The Silver Man Fell Down The Stairs

the silver man fell down the stairs slowly and the lights affixed at regular one-meter intervals all the way along the wall reflected off his rotating body as he fell, and his flailing, twisting limbs sent rays of it further down into the room and up against the ceiling in flickering patterns. his falling made no sound, as if the stairs were thickly carpeted, muffling every impact. it was, however, impossible to tell what material the stairs were made from.

the falling was slow, and the light flying around was quick, which in its combination created an odd sensation in the witnesses. the witnesses were in their mid to late thirties, most of them on a slow emerge from the jadedness of their youth and beginning to sense the futility of their posturing in the face of the rapidly decreasing flexibility in their limbs, and the quickly fading glow in their skins, and the sudden proximity of death. mortality was now a reality, and no amount of coolness, or appreciation from their peers, would save them from this.

the witnesses felt like rats, a feeling from which the falling silver man gave them momentary relief. his smooth silver skin reflected the light in a way that was very different to the light-reflecting abilities of glitter, something the witnesses had favoured back in their twenties, when their features were clearer, their skins more clearly delineated and taut, when glitter could be worn on a face more forgiving of what was stuck onto it. compared to light hitting glitter, the silver skin sent out rays in a calm, flat way, even though it was quick. there was a soft precision, rather than the frantic messy interspersed ness of glitter.

the silver skin was different, too, than light bouncing off a swimming pool. there were no soft waves projected onto the ceiling in regular shivers. it was, furthermore, utterly unlike the spotty streaks painted on the wallpaper by disco balls. there was nothing like it, the witnesses decided, and it made them pay attention: they were witness to something unique, which meant they themselves were unique, and this caused their ears to perk up and their eyes to require less blinking.

this was a moment, a real one, the kind they so often read about in books worshipping the magic of youth, and saw in films whose soundtracks were meant to make one nostalgic for a time that never was. this real moment of a silver man falling slowly down the stairs in stunned silence while his skin reflected the light of the room back into itself in totally original patterns was, the witnesses knew, an act of true life, and they were intent on capturing it.

they weren’t yet sure what they would do with it once they had captured it, but what mattered was being totally present for it, being there, whatever that meant. the witnesses weren’t sure, actually, if they were being present now, if they were present enough, if they were doing it correctly.

but it was important to try, try harder. this was the moment that, in the future, they would refer back to and tell themselves they had truly lived, truly been awake for. it was the sort of memory that would soothe their minds when they were frantic with suspicions that they had wasted their time on this earth by thinking about living more than actually living, that subtle performance that eluded them all so much.

it would be a moment to tell others about, though they knew already they would fail to put it into the right words. it saddened them that it might not be within their abilities to accurately relate this moment to others after it had passed, but what other way was there to make sure this moment lived past the one after it? the falling was fleeting and they knew it, so they increased the width between their lids to the maximum level and for as many seconds as they could bear they ceased to breathe.

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not a bubble.

for George

 

this intimate object, which is also a place,

which is also a network of shivers and calls between us –

when i compare it to an egg, i’m not saying

i want to be the one asleep in it.

don’t want either of us asleep in this.

resting: yes

but we both know the inside of an egg is for growing

which is what i hope for.

 

on the inside, the egg it isn’t as you imagine

it isn’t yellow for the most part, but

that which is alive shows up

in pink and red and orange pulses

and the occasional darkness of a vein

somewhere, there is an eye, and when it rises

we don’t question its place –

it is there so it can all continue. 

 

this is what i want: the pulsing, merging each day,

the appearance of things that make sense.

 

not the dead thing cracked

stiff and unfulfilled

clean round white and yellow on a plate

hardened bubbles on the edge scarred

from the struggle against a violent oil

 

i don’t want us on a plate

i want the possible, the wet and messy vein looking in

through the impossible gap in the shell

 

when i say our bed is like an egg it’s just

in terms of cartoon colours, simplified.

but to simplify is to deaden, sometimes.

 

what i mean is what’s missing: us

in the laid-out emptiness, ready

to be wrapped, given pulse,

and grow from each other’s wing.

Quadrat 1 and 2 (Beckett)

Another old favourite, rediscovered this morning.

[“Description: Cloaked, cowled figures wander in patterns to rhythm instruments.” *as well as the rhythmic shuffling of their own feet*]

This piece, more pared down, dare I say, than most of Beckett’s other stage work, opens up [in my mind] an enormous amount of space for reflection on a) choreography b) rhythm c) geometry d) the progressive disappearance of those others we connect to [co-trot with] – and as they one by one walk off stage are we then condemned to persist in our patterns as if the others were still with us rubbing the stage floor with their feet?

[Then, I think about beehives, and about six corners instead of four.]

Be all that as it may. Aside from the existential, it is mainly choreography this piece has made me think about, and I’m someone rapidly made to feel at odds with the unspoken choreography of busy public spaces.

Two Collages [aglimpseof.com]

Two of my old[ish] visual poems [/collages] were snatched up by a glimpse of [an online journal focusing on hybrid and experimental narratives] for their meandering Uncontrollable Issue [go read the whole thing]

What is it? [Art made/occurring/appearing within the disorderly, the uncontrollable environment/body/self. An incident.]

See my pieces here.

Fever.

I just finished a diary entry which basically amounts to how badly I wish I were a Coen Brother. I don’t really, of course, because I’d miss being in this girl body, with the mind I grew into, and I’d miss being an only child, being thirty, being , and and and.

Also, if I were to choose someone else to be, I couldn’t really choose. The whole point Continue reading