Mercy oh mercy,
the heathen’s journey
is up to come down
by plane and on ground
upon sand and stone
to come to the home
of a god.
Still turmoil.
Sacred earth, art thou that?!
Oh miserere,
take home brick by brick,
make sand, slurry, slip.
Rage and care in prayer
to a tool whose blood
is thought, body - mud.
Carve a god.
Find divinity
Within and not without.
Mercy oh mercy
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‘Mercy oh mercy’ is a delve into an underworld wherein we join an old fisherman and his clawed congregation for a chitinous eucharist that gently trips into psychedelic ceremony.
Built through lived research, this performance offers a comparative and conglomerate perspective on christian liturgy, psychedelics, tarot, and a journeying practice located within contemporary western esotericism.
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This performance was initially supported by Embassy Gallery, (Edinburgh) for a scratch night at Two Queens Gallery (Leicester). The projects development was then supported through a commission from Dance City (Newcastle), and later performed with the support of Breeze Creatives (Newcastle)
The story… are you sitting comfortably?
This story begins at a Church. There, there is a church that hides a secret. To find it, go past the anointing table in the entrance, beyond Golgotha, down a set of ragged steps and into a room that smells like deep earth; hewn rough.
There, in the corner, is the tomb, lit by one oil lamp on the adjoining wall. Crawl inside it… there’s a small, square wooden door at the back. Open it to reveal a dark expanse with a light breeze that reeks of wet rocks.
When you reach in and touch the inside wall, something happens. It is, as if, you are invited to become part of the living rock, lifting feet as if seized by some sinuous web of limestone. With closed eyes, merge and step into the dark.
There’s a light on in here, two. One above, the other below. The moon is hanging from the roof of the cave and sitting on the surface of the water beneath it.
At the edge of the lake there’s an old man sitting on the bow of a small, moored fishing skiff.
He sings an old song and creatures begin to stir, dozens of stalked eyes pierce the surface of the water around him. They blink against the melody that curls down to lick them - a lure - they leer beadily at this familiar character.
One by one, he scoops them out from the lake and places them on the deck of the boat, the skeletal clatter of their feet on the wood growing to a clamorous applause. Once all are aboard, he calls for order.
He raises his right leg and brings the arch of his bare foot down upon the back of one of the crabs. Crack.
Take, eat, for this is my body that was broken for you, do this in remembrance of me.
Now beside him, I am offered a piece. It has the metallic taste and chitinous crunch of uncooked mushrooms.
Next, he dips his hand over the edge of the boat into the lake to bring water over the crabs’ backs; their gills have to be kept wet for them to keep breathing.
Drink, all of you, for this is my blood that was poured out for many for the forgiveness of sins.
He dips again to pour water over his own head, and mine.
Bringing the ceremony to a close, he places the flat of an oar down into the boat and the crabs file ups it, tottering as it narrows and falling into the water. I follow suit, invigorated with a new-found enthusiasm for exploration that has risen like a flash tide. I look back for a parting exchange.
Above, below, the drain always flows. This is just one side of the plug.
Sink, past fish, weed and wreck to the bed.
A light on, a house, the front door is open. The crabs stop on the threshold, this is not their shell. Step into the home preserved in deep, still waters, its once warm allure now a cold husk of memory. Radiators rusted, walls green with algae. Turn to leave and there he is, at the door, the fisherman stoops and steps forward, offering a hand as bridge to somewhere, the surface?
Below, above, the drain always flows. Forget yourself to find home.
Some force conducts the cacophony of the crabs, their legs whack on the outside walls. They click and clack furiouser and furiouser until their beat is heaving the water like breath, and with one last heave all is thrown out and up.
T h e w a l l s c o l l a p s e .
I spent the remainder of that day backtracking with a dear friend. We talked about how dealing with ego-loss within psychedelic experience could feel akin to grieving the death of a loved one. Both asking for a process of rebuilding, with a heightened understanding of the fragility of bricks that we forgot were made of sand.