Wednesday 23 February 2011

something needs to happen...

I know where its going, where I want it to go, but I’m not sure how to get there…This I mean. This thing you’re reading now. This thing that I’m writing…



Oh.. but see it’s not just a blog. I mean yes of course it’s a blog. What you’re reading now. But its also part of something else… A show. A performance.. yes I know its not one now but just wait. That will come later.. or at least I hope so.


The problem is, what I’ve realised is, if you are basing something on real life well, its not like writing fiction, when I can sit back godlike, look down at my characters and say..



what do I with you now?




Only… I guess that doesn’t make for great fiction either. The best stories come from a place I don’t really understand, like they are being dictated to me by someone, as if I am not the author at all.


About what you are reading now, the larger form of it. I’m so excited about reaching that final scene, that I am distracted from getting there. Because I don’t want you to be reading this from a screen, I want to skip to the part where you are in a bar or a small theatre and I am performing these words for you. But how do I get there. How do I take you with me?



I said all of this to him last night. He is also a writer so I felt like he may understand. He asks me what I’m writing, what I’m writing about. I try to explain it to him, but when I tell him it comes out jumbled. I’m embarrassed to admit, even to myself that I’m not sure what it is about at all.


I don’t know how to get to the end. Its been based on reality, but now….

maybe… I need to fabricate something…to push it forward


He grins, pauses…saying only

Patience. Something will happen…you just have to wait…

contents



When you walk into the front door down the hallway you will come to a closet, open it and you will see shelves and shelves of our high heels (Hers are the highest). To the right, enter the living room. there is a cabinet from my parents house, we painted it black in their back garden and inside you will find all of our cd’s. mixed up in four wallets. Our books are also mixed up, on the shelves in the bedroom, but we’ll go in there later…



When we unpacked our boxes, our first argument, possibly our first ever argument in years of being together, was about our books and cd’s. She did not want to mix my books with hers, my cd’s with hers. She wanted to keep her things separate. I was offended. She felt silly. So we arranged them together by type, by genre, by artist.



But where were we? Oh yes the living room. The sofa is black leather with white piping, a two seater. It was hand made in brighton by a small company that specialises in art deco remakes. We went down to the shop to go through leather swatches and styles before we ordered. Next to it is a swivelling glass and chrome table, by the white leather bibendum chair. (Not an original, but as stylish as it is comfortable. that company sent us two by accident, and we deliberated for ages as to whether we could get away with keeping the extra one. )


There is a cocktail cabinet,, where my collection of martini glasses are kept, and the matching flasks we got at work, when there was a jack daniels promotion at the bar. We found the dining table beside it in a tiny antiques stall in the south west of England. We took a train out for ages in the pouring rain, to get there.. The couple who sold it to us, advised us how to clean it, how to prevent the surface from scratching. When we agreed to buy it, we made a little toast, the four of us. They asked us about our new place, they liked us I think, they said they wouldn’t charge us, to deliver it over.



She organized everything in the kitchen, I can never find anything but the glasses. There are red wine and white wine glasses, champagne and shot glasses, brandy balloons, All the plates at her request, are large and white. There are heat resistant placemats we bought at john lewis, to protect the dining table from marks.


Walk out of the living room and down the hallway to our bedroom. There is a low dark wood double bed. We got so giggly trying out all those mattresses. The sheets white, white like the walls, the plates, the placemats. The duvet and pillows are filled with goose down feathers,. The two wardrobes and vanity, are a suite from the 40’s. We found them on ebay, amazed at their beauty, their craftsmanship, when they arrived. We liked the idea of putting on our make up sitting at that vanity, until she finally pointed out, in that corner, there was never enough light.


When it became clear it was over, for a few weeks we thought we could still live together until she found a new place, or at least we tried. And then I took a bag to a friends place, and then she took a bag to a friend’s place, and she emailed me, with a tone that was exceedingly polite, asking when would be convenient for her to collect her things, asking to arrange a time.


I stayed away on the day. On next morning, when I arrived, I walked through the flat, , convinced there would be something she’d forgotten, one thing she left behind. But the removal of all that was hers had been meticulous. Every cd, book, notepad, poster, card, photograph, dress, belt had evaporated from sight.


Thinking I’d catch her out, thinking I might stumble across something she had missed I looked under the beds, behind the desk, along bookshelves. But all she’d left behind was her absence, and all of the many things we had found together, chosen one by one.

box


He is waiting for a box. A box is being sent to him, full of things, artefacts of his previous incarnation. His past life with her.



When she packs his books sometimes a card or a silly note fall from the pages. At first she looks at or, reads these things, and then decides it is best not to, to place them back, unseen.


And its not that she is sad now for what can never be, but maybe just a little sad about the end of what was.



Because that’s the heart of it, even when something feels so final, so past tense, there is the memory of that time when it was filled with promise and hope.


Nevertheless now, she will pack his things into the box, fold and pack things neatly, all of that he left behind with her. When she takes it to be sent, watches it carried away, maybe she feels some pang of sadness. The last physical remnants of him are gone now, forever. Maybe she keeps some small thing behind, a sketch? a photograph? A note?


When the box arrives, she, the current she, asks if he is ok and tells him to call her, if he feels strange about it later. Maybe.. Is he sure that he? Doesn’t want her to go with him, to pick it up?


He doesn’t seem to understand all her emotional commotion about his box. It’s just his things, his things that were left behind. He’s getting them back, because they belong to him, that’s all.


When he unpacks it he finds, that jacket he liked, and those shoes he forgot about, and damnit the tripod is broken but, he will dryclean the jacket to wear this weekend, on his birthday.


And when she, the current she, walks into his room, seeing that empty cardboard shell on the floor, gaping open like a hungry mouth, she will feel a little down. She will not be able to explain to him why…

date


they have a
date together...

No...


not a date.



A meeting,


platonically, over drinks.


Him and him. They who have never spent any time together without me before, who may have only met a handful of times, in another city. Remember, you can not assign people to places, they move and connect, with or without you.


It was no surprise that they had met. It was only a matter of time until they did. He saw him pass by a café, and ran after him. Ran after him three blocks, ran after him to give him his card. In less than four minutes had said


yeah we broke up… and it was because of…and it would be really great to meet you

to… talk about it.



In less than four minutes… to someone he barely knew…


Neither of them are so big on drinking. They both do it more to be social. But I guess this event is social, in a way.


He will arrive first I think. He will want to make a good impression. He will be keen to get certain things off his chest, to explain. Maybe to get help, to understand.


And he, well he doesn’t have an agenda really. He just feels empathy. Thinks he can help, wants to. Don’t we all. Don’t I?


I have allowed for this to happen, I have been asked permission for it to occur, and when I say it has nothing to to with me, he says


Its obvious he’s still in love with you –


I’m unsure what to do with this information. It feels like a liability. If he never moves on, it will be my fault, somehow. The result of something I did. It aggravates me, that only the end has clarified it, has made it certain.


And so I wonder, what is the measure of someone moving on? How do you know when someone has resettled? And the puzzle is, is it best to wait for someone to have moved to that place, before you communicate? Or, do you need to communicate, to enable them, to move?

collaboration

When we collaborate our ideas interlace in a pattern of yes’s and no’s. Our suggestions debating and challenging,but always ending in agreement.


When we are devising I am the one who is cautious and afraid. He is the one who always wants to elaborate, take it further . Somewhere in between we find one other. My seams are loosened by him. I push to draw his in tighter, to give them more form.


And this is why, when I find myself, wrestling on the floor with him, in a small gallery, with a small audience of onlookers, I am not phased. I am floating above us watching, intrigued. I am watching our playfulness, and my aggression, knowing that even if I leave scars he will understand.



In some strange way this is our creative process performed, our friendship manifested.