Behind the factory, the breeze is often lifting scales from the paint, garbage from the bins, mixtures of packaging and plastic bag static; siphoning the city’s detritus to mingle with the last hulls of grass on the green. Patches of yellowing grass where tents have been standing. Voices too are caught and whipped down wind, rhotic rr and oor ‘s rolling in italics and bolds. Gazing upwards as if through a pinhole, one can see gray links criss cross the sky.

That night, I saw the moon emerge from its case in the corner of the window, gliding out alone onto the black vacuumous sky, white microphone-top; desktop icon that begins to swell everywhere in glasses, in mirrors and picture frames. A. notices my discomfort and walks over to contemplate it more closely, remarking on its bold character, hoping perhaps to calm my nerves. She invites me to the sitting room that joins with the kitchen; fiddling with some records before playing one of her own, a watery carousel-like melody that was recorded in early days as a street entertainer. The song tinkles around the room. We don’t speak for a time, allowing images to unfold. ‘Oh oh oh, is it me you’re looking for? Oh oh oh, where do we go from here?’ We travel back, way back to the origin of things, where seed and wire filaments reach up from depths to copper consciousness as electrical cables and glass bubbles rising to break surface in the city’s day.   Meeting like this to look for ways to use the body as a bridge, as sense of comblement, probably, a sense of fullness that goes beyond that of a cup of tea already full to the brim.  

After the weekend market closes, it is possible to see screens in sitting rooms, simultaneously aglow and active with their own inner narrative, rather like buildings in an urban dusk, as their lights come on and private lives are windowed to the world.

Time is rekindled then dropped again quickly, like bush fire. At this point, my memory becomes presence. The right side and the reverse of our history are mixed, without doubt, its the reverse, the dynamic forces that set the pace, the return of possibility, the possibility of return.

a single word sprouts over a stone, bristling like pony fur.

Susannah Stark, October 2014



                                                    Susannah Stark. October 2014.

Susannah Stark
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