On Sunday 16 October we’ll be up at dawn to chorus.
#dawnchorus is part of the Live Art Development Agency’s DIY6 project, and this part is happening on Twitter. For the past month nine of us have been developing a dawn event to mimic forms of dawn chorus birdsong in writing. Because birds don’t talk and twitter does words, we’ve been devising ways our tweets can flock or shoal together and reference the calls of individual birds. To hear the performance get up very early on the 16th and follow #dawnchorus.
We will tweet through dawn, from approximately 5:35am to 8am.
Participating writers are: Amber Massie-Bloomfield, Joanna Brown,Tiffany Charrington, Eddy Dreadnought, Sally Labern, Tamarin Norwood, Mary Paterson and Natasha Vicars. #dawnchorus is conceived by Natasha Vicars and developed in collaboration with Mary Paterson and the writers. For more information, please email [email protected], or see us on Twitter.
Below, I thought I’d copy the tweets I posted between August and September, all to #diyDC as part of this project’s development. Out of context they’re a bunch of answers without questions. Nice like that.
Houseguests yesterday. All disarray. Night and morning bunched up on the floor.
The time we woke up whistling, and sunrise waited for us till afternoon.
Now it’s just orange lamps behind the hedge like a perspective lesson. One man crossing right to left.
And: just the creak of my spine, the rest is alright.
And: the dishwasher’s chewing plates again, sounds bloodthirsty in there.
Spectacles left about the house somewhere. Patch of fabric across the room looks like it’s going off.
In retrospect it must have been the garden with sun in my eyes this afternoon, a magpie on the chimneystack. Louder ever since.
A local man with his mind long lost gets alarmed on sunny afternoons. He wails. Today I heard a woman pause and ask, are you alright.
Gamble. Tweet when you think you see the final bird of the day. If you see another bird later on, be disappointed
“Can I have a dawn single to Chorus.” (On bus. It worked.)
No her name wasn’t Dawn after all. It’s that her surname was Breeze. Wrong memory.
A child with thin blonde hair at school with me when we were eight. Her clothes were always neater.
Morning has broken. First bird’s out before the bedroom window. Song like wet glass. We each can’t sleep.
unexpected. It collects up nicely.
You could peck if you had a pencil for a beak, but you couldn’t whistle. Or breathe. You could learn to write if you were desperate.
Palomar’s blackbirds: the interim silence is their transmission, combed thin by the filaments of shut beaks.
Garden before sunrise. Looking in through the kitchen window like a note in the margin
Missed it too. But the birds couldn’t tell, from the trees the house looks the same whatever I’m up to.
Bin men again, and delivery vans. Lorry stacked high with beds unfurls its shutter before my bedroom window. ‘Dreams,’ it says.
In Oxford a dog and a boy bark between bicycles
Kitchen morning. Heating on early, and lights, and clothes turning madly in the corner.
Alarm. One long low-slung trill from an empty house opposite. What to do. The birds are battling with it sweetly.
Morning swept up under another train. Heading due west towards sundown. Couple of delays.
The birds are flying backwards this morning, the Edinburgh train’s got them in reverse. We cross too quick to mark the gender.
Dawn all day. Overtired.
a symmetrical arrangement of bird mouths fixed to my ear
always out by a second or two
writing draft tweets on Word.