Inspired by Samuel Beckett

"Wait until you hear it: just sit there, put your things straight, sit and just wait". This is what they say. This is what they say every time. To anyone. To anyone, day or night; night or day. No matter where or when they come from.... The same thing. The same thing every time.... You can see for yourself: here, sit here; no, perhaps over here, and listen: take note of the one on the right: that one is always loud, the easiest to hear.... See - was I right? They can't help themselves! And it matters not whether you're from here, from there, from anywhere, it's always the same thing, every single time. Sometimes they speak as they look at you; sometimes as they walk by. And sometimes, you can hear them shout through that wall, from God knows where: I don't know if you noticed the script? Look along to the left - you might need to move a bit - over there, there on the wall. Go passed the clock: that untidy bit of writing? On that scrawny bit of paper - from a photo-copier I don't doubt - stuck on with a bit of masking tape? From here it's just illegible, four or is it five lines, in some black marker ink? I don't know what it reads, never wanted to get close enough. But I know what it is - it's a script. It's their guide. Watch: see the one near the phone? Hear it ring? Watch: he'll turn his head. Yes: he's turning now, and watch: he's regarding the script: checking it quickly as he picks up the phone.... And now - as he's talking: notice the continual turn around to look? I've seen this happen a thousand times before. Like one of those old fairground clowns, his head moving quickly left, right, left, right.... And now - see the other ones over there? See them stop as they come near to it, and look at it - that one's pointing at it! And see in their bodies now, how they're looking towards it, and then looking back to one another, and then they kind of combine it seems, in some shared shape of agreement, before they carry on? It's like they've just consulted God! Got a dose of knowledge! So now they can go on with their going on! I see this every day. Every day - a thousand times before. Sit here and watch it, for as long as...:- you'll see it yourself: each of them walking, pointing, talking, conversing, shouting, looking, the whole round parade, all in the shadow of that single old sheet. And it seems these days all I do is notice: watch them move about, then stop, sometimes a few seconds, sometimes a few minutes, to look up - then carry on. They don't seem to know they're doing it, or even what they're doing. And whenever you ask what they're doing; whenever you say anything they say, "Wait until you hear it; just sit there, put your things straight, sit and just wait". Every time. Every single time. And I've been waiting 14 years. And I've never heard it - ever. And neither have they.

This Multitude of Call

them that are, already. standing there, in their shape. in rows, in various shades, of black, white grey. all surrounded by black - not darkness, but black. deep black; black of depth and sustenance. and there you are too, riding them, walking them, striding them, almost one of them, as they rise to meet you doing so. the black is steady - it agrees, it doesn't ask or answer, but steadies and sustains all of this, as you go on. not a part, but what is here accepts the differences, and in doing so, nullifies it. as you walk on, guaranteed amongst the shaping, the shading, this multitude of call

not a word

this is what occurs before writing kicks in. these are marks on a screen like tiny whispers riggling out to be seen, just to be seen. Perhaps heard, like a whisper is heard. But not to be read - not converted and translated by all our prose systems of the mind, needing each riggle to make some sense; to be a certain word; to form a sentence then a chain of meaning.... nope. this isn't writing. these are not words. these are riggles, this is riggling

Through the That. To This

This moment barely shields me. I strengthen it with words and thoughts, with what I conjurously imagine. This defends me against all that - the barking; the long predicatble black lines; the droning of machines and mouths; the glassy-eyed yesses of course... I defend these moments, triggering off words; shooting out thoughts; walking like battalions my imaginary way. Through the That. To This.

this was right here

then there's the risk of writing this. then this itself: the risk of writing simply this, utterly neglectfully perseveringly on and on and on into and even going passed it to go directly into it: to this. soon to find only another one waiting right here next to it. until realizing blazingly suddenly, and right here, that right here is this now; right here has taken this's place. and so right here is this now. even though, this was right here.

Pilgrim's Progress - Wicket Gate

even the glare here is organized

Pilgrim's Progress - Day Wait

For you these walls are tightened air. Are chairs of solid water. And those houses, elements shaped. And for you the same, but various airs - winds in clot; breezes boxed; gusts that are unsure. But for me: - all this is time coming through. Halted. Moving. Waiting. Delayed. At a peak. In a fall. This photograph is a catch of it passing through. See how that chair is a sturdy pause of it? See the table, a hoping wait? But the wall surrounding the window is a gone of it; and those blinds, a reluctance of it to stay - a want of it to go. While the houses roofed in the distance - can there be distance when all is time? - are the mutes of it entombing. And through it all these words are spray; a fingered wisp; an issue.