top of page

Hyper-meta-Zoom-surfing with Grey Box Collective

On Saturday May 30th I joined Greybox collective for an evening of virtual performance via the meeting software Zoom: ON REPEAT / asses in seats. For the duration of the show I improvised my hand across notebook pages continuously improvising in words for the duration of the performance.

Note: italicized text is quoted (as accurately as possible) from text, music, and dialogue in the show.


Waiting for the Host to let you in … joining meeting. Meeting meaning assembly of people meaning come together to discuss topics meaning gather — together in civility. I think I am / we are still breathing. In Choose my own adventure — video on or, OFF, definitely off. Justify? At least 4 days un-showered, wearing barely more than raw grief and underwear. Peruse the multi-verse, who’s behind all these black squares, head in box talks the metatextual surface radiates, chat function to integrate audience conversation into the performance. Participation. I am participating in this meeting. I am aware that I am breathing. Camera on. I’m waffling in dimmed light with vulnerable highlights— and this is just the intro. Black text scrolling fast on the white backing catch it in bits and pieces, there’s music radiating How many lies must I become? Permission given. Offered. Off, again. It’s too much to be on, now, too. You know what to do. (x2) A game of Bingo your life emphasis on freedom change your mind as you go free to change as you go. It started with a question: Anyone want to do something?

First dust storm of the season ROLLING.



Grief and Uncertainty loom artists turn to movement— Psychic Dreamwalking with the family, establish faces in spaces. Ensemble of three, intimate domestic activities. A moment of pause, then thunder to the north a cough/ sneeze unseen Nelly Furtado and Timbaland break in on a triple distilled speaker promiscuous girl Notice how we’re all sitting on the floor.

Get up and dance.

To the bathroom, together apart wash my hands (repeat x3) Anti-bacterial 21 seconds exactly A bra — I don’t wear those JR Watkins always reminds me of my Mom. And I miss her, now. Wonder what she’s up to— Back to the bathroom Hand Washing (repeat x3) Don’t forget to wash your elbow pit!

Photo courtesy of Grey Box Collective

Chelsea will lead us in doing our make-up. A tutorial. I lose video between thunder and foundation, I hear pasta sauce to paint — do what feels right for you. A few minutes pass Video back: Foundation of glitter. Blend it. Eye-liner or permanent marker — another choose you own adventure. It’s OK, no one can see us! I send some emojis on the chat and end with the Honey Pot because this is a sweet dish. The squiggle brows are truly something special.

Can you really do anything in isolation? Virus can’t discriminate, people can. Social Distance. Fucked up system, well-oiled, working blisters.

Cleanse that sole! Put your foot in the sink, lather it up mine is really dirty I love a good foot wash. Towel it dry and transition to the closet— I go to the closet to crack my back for the acoustics.

Promiscuous in a studio apartment with Mom, another handwashing (repeat x3) Has anyone ever invaded the dream space? Like in the history of ever? Or, like of you three? A new song for clean hands, Melody on a ukulele. I feel dry watching all this washing. Dry and Dirty. I’m tired of running let’s walk for a minute Another face, friendship fitting in the empty kitchen cupboard goth clown goings on

Clean your computer of viruses, too. I can’t stop thinking about this storm fires and curfew stay Demonstrating the same song on repeat. it’s ok, it’s alright I got something that you might like the second you clean your hands you get more bacteria on them Hands are streets forearm highway over blood heart beats. I am breathing I need to be— camera reveals empty open room journaling. The most important part of the day. Meaning make with pen on paper.

Photo courtesy of Grey Box Collective

I sing the songs that remind me of the good times I sing the songs that remind me of the best times Twenty-one seconds or eight minutes Wash, repeat (x3) nose is the window to the brain booger glitter on a pimple Wash, repeat (x3) Thumb doing whatever it wants My mother has a sailor mouth <3 <3 <3

I think of charger girls, Plug. Camera Angles. Angels. Some chest, an arm. Foot and lower leg. Life as we know it be shifting. Wash, repeat (x3)


Take Five.

Cause it’s light work

With Beyoncé and Kendrick: Tryna rain, tryna rain on the thunder Tell the storm I'm new I'm a wall, come and march on the regular Painting white flags blue Lord forgive me, I've been running Running blind in truth Freedom! Freedom! I can't move Freedom, cut me loose! Singin', freedom! Freedom! Where are you? Cause I need freedom too!



asses in seats

I gotta go I love you bye Hope to see you zoon(m)

Hyperreal adjusting experiment

when’s the last time we all hugged? texting “DO NOT TEXT” I don’t think you’re made for the life I lead

the existential question horny for the game in my room

NOW on Instagram live, too! so meta did I really?

Photo courtesy of Grey Box Collective

The Addams Family is a fantastic piece of goth cinema. Healthy family relationships on screen.

New intimacy in the closet what the webcam doesn’t see: queer construct selfhood depending on where you are, people perceive you differently Intertextuality and getting alcohol on delivery— we’re living in a future that feels we’re living in a culture that feels like something different like culture on repeat

The jarring transition between warm tone perception, culture, religion and cool blue white delivery green weed I think it’s hard watching drastically shifting.

What is happening? Twist of a nose ring

I’m queer because I’m mistaken for things. I’m uncomfortable with androgyny and racial ambiguity. I want to know more. The threads of speech were disparate now converging on complicit privilege it’s not tough for me, that’s the point. If it isn’t about your voice, then what are you saying?

Back to dating. Initiate FaceTime with “DO NOT TEXT”. Loneliness, and no one responds. Profile: no cops. no soldiers. Lot’s of pics. Gone Fishing.

Photo courtesy of Grey Box Collective

screen on screen on screen I’m queasy feedback interrupting like analog glitch ag- agile, adapt- apting.

on the bathroom floor camera off I sit and listen.

My mother says I’m an entity with sentience with sentences I want to go outside entity entirely outside mother gender in between

click, pause, quiet

pretend we don’t know what’s next Three strands make a narrative braid: can anyone find me the bolt cutters outside somebody to love.

A name floating in dark grey the beat drops I want the world to know there’s a new me coming out and I just want to live

Get up and dance.

I am aware that I am breathing.

Ada McCartney is an educator, literary artist, and contemplative movement practitioner. Born in Colon, Michigan, she now resides in Tempe, Arizona. The aim of her work is to find metaphor, extrapolate meaning, to liberate herself from oppressive socialization, and to explore the internal~external landscape with unencumbered attention to detail.

Featured Posts
Recent Posts
Search By Tags
Follow Us
  • Facebook Basic Square
  • Twitter Basic Square
  • Google+ Basic Square
bottom of page