Theo Dunne (they/them b.1996) is a trans maker, crafter and story weaver of alternative realities. Pulling on the thread of folklore, and hidden queer histories, Theo builds mystical environments out of found scraps. They tie loose ends together in the form of words, sounds, images, matter and movements. To translate their experiences of trans identity, grief, death and uncertainty through non-linear narratives, they choreograph happenings and moments that invite a comforting chaos. The act of building a whole new reality as a queer person is reflected in their desire to forge a theatrical, hectic, tangible segment of a world. All are welcome to visit, and perhaps stay a while.
Theo Dunne
1.
TESTo! TESTO!
foaming at the throat once more, a crescendo of noise and ho!
whose fault is this? that i would end up some lonely murderer
a beast of labyrinth, the goo expelled from unholy orifice, the product of a blood-stained pitchfork
the original script says: this is not about you
only me and dying and dying again
autoplay after end credits
after all
what happens when tales tucked up begin to unfurl
and i must have birth after birth again
each time truer than before?
Once this world is over, we can all go home
home being the middle rung of a rope ladder
being can you hear me when i call
being a constant sprouting of sequels and this time around,
chest tubes - draining
exorcising what once stuck, resisting squash and slouch
and feeding this new life
part x of I’m not counting anymore because I’m too busy melding / coalescing
returning through each finale so much so that structure does not hold me
unfettered! at best! what glory, I undress
and host birthday parties year round
to thrash and thrive outside of this line
to wield my half-finishedness like a battle-axe o’erhead
and scream out from under, songs that secrete
here this lovely fresh raw voice
once this world is over, we can all go home
2.
Chain Mail
Compression socks
Flint, blade
Shooting o shooting up
Gentle recognition
Switch, drain
Pride of place
Paw, angel
Vampiricism
And clean t shirts against the skin
3.
an improbable fruition of necromancy, who came about as soon as Sunday Lunch was mentioned
can you hear me when I
adjust accordingly, shake old dirt and wood splinters off my clothes
apocalypse gardeners follow final girls
and to what we supposedly owe the word ‘mother’, as it has been called:
this creature bearing a creature baring teeth
through a pub window I spy
the back of my head that would not be known to her or him
by name nor by shape
after peeling and planting and ripping and sliding
this body is archaic, sacred even, in infancy and novelty
this body was dug up from earth on high and shines anew
this body has not succumb to the tumbling track from here to there
no instead this body is building its own ground
(is)
(building)
(always)
4.
We gave birth in a stairwell
the intention being something along the lines of
give me something to break
give me something to break
I offer you this battlecry
smack chest embrace
come home to me loving you
radically
it’s my way, my way or
rubble to ribbons to another rewrite
hath I not been whole this time around?
when i asked to be cut open and sewn anew?
aren’t thou scarred and weightless?
are you ready to get out now?
don’t you feel so tall?
i went looking for serenity and am granted so
in this body as a book I can decipher no matter which way it goes
blow blow blow
the flag
all the way from dyke to fag
and so the song sweetly sounds
cut cut cut me up! and fuck fuck fuck me up!
cut! cut! cut me up! and fuck! fuck! fuck me up!
where here to ‘cut’ is to ceremoniously drain:
a water balloon on a hot summer pavement, an abscess in an unkempt horseshoe, a pod of sap trapped under the tree bark
the synonyms are:
get rid of
catheterise
free from
siphon
sap
and where to ‘fuck’ is to righteously liberate:
an under qualified male in the boardroom, a magnificent chord in a debut symphony, the homecoming after a lifetime away
the synonyms are:
get out from under
save one’s neck
unshackle
disembarrass
a warbling so smooth it renders me found
5.
in another life i was a sailor,
i mean to say that i was a splinter
milestones / gravestones
silly things like that
cable ties / neckerchief
floorboards / quicksand
and thou art sick / saved
and this is getting a little too poetic for my liking
i will sink this ship on high or so help me
dog
smelling a dead magpie
body
fabled,
an amoeba puddle to a rock to a human person standing up to a tree falling over in a storm to a shard of glass in the sand
and what if that’s the welcome feeling?
come put it in the car and take it home
come fetch the glue and take us home
A flimsy rope ladder swaying in a vacuum, post-surgery bodily fluids sitting in plastic tubes, fluctuating pangs of grief, dead-names, misheard Slipknot lyrics.
Transitioning / healing - point A / point B - beginning / end tied up with a ribbon.
Outro, Forever is a chaotically choreographed allegory of the trans body existing through apocalypse and rebirth, which takes place in a hand-made site waiting to be activated. Through an open call, I gathered a group of trans, non-binary and gender-queer performers and began workshopping movements to embody the non-linear narratives of transness, death, and a never-ending loop of apocalypses.
This project consists of a world built from multiple elements that come together sporadically. The written part is made up of prose split up into 5 segments and scattered throughout the performance. The physical part is a haptic habitat made up of a bendy pillar and curly gate post joined in an arch from which a silk banner hangs, stating:
Once this world is over, we can all go home
And a sprawling mess of astroturf, floor tiles, moss, tubes and branches spills onto the floor. A rope ladder in tatters appears in the space via a semi-spontaneous performance.
The performance stems from a culmination of text and objects, gently guided by prompts and a ChoreoGraph. I made this up (I made it all up), and the graph gives hints as to when each portion of text should be inserted into the performance, and the level of energy that will be given to it.
Influences include: Holly Blakey’s choreography in Cowpuncher My Ass, Charlie Josephine’s play I, Joan, the music of Caroline Polachek, Alex Margo Arden & Caspar Heinemann’s The Farmyard installation, Dykegeist by Eve Stainton, the writings of Ali Smith, Jordy Rosenberg and Travis Alabanza, and the awkward masculinity afforded to me by early 00’s metal music.
This work would not be possible without the wonderful performers:
Dan Hardwell, Sans Rewatkar, Louis Thornton, Adri Sao Bento and additional support from Laura Bowels and Mithago Craze