We were way too high to be around people and worst of all the people there were all waiting for it to kick in but it wouldn’t, so we became not only these freak clown things but also the thieves who stole everyone else’s good time and didn’t know what to do with it except writhe appallingly, a gooey parody of the idea of a good clean relaxed evening, a mean thing that cackles like broken nails but then withdraws, wounded by its own mouth expecting the world to move with the silken touch of an autumn wind. A shore that laps toward the setting sun, a thought not fully formed descending on the takeaways you don’t remember but which you once cared greatly about. There’s an esplanade that opens up but it’s contained within these four walls. Still from here you smell the shitugly breeze that’s only ugly ’cause it’s not secret. Your one’s impossible, you knew it even at the time that it could not have been more real, when you slipped and cut your knee on the rocks and they cried out in laughter and you saw through the waiting water the little green anemones that taste your finger like crêpe de chine or sandpaper. They flew seaplanes out that way. This one though’s got signs and streams and a bit under the pier where the sand stays wet and dark in clumps. Standing on the boardwalk a man with the face of geese clucks something blue about a shark. A shark with the eyes of a deer relitigates the issue of its erasure and says there’s a whole city under there and not only that but it’s got the same sky we do. This same one that so strokes as I- Yes, he insists, he won’t give up, and that’s the whole thing that got us here. The magnitude of it all becomes apparent when you go to close the scene, to apologise to your grandmother for her kindness, only to find that this is it now, this is you. Tiny islands of words conceal their own shores, steal past spurious as if to say your presence defines the manner by which we now discourse, your eyes have stained and your body’s ensured that you will never be home again. Then turn back and continue. Montesere Tall puts her palm to her chin and groans out sideways. Who played the dinosaurs in that Flintstones movie? The second one, where the tail of the diplodocus forms a bridge over the howling chasm below. Was it distributed dots or something that lasted long enough to get to auction and otherwise the furnace? At what stage does it become lifeless and when is it suggestive of a rapidly expanding life? Picture a space viewed to your best advantage, and would that not interfere with your own sense of place. If you mean props, Montesere to be used- No, I mean the whole deal, the thing that envelops. At a grand enough scale one comes to consider advantages, avenues, obstacles in terms of the scale by which these things have been assessed, a case of the tool defining not only what is perceived but also the outcome of its operation, and at this point we are dealing with a sense of space without place. Who would be so cruel as to employ cartographies as a weapon, as a single sided conversation cast out across the sky that no one, no thing could ever let ruffle their patterns as having cohabited the dirt and rocks etc, of having slept there or somewhere near. Now you’re putting words in my- Worse still to extrapolate from the fabula a hostility or (worse yet) hostile reflex to the whole. To become suffocated by the smell of sour coffee stained into a layering cup. There was something someone once said about the roads in England always returning to fold in on themselves, a space less labyrinthine than broken from the bottom up, a space without a logic, a place that exists in the echoes of efforts made to some day escape but which in that can only be perceived in passing. There in those fleeting truths are secrets not discernible from bland madness, hence- You have to believe that the world extends beyond it, that your idea of Sicily is as real as anyone else’s, that the esplanade was once there, that it’s places we can chew. That you’re swimming to those islands and as you lift to roast your body in the sun, you’ve cut your knees on the rocks already.
Then says Lank Hurst, it freaks me out in Wallace & Gromit: The Curse of the Were-Rabbit that you can see the fingerprints.