|It is almost dark. Inside, silence, in the almost darkness, and a faint sound, a shape perhaps, clear, close by, water even, a puddle forming, dim light through the glass, surrounded, surveilled, & cast off, down comes the sky, all appearance moving, uh ha hmmm.
||The whole figures below on the pavement, not the forties, not the forties, or even the fifties, a film, sometimes a film, other times no not a film, but five or six real steps: I came. The dripping rain, soft as smoke, several minutes long. I do pronounce it properly, do open my mouth wide to round the letters. I barely ... The voice is lilting, sing song singsong, with pale green eyed undertones, a hint of love ... maybe not. Watching, careful, kindly, before the verdict, I guess: it's not a question, it's something else (a plate thrown).
||A few minutes more, a few minutes later, still almost dark, but getting darker anyway.
||Embarrassment, so it seems, and then, a (that) delightful smile. As a matter of fact. I take five steps, only, alone, to stare at the face. My mistake. Someone is invisible, watching, guilty. I am guilty. Several miles away the shimmering lines appear & disappear.
||Instruction(s): there is still a little light. The scene is repeated. I am facing me, five or six steps closer. In short, precautions. A pause, by necessity. Then, afterwards, (I) sometimes understand what is going on, & everything nearby is coloured. As a result.
||Today in this light, a detail forgets, is forgotten, grace. There is a very small white cup of thick black hot liquid, a rendered body perhaps, blazed to oil. Ready to drink. I've done it, I've struck myself, into the edge of the gaze. A second passes. Examined by one eye, at length. I will be late again, to speak, it's a difficult passage to read: the house is there somewhere, that's for sure, no argument. A long way to fall to tell the truth. A pin drops, hard & silver. From now on I'll keep close to walls. At the fourth intersection turn right into the narrow lane, the street lights will be on soon. A dead end of course, but beautiful, like a door, a blue steel door. Not green or red. Time is short, how ... ever and ever.
||I'll bring my foot up and step out, shaking lightly, over the threshold, and head for the stairs, I am gathered here, anxious. I hope to rest, mid air. I count. Oh well! Too late, I've missed the train. Light as a bird, in the faint glow. And the glow glows glowing inward, bathing the whole structure, all the beams and bolts, and the millions of windowpanes. Someone's acting at last, unfortunately, pressing a button, or winding a handle, like sweetness in the mouth, a creaking from above, a movement of the body from waist to neck. Everywhere else still. I could call: hello. The syllables floating: he llo hel lo hell o.
|| (For Anton Hart, Chesser Gallery, Adelaide)