Hi!

My name is Raina, I’m a theatre maker and artist based in Bath, UK. I’m currently working on a solo performance show called MANIC about the grey areas surrounding consent and how bad sex and become traumatic. The piece is autobiographical and features spoken word poetry, drag inspired performance and a character played by a mozzarella cheese stick with goggly eyes! I will be documenting my process of developing the show alongside my other artistic ventures over the next few months 🙂 I’m super excited to be a part of the SPAR network!

A bit about my work: I love creating performance that is colorful and involves visual art. I have been working with costume design and paper mache mask making for a couple of years and often use original art pieces in my performance. In the past I’ve done more traditional spoken word slam, playwriting, directing and acting. I’ve really missed working collaboratively since the start of the pandemic but am looking forward to connecting with other artists on this platform.

Below is a poem featured in the play

What do you call yourself the morning after?

Maybe the moon was up in the middle of the day. Maybe I had forgotten to eat lunch. Or maybe nothing happened. Having a body is too much to bear. I don’t know if I am in love with being alive. Everything I do is plagiarized by a girl prettier than me. The bed, body slammed against the eggshell pink wall. The dead plant, begging you to stop acting like it’s a stranger. The waxless naked apple under the bed. All stolen from romcom chicks with long lashes.

And I am always getting naked at the wrong time and waiting for someone to walk in on me and acting like life is one big movie. It’s so easy to ignore mouth sounds. And say you’re hard of hearing. My body is the worst at sympathizing with others. Families hate knowing they all resent each other. Being in my bedroom makes me want to be perfect like a matchbox. Knowing how consent snaps like a twig makes it a close cousin. Lets sit under trees and refrain from touching each other. Every morning I vomit us up. Like I can’t bear to touch my own memory. I will never be over myself. I am always leaving halfway through sentences. I am always disappointed by things like bedroom sex and easy conversations. It’s so simple to say nothing when you’re just bones. I would worship words if it weren’t so awkward. Paying attention is supposedly a losing game. Falling is always a silent action. Everything around us absorbing, pulsing, everyone’s singing along. Under the weight of my slow bending spine, the bed at a standstill. Us two apples melting wax.

In this scene we lay in silence missing gaps in each other’s sentences. I’m focused on perfection. I forget you as another person in the room. What do you call yourself the morning after? The snap of a branch.

I am always surprised by the way my hands move like ghosts. Sometimes I watch them drop knives like carnival games. Treat the rest of me like an apology. Let it go in the wind. I am always distancing myself from myself. I hate being a bad word. I hope I look like newly grown grass. Even the basil plant growing on your windowsill is capable of terrible things.