Wire no.4 at Studio One
you recite the disaster from memory. we are clapping for your curation or for your excerpt, or for remembering, or then, was it for disaster. ‘the coming disaster that has already happened,’ you say, ‘this place,’ and then ‘weak ephemeral nothings.’
hanging there already having-been. bedsheets carry the trace of some unknown landscape. ‘how long have they been buried?’ you ask, ‘how long before they will have been exhumed? wrapped in what string?’
a generation having been born
in the already-after
Wire no.3 at Studio One
you approach with something resembling a hairdryer. ‘consequence’ you say, and ‘urgency,’ and you tell me ‘i know’ now ‘why people vomit in purses and bags.’
leaned back your brown loafers. left sole shuffled across the linoleum like shhhh toward the right and then shhhh away and then resting awhile.
again, the word ‘gathered.’
you say, ‘imagine not knowing it.’ and continue speaking, this time in language. i still hear your static, somewhere back beyond your voice, the past lurching into the ongoing now, layered into. this is happening on the shoreline. we sit on folding chairs in rows, four across seven deep. myoclonic twitch in the torso and saltwater laps our shoes. how long will we wait here on our chairs as the sky deepens?
how many of we have all been ‘battered by deep water’
‘in the open part’ or in secret.
Picture hanging wire at Studio One
wires hang from the rails just near the ceiling. without frames or paintings to weight them, they bend against their structure, curling upward, inward. remembering how you asked me to fuck you in your foxhole with the sharp end of the wire. the light cast against the curling, distorted shapes set against the wall. set against the context of the gallery–i photograph each. this: a talking piece.