What's behind the wall?
Sound in walls and sound in books and sound bleeding through
Did you make that thrum? Or is that the building?
Tearing down the evidenced box is heady.
Tearing down the ugly map.
Adam liked it, but I don't. I don't at all. Geographical location is not something I need here.
There is mystery, and it's been lost a little. Don't represent. Don't catalogue. Don't 'science' it.
You're a poet more than a scientist, a dreamer more than a technologist. I know you don't really care about how things work, you love not knowing. You use interpretation and language and nuance, not numbers and systems.
There is magic, and it hasn't been found yet. Keep some things back. Be secretive. Be discerning on your audience's behalf. They don't need everything. They don't need to know everything. Do what you do with students' essays - edit. Do what you've done with Chris's film - edit.
Be ruthless, in a kind way.
You don't need to tell a story. There is narrative, without you doing that.
Though you can still choose to.
Marcy said 'we're beyond narrative' - well, I'm not. I want dreams and stories and mysteries and secrets and ghosts and wonder and mechanisms. I want theatre. I want revelation, or concealment, or both. I want intrigue and haunting and shadows.
Rudd, A. (2009). In Defence of Narrative
I am quiet
I know things
I show you which way to go
But I shuffle and you must shuffle me back
I lie in layers
Then I shuffle
You can spy through me
You can magnify, enlarge
And zoom and swoop over my lines
But then I'll close and you'll be lost
I'll close my secrets back into the darkness and tuck my lens away under the black
You'll have to prise me open if you want my help
But I'll have shuffled
Layers conceal most of what you're asking for
I'll illuminate a spot for you
Though maybe not the one you wanted
Probably not the one you wanted
Tilt me, that might help. Tile my layers.
Or close me again and I'll shuffle
We can just repeat this
Flat black stripe on cheap wood,
You flap, or rather you could
But for your fixings.
You’re teasing - round and yet not round,
Wobbly wheels; first indication.
I feel indicated.
Tablecloth tacked up, dirty and frayed; you aren’t a den anymore.
I can’t make dens anymore.
I don’t see them; I see a tablecloth.
I see a wood panel, blu-tak.
I want to play.
I want to play but
I am weighted, I drag the cloth down.
The paper is just paper;
It’s like Nosferatu, the hand’s shadow on that belly.
That belly which is isolated from the rest of the body,
The messes of the body,
The messes to come.
But for now, dry;
No slime of ultrasound, no blood of birth.
Just sound, approaching.
The hand seems reluctant at first, alarm and pitch increasing as it nears.
The instrument is unreliable,
Like you, mother.
Are you a siren?
Tapping your language into me like fingerpads on taut skin,
Like when computers were human.
If you are siren then I am light, or sound.
A universal language.
A language of flame, unnatural,
Where vowels are emphasized and meaning shifts,
The comparator blinking our differences
As we burn.
As you sound, and I burn.
Mother, your sand patterns skitter on my surface.
Sound into my matter.
The ghost in my machine.
Paper Landscape on Skype like Vanishing Twin Syndrome,
the one eradicating the other.
Amy pivots, four-pointed images like VR on wallpaper, on screen, on wallpaper again.
Male hands, sequentially covering rings, the double-click regular but separate,
then reversed, living and clacking and whirring,
combining and layering.
Everything contains a rectangle.
Image as sound as image.
In Greece they danced, in Tokyo they sat.
You can’t fill a room with smoke anymore.
Light beams from Turkey into Summerhall,
a cinematic wormhole,
like matches lit in darkness, echoed later against a curved wall,
and left, afterwards, like puncture marks in exhausted celluloid.
Inspired by Collective-iz at B.E.E.F. in Bristol, January 17th 2018
Words are things
As thingy as any other thing
Using the wordness of words to communicate the thingness of things
Like trying to convey a single word by taking a photograph
Before a thing passes through the double-slit of language
It just is.
It is something: only that thing, no other thing
Messy, wet nostalgia of suckling
The first surfeit of unaccustomed food
The first warm connection
Brown teat in white mouth
Industrialise! The White Revolution! Down with the vegan agenda!
Mammy Mehturt, wolf-suckle, heavenly cow
Mercurial milk of The Best and Most Agreeable Wet Nurse
Beware the black snake, uninvited milk-sibling
Beware Hera, her anguished scatterings of stars
Capital streams into pinching pouches, unpaused
Untouched by the filth of human mindlessness
Milk of human blindness
Hidden in pyramids
A substance geometry, like Adam’s concrete
Modular, space-saving, profit-tightening
Dumb, passive cow, teats heaving?
We can’t sell that – get a cat in
A chromatic aberration, Goethe’s prism encased
Refracting the colourless (white) within
A canvas for a thousand flavourings, or white, or every other colour
Colours at the edge of spiritualism, colours under my pressed eyelids
Imaginable and unimaginable
A palette for a thousand nightmares, the bomb’s corona mushrooming onto pageant suits of white, or every other colour
The Dairy Queens’ camera-ready grins of white, or every other colour
The blinded eyes of white, or every other colour
Or black, like daybreak
Lit from inside the glass like Hitchcock
A ruin, a relic,
a cut, removing stories.
Train tracks, unfurling;
a waiter, retreating;
My grandmother’s bedside drawer, itchy with rose.
The locked door to the parents’ bedroom.
A stranger’s packed case. A train journey. A coffin sliding towards the incinerator.
Flowers at a roadside.