CONSIDER FALLING 

ROYAL COLLEGE OF ART, LONDON

It’s twilight now and I am two months away in a different town. The you I am
addressing is altered, as am I.
“I’ve been waking up this past couple of months. Thinking is this true? Is this really
true? Is this me? It’s just constant exclamations.”

Around me the light is becoming thicker, slowly curdling into black. I stand witness to
the natural muting of tones, the reduction of shades that bring our worlds an inch
closer. I see your face moving through a street not so far away. Your eyes are wet.
Yes, wet as opposed to watery. The light catching on clumped lashes that spike
around glistening whites, never fully dry.

“At that light I can walk and I am able to pick out the textures, and I am able to see,
say…. in a window...the different aspects. And there is something about that, that
sort of lifts me.”

Your image finds me here as my own eyes sting hotly. I feel as if we have walked
down this street once before. I’m watching your narrow shoes make their way across
the tarmac, the frayed edge of your denim jeans dangles down against thin ankles,
crossing and parting next to mine. The street lights form shadows as we conjoin
immaculately on the flat blank canvas of the ground.

Let’s pause here. Drink it all in before daylight, when we are gone and everything is
bleached to indescription.

“I mean absence isn’t sexy.. like, say there are two things we applaud in the world,
consistency and connection….and here we are in the world and all the frequencies
that exist and allow us to be fed in whatever way. Well.. for me they’re just gone.”

We take a seat in a tired coffee chain that both of us normally refuse to frequent. But
today the music is less intrusive here and anyway, it's drizzling outside. I'm thinking
how Shephards’ Bush always makes me feel uneasy, out on a limb somehow, I
wonder how we ended up here, alone together outside of time in some urban exile.

“A lifetime of hiding .. the disconnect.”

Forced to face forwards looking out over a flat cream interior, we are awkwardly
positioned side by side. Our bench runs the entire length of the room designed with
the solitary consumer in mind. You take the lead.

Your voice surges forth as we scrutinise coloured packaging under hot tungsten
lights. I'm relieved by some sort of mutual reference point, A pin holding us, taught
and desperate, whilst your language collapses under my incomprehension.

“When you are in this quicksand there is something around you and it goes against
all expression.”
You speak with a tone of casual terror, as I sit dumb. I grasp out to you silently. I
hold on to the repetition of phrases. They make me feel secure, like reading back
over a childhood novel. The gradual tracing back of experience in the mind, reviling
in the richness of feeling, rooting into the cavities where imagination embeds itself in
luscious deep tissues.

“ The thing about surrendering with it.. was I was kind of afraid to experience this.
The first time I was at the bus stop. Everything changed. It was all the dimensions..”

You take me there.

“It’s a miserable day... it’s raining and there’s puddles, and it’s grey and everyone is
grey. And me I feel like to lick the puddles, because everything has a texture and is
tangible. This sense of connection, this safety. It’s remarkable.”

I take a sip of water, and feel it cool on my tongue. We stare down at the your
powder blue beret, a readymade there for our delectation in this momentary lull from
the void. Your fingers run over its soft contours, fevered in haptic ecstasy. I watch
longingly, wishing myself back. I’m afraid you’ll see I’m not there.

“All I was wanting to say was “get me back, get me back, get me back”

I track back. Listening to the recording, your voice bridging time. Remembering the
object bent at your will. The beginning of a return.

(Sound Piece Transcript - for further text click below) 
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