male couples)...the world is full of E.M. Forster women & Anne Tyler men. the barback is a D.J. Star! your girlfriend’s in a review about temping for Amazon.com. the real horror of the modern city — the unreal city — today is its hypocritical MINDSET: young, hip, plugged into the web & can’t think for itself! wait for it to be DECIDED! so we have corporate-endorsed ravewear
& syndicated prison-issue Hip Hop. all you you won’t be BEAT UP(fashion isn’t as brave as it is fearful). loners are never cool. James Dean was an interpretation. I’m lonely in this place of people only LOOKING or acting weird. they can’t access weirdness, they can only GUESS! they never had it repackaged and run up the flagpole like a trend. they only borrowed it! they just paint it on like ARMOR! I finally REBELLED against cool. they said that I ‘lost’ my cool, that I freaked out (which is VERY uncool & apparently undesirable); I must have felt PASSIONATE about something. cool isn’t dynamic in any way. how did it ever catch on? how could anyone in any century look around & be BORED, or subsequently adopt this as an identity. NOTHING WAS EVER ACCOMPLISHED THROUGH BEING COOL, BUT EVERYTHING WAS ACHIEVED BY FREAKING OUT. INTERESTING PEOPLE ARE LONERS. YOU CAN'T MEET THEM. GET OUT. —not weird enough. it’s not weird enough! when we were out there changing the tide...wanna be lonely? wanna give it a shot? oh, I don’t know; I’m not saying this right. I should ARTICULATE this better...simplify: maybe something...GET OUT!

Art Durkee, Issue 7

reading a life by Art Durkee


by a single lamp
the man standing naked
his skin wrapped in words
swirling in seven languages
rapt in the book he reads
writing himself into lists, one thousand
years old, somehow still new:
"everything indigo is exquisite"
does the flower, the paper, the ink
know he worships them: their vibrancy?
it matters only to the ribs
inflating releasing the words
"lovers" and "hijau" and "spice"
and "arigato"
and "sleep" written in the thighs
the word "golden" in Greek letters
spread across his breast
his arms spiraled with poems
to hymns to mirrors to trains, dark
terrors he had as a boy
now read in books he treasures
a library of intentions, inscriptions,

Two poems by Jim DeWitt ca 1999

These are two poems by Jim DeWitt in Issue 5, 1999, back when we were still Voices From The Well.


Middle Night Courage Needed

Know that there's only one low-watt bulb
crouching up inside my pullchain lamp. How it strains to
chew away some smidgen of surrounding roomdark.

Listening close, you might hear its valiantness-for-its-
size penetrating out into sections of the blackest
speckles swarming in to surround it.

Pressuring shadow morphs that do seem snarly
stubborn. Ever angrily swirling back, determined to
overwhelm my little dim-glo bulb, break its spirit.

And right from the veryinstant of my switching it
on, Bad-Old-Blackness has flexed its long shadowed
other self. Seeming much more than just-somewhat
disturbed out there . . .

After Six Hours Suspension

Something stirs you awake. You rise out of cozy
comforters but sight tells you you are too soon for the
coming sun. Curious, you peek out the blind's chink as if
bent on catching night with one of its secrets.

None are seen moving, so stealth helps to place
your body back in. Sinking beautyrest, it calls on that
same something which woke you to reverse-gear you into
more of that temporary suspension soft . . .

Slamming Poets by Liam Kinbrae

This was published in 1998 in issue 4 of Voices from the Well when we were young as so were the slams in Minneapolis. There was a lot of animosity between the slams and the open mics and this was towards the beginning of that animosity.



Slamming Poets - Post Kerouac


People who don't know each other shuffle scared, proud or crippled into some room...some thinking that

Laureate status is long overdue...some are curious...some bored, some are simply mistaken...and maybe there is even a poet in the midst...or the real potential for one to surface--a delicate heart in the non-participating audience that becomes calm, honest, and insightful once the Slam is done...

But the Event will happen as scheduled...poetic presence or not.

"Judges are selected at random"...the spokesman announces as he selectively scatters smiles around the room...and it really doesn't seem to matterw ho will hold up the point cards:

It's about the mood of the judge...which more often than not is stimulated by something somewhere between superficial humor or sex...with a touch of the bizarre...and the narcissistic rush of power they get when it's time to grab a 5 or a 1...to dangle over someone's vulnerability.

Some gulp beer before it starts...some sip coffee...water--each contestant has a personal preference for liquid courage...and there is more shuffling--and often it feels like Ed McMahon might materialize at any second to claim his status as patron saint of poetry slams.

And the first reader rises to read...and a false hush covers the shallow banter...and someone who wants to be overheard whispers...THIS MIGHT BE ANOTHER YEATS...YA NEVER KNOW...

And the initial reader on stage adjusts the microphone...fumbles through his hastily accrued stack of papers...lets out a frustrated grunt...closes his eyes...picks a crumpled yellow sheet...smiles...and mutters into the microphone with ferocious intensity:

UNTITLED

and reads something like this:

MOON ME, MY MOON!
I WAS WOUNDED BY THE
MOONS MOONING...AND
IT FELT SO CLOSE TO ME
THAT I NEARLY CALLED 911.

(then he tilts his head and says a sweet) Thank you.

And in the semi-circle of once hopeful faces surrounded the reader, one notices the non-verbal reactions:

*an old man lowers his head onto the table--no one knows if he is meditating,
nauseous, or just resting until it's his turn

*someone else clenches a fist

*someone's mouth hangs open

*someone moves quickly through the area--going to pee