The chanting to a desert god, unidentified but certainly made of sound and sand.
The tenderness of absent fingers playing with both grains and vocal vibrations.
The desert is the constantly metamorphosing place of awe and the work place of the visible and the invisible as one, and the man and the woman and what they can create whether bodies turn away or face, are the faint scribbles on its back.
There is the pain of digging ruts into the eternal change to grow sustenance to feed deceitful flesh in each legato phrase, wobbling in the overtones, as the unknown god asserts its sacredness. And the vessel to hold the spirit in gelatin failing to trust that food can be manifested in sound, squeezes away the life she has pushed out of her.
Then the dark clouds ruffle the volatile fabric, and the chanting and the murdering pause long enough for a blink of the human eye and the need to sit the silent twin in a vertical grave to let the spirit back out from where it jumped in.
The reed has its own percussion like the human voice. But can its brittleness convince blown hot air spiked with poisonous gases better than flesh can?
The silence of urges to make more, to bring more vessels to fill, to drop them into the planet trust without warning.
The labour is short, the diagnosis of birth imprecise, and the produce slips out smoothly. There is no water to waste in cleaning away blood and the puss life needs.
No water, but there is sand to brush and grind it away.
Directors: George Inci et al
Writer: George Inci
Cast: Aisha Bhiet, Beatrice von Moreau, George Inci