The full seven-hour video from yesterday’s INVENTORY performance at the Imagine Science Film Festival, filmed and archived by the Marina Abramovic Institute. I tried to stand the whole time, but fainted at the 1:37 mark. After that, I sat.

The End of Inventory

Beginning January 1, 2013, and spanning 657 consecutive days, I’ve catalogued every individual object I own.

Today at the Imagine Science Film Festival, I performed the text in its entirety, which took over seven hours. In total, Inventory is 40,071 words. Photos and full video of the performance are forthcoming from the Marina Abramovic Institute, but the final four hours are currently viewable here.

Thank you for reading.

Inventory #657: Unbuilt America by Alison Sky and Michelle Stone



My bag of limbs and matches, my waves knocking wetly at the door, I will always open for you. But I will not keep you safe—that was never my promise or intention. I loved you because you were always ending, and can be ended so easily, like tonight. I loved you because you were mine, all mine. 

INVENTORY: Under Objects Under Oath is a long durational performance by Chelsea Hodson. Every day for 656 consecutive days, Hodson has used her blog to catalog, photograph, and write about every individual object she owns. Beginning at 1pm EST on October 19th, 2014, she will read the project in its entirety — including the final entry, Inventory #657 — without any objects present, then the catalog will be complete and the project will end. 

This performance is presented by Marina Abramovic Institute in collaboration with the 7th annual Imagine Science Film Festival. It will be live streamed tomorrow and later archived on IMMATERIAL, the digital journal for Marina Abramovic Institute:

Inventory #656: Opaque black tights



The elaborate map I drew you did not help, which surprised me, to be honest. But night are like that—despondent, unmoored. I was motivated but not fully awake. I slept through your despair and woke up alone. Did I keep you alive by looking at you? I’d like to think that. 


Inventory ends tomorrow

Inventory #655: Pink notebook



I may never find the answers I need, that’s why I keep making substitutions and hoping the realest things will eventually reveal themselves. I believe in that the way I believe in churches, or the idea of a church as a place to worship the idea of a man. History books taught me everything and now I’m penniless. History taught me mistakes to end, mistakes to write sonnets about, mistakes to ignore. I go forth and make more. 


Inventory ends in two days

Inventory #654: Foundation brush 



You’re lucky you found a way to hoard all the goodness of the world, luckier that your collarbone can hold that much. I’m less lucky—unreliable body with a possession-based collection, arranged by color on white shelves. Neatness is a skill and I put all my hours toward it. I alphabetize, I realign, I swallow curved swords, I make you watch. 


Inventory ends in three days

The only time a man took notes on something I said was when it seemed possible I could be kidnapped. The rocking chair creaked with the cop’s weight and I was happy to have him there. I’d been in a field of wild gazes and wild flowers and bees and flowers that resembled bees. I was young. I didn’t have words for everything I saw, but I looked at his gun and thought, “Order.” 

—From my new essay, Lying in a Bed of Bee-Shaped Flowers: On Being Watched,” published in the new issue of The Lifted Brow. Topics include: webcams, stalkers, orchid evolution, and the Somebody app. I used webcam footage I’ve been watching to make the accompanying video.

Inventory #653: Ten pairs of black underwear



I’ve boiled several identities down to One Person. There was a hand on my head during the monsoon—whose? The men I loved were not tender, they were the same clouds, hovering all summer. They were variations on a theme, beautiful sentences when all I could read was one sentence per day. My house was haunted and I was dying to prove it.


Inventory ends in four days

Inventory #652: Tin House, Vol. 16 No. 1



The moon turned red and I closed my eyes—one beautiful thing each day is already too much and I’d had my fill that morning. I ignore because I must, I shut the door and keep the light to myself. It is not honorable, I’m not proud, but I left the moon so you could see it, or at least that’s what I told you. 


Inventory ends in five days

Inventory #651: Poets & Writers, Sept/Oct 2014 issue



I have no idea what I’m tracking, only the conviction that I’ll know it when I see it. 

—Louise Glück


Inventory ends in six days

Inventory #650: Black sleeveless dress



I once handed a book to the writer to sign, but she’d already signed it for someone else. Her signature was on the right page, the book was in the wrong hands: mine or imagined or ghostly. Books fell off my shelves when I wasn’t looking and I left them on the floor like proof. I wanted things to stay where the dead wanted them, I wanted to respect death—the first step of loving anything. I stayed on the floor with the books. I read them there. 


Inventory ends in seven days