Sunday, 9 January 2011

The Rush

All four branches of the conjoined families are here in this multileveled townhouse, the fa├žade being at street level still, with the back at least a story or two below, looking out onto a great sunken moss lawn of church ruins. Just columns, and the shell, with seating east and west, left and right wings sloping alike down into the same section of bank owned by the property’s river.

Looking out the window from the room of mine and my father’s residence for this wedding night of my sister and his daughter, I was at ground level with the street behind me but with a dramatic balcony overlooking this view of what felt to me like a miniature forum. Father was making the beds and arranging the bedside lighting for the single beds. He then steps back when he has finished the arrangement and comments on its satisfying completion in a way completely unlike he has ever said or done in my presence before. I would have thought it a parody of a grandma had it not been such an emotionally formal day. All doors are opening and closing with people milling around half dressed, half done-up, bottom up bottom down, half hair sprayed; the other still pegged or bagged, pinned pastel dresses in satin style, men nowhere to be seen, and the strange tunnel vision of every woman makes my father and I unnoticed, even in their inappropriate show of deconstructed womanhood. It is an early evening into dusk ceremony. Still no sign of anyone from my branch- not even my father now (whisked off somewhere). All to do is imagine the strength of connection to each of these women after the ceremony, and grouping them into families and generations. Quite easy general palette handed down + excitement / stress levels were obviously inherited. I meet a few males perhaps queuing for the toilet. One particular friendly male, who I conversed with, stood out with his un-wedding-like get-up and bleach and gelled blond hair. He clearly belonged to none of the clans, not only by his style but by his carelessness and shifting anonymity. Soon it was time to be escorted out onto our seats for the ceremony inside the forum shell. Hundreds of seats- each one nametagged. I made note of the clans seating arrangements against my predictions; the pastel colours were so together that their area (that which I faced) hummed in the soft sickly tone produced by a pinkish glow under the deep blue spotlight against the backdrop of the bridge wall behind. I noticed members of the public were already gathering on the bridge above. Words seemed not to be words anymore but kinds of bass mutters before a great orchestration. Never had an isolated feeling of a crowd been so blindly individual. How manipulable the crowd seemed to be by such transparent artifice and formality! I hated the restraint and choreography of the whole thing that I looked at as the bridge shadows of people and the flowing water of the river right until the first words of amplified speech. The sound travelled in an unlikely way. I tried to see speakers but obviously they were hidden. I tried to follow it and work out the reverberations. The combination of the lighting of the bridge and forum against the pitch black surrounds and now the sound design inside this otherwise open space, created a masterfully theatrical claustrophobia. The acoustics were so disorientating that I dared not open my mouth or cough for its amplification. I just realised I hadn’t seen any one of my family since sitting down, hadn’t even looked to see my sister, the bride! I haven’t been digesting any of what’s going on until I’m shocked to see that the guy with the bleached hair and hi-street costume has got up to make a speech. It turns out he was a good friend of both my sister and the groom whilst at university. This welsh boy with glazed eyes told some vague and typical anecdotes about the couple which were expected of him, when suddenly the tone seemed to change. The speech degenerated into the most fascinatingly inappropriate description of this person’s rare and incurable disease until he was removed from the altar.

As an interlude or distraction from this speech, the organisers seemed to be sorting out an emergency filler. The audience then either had to turn right around or face directly in front of them to observe a performance taking place on the bridge. It was almost impossible to tell whether it was a projected film onto the bridge of some filmic couples romantically engaged on a bridge or whether we were witnessing real life actors acting out in front of us on the bridge itself- the light was that estranged. Each couple looked so happy that their time and ours seemed to drift around like a film, where all chronology has been concentrated to the most intense and straightforward moments of a lifetime. Everyone went so melancholy in themselves that everything else seemed forgotten.

After the ceremony, I guess from my disjointed memory that the intoxication must have taken hold of the crowd pretty quickly, or at least myself. Having said that it was impossible to tell whether I had forgotten the insignificant events prior to this state or whether I had unwittingly been in this state for sufficient time to have only half-consciously experienced it. The combination of catching my reflection in the window and digesting various alien words about myself from strangers (I am young, a glasses wearer, moody, excitable, cynical, impressionable etc.) gives me a strong sense of myself as the embodied product of some shifting machinery that I don’t recognise as existing and which I have never seen in entire form.

In the height of this state people seemed to be entering and exiting my field of vision and comprehension too rapidly to form a solid view of the whole event. It was then that there seemed to be some agitation coming from within the townhouse. It wasn’t anything in particular which brought this agitation to my attention- instead a sort of shift in the atmosphere that, more connected to pitch, seemed to immediately unnerve me. A residual drone rippled through the building out onto the dramatic ridges of the lawn, originating from a series of heightened pitches in the reception area.

The storming of this place was softened by the fictitious feeling it assured me within this dizzying state. At least twenty young men of central asian origin were wielding swords, but without much strategy or cause. After some very disorientating shifts in mood, and more confusion as to the authenticity of the storming, I was handed one of these swords for myself.

I was forced out of the ceremony and into the surrounding streets, which I had viewed for the first time only when driving through to the wedding. By this point I was with this asian group, or at least I was pretending to be, running through a dense maze of alleyways when encountering a 12 year old black boy. Not knowing the procedure I shouted to the boys behind me ‘what about black boys?!’ and before they could answer I ran him through with my sword between his arm and torso. After, what must have looked like an attempt on his life, the boy quickly scurried off.

The mood again shifted, this time getting dingy and more sinister. Although no one was to be seen, it’s only a matter of time before I put a foot wrong and get found out. Still in the same alleyway, came towards me the same bleach blond whose speech seemed now to be the root of my profound detachment from the fabricated forms of reality (the social obligations, employment arrangements, timekeeping, public image, guilt, regrets, personal history, respect etc.) and into this rushing tunnel feeling. I can’t remember him telling me but I certainly knew at this point that he was dying of the disease and if his grave eyes were any kind of symptom then the black boy certainly had the same fate. The best way, I gathered, to exit this un-navigable network of alleys was actually by hopping from roof to roof as the crow flies, as we now were. Crossing several alleys below we stopped at one with a small gap in its corregated roof. My guide friend swung down with a sexual confidence, at which point I imagined that if there were a narrator (as I was acting to my removed self) he would say now; this is where the story gets adult.

Inside it was basically a dilapidated shed adjoined to some long since abandoned shop. Out into another alley, but this time with an opening to a main street. I noticed my friend was fixated on something in a small pile of rubble next to us. I assumed it was the half-corroded aluminium knife that interested him. Then, I noticed something which shook all the dizziness out of my body, grabbing a root of shock from my already uprooted sense of self. A baby of porcelain doll proportions wrapped with, and held up by, cobwebs against a tree stump or ex weed. Apart from its strange sized head the baby looked fleshy but dead. I connected the baby to the disease, aside from the confusion of morals, but to do with evolution and force which I couldn’t place myself inside yet.

We both looked out along the alley towards the street. People were sprinting from right to left only, throwing and shouting. In its most doll like moment, the baby’s body came detached from its head- with the aid of the pale hands of my present company. As soon as the body hit the floor, the whole sky’s lid shut leaving us with nothing but pitch black sky above.

Friday, 7 January 2011

Demolition- What About This Love!?

At least the Event in its cause-n-affect fabric means buying more records is identifiably distilled within fake identity. Any feeling of mass is so strange and thrilling that I ran frantically but stopped when I saw myself running without direct purpose and contact with others.

Smooth fingers are so seriously inappropriate that I start to see why the capital depends more on fluid music and cuticle cream than anything else. Softened the other day to the idea of bars not being directly something to avoid when the floating suspension of belief that is comforting womanhood is concerned. A certain degree of either evil wool or silkiness is required if only for the compromised act of man’s promised  community. A painfully repentant must. Mirror music is interesting here. Forget deconstructing your own success under the great shining stars of the glass sky scraper, even when noticing one’s little brothers still cleaning inside it, like thoughts of a giant penis. Say nothing. Make light, pronunciation, foreign food or compromise for the senses’ sake whilst in the precious mood.  Everything mindful must be suspended for things to flow no matter what the consequence…