Blind Fold:dissolves
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)