I walked out to encounter the estrangement principle at n/a on the last night of ariel goldberg‘s residency. A chair was slid into the space between gallery and kitchen and I was lowered into it and instructed to press the button whenever I wanted. That I would be able to press the button and when I did the projected image would change, and that I would only be able to do this eighty times and then it would be over and I would have to leave and also, did I want some whisky? I said okay and with my left thumb, I pressed advance. The other options were reverse, and focus. I attempted focus, once, at slide no. 18, and did not attempt reverse. I wrote one line per slide. Somewhere in the soft focus, one went missing. Here is what remains:
1. split and
2. out from behind
3. streaked separation (“so profoundly lost”)
4. the absence of residents
5. displaced at the baseline
6. wrapped in red plastic
7. kept close
8. seen through, almost wall-like
9. could turn over, the essay.
10. some more objects.
11. not open invitation to (“this space that is not yours”)
12. the focus, the wrong way in a crowd
13. who sleeps here
14. torn or rusted from
15. speckled sky cuts
16. the residue of the event (“anti-instagram”)
slaughtered this ajar (“this steam on the water” “that aluminum siding”)
18. days late news refracted
19. out at the edge of (“proximity”)
20. wrapped, curled, ducted
22. you pluck at
23. what contains us
24. left undone, unwashed
25. no one noticed it until
26. patterned, unfocused
27. wilted on leather
28. or peeled back, i was not okay (“after two hours of laying awake” “things are not beautiful”)
29. punched through, verted
30. fucked up on long grasses.
31. or slats in the vision field.
32. leather beneath our shirt fronts.
33. crossed our animal perchings
34. a small world through a window
35. stained or mattressing,
36. what’s caged in the background,
37. the moment discarded.
38. electric hardly
39. the unsliced page
40. streaked with shadow, the
41. memory of fucking, unfocused,
42. again, this plastic homeland.
43. or the trace of or (“someone lives upstairs”)
44. hung again by the out frame
45. oranging, i (“forage through everything”)
46. dammed across the surface
47. sky or old evening paper
48. the desolate space.
52. there are too many ceilings.
53. place this bag on your body.
54. place, this sky above you
55. under your feet. crumpled floorward
56. peeling flamewise
57. back here already
58. there is always a soft something between, focus.
59. modern curbside relic.
60. the subject only barely in frame, what makes this a portrait.
61. the irrelevant bean-like center,
62. a price tag,
63. or a hand reaching into
64. what had been there all winter, barely human.
65. it is our discarded crossings that leave an imprint.
66. i do not know what any of this means.
67. maybe it does not, and keeps on.
68. pattern-feeling of home, pattern that could imply map and
69. the beginning was torn away.
70. what is left, is left in ruins.
72. there are no land lines.
73. again, the window. again, peeling, the curtain behind.
74. again, leaning, says do not enter.
75. with small clay hands
76. rolled up in gravel.
77. again, plastic, again for the taking.
78. place your story here, prop open the door.
79. place your story here on the dashboard, illegible.