Persistence. For so long. So? So long.
I’ve been diagnosed with guilt, a lack of dignity, inadequacy, fatigue.
On the nose, well. Accused
It’s just. You know. That
Or being smiled at
It. Is it? Did it go smoothly?
Well, well, well…
It was good,
The tragic, comic, smoothness, yes,
Smooth, I think.
Standing upright for so long
An imitation of.
Look where I’m pointing.
[Louder] Look where I’m pointing
To be pointed at
To be seen, fingers you see are typing out messages on screens. They’re tapping keyboards. Attacking keys. They’re eking out words like I love you I don’t know I can’t right now. Fingers are hovering over expressions of guilt affection nervous laughter, anger,
(Don’t touch your face)
Out of place.
I might imply
Fingers are melodrama. Putting everything on the line.
More than needs to be said.
Fingers are pointing
Grasp. Scratch. Twitch. The smallest flimsiest action
On the table, to play for,
Fingers are betraying. Axioms
Or anxious sayings
Fingers are saying.
Feelers. There’s no other word for that feeling, you know,
It would be nice if
Moving images, well they have
People, to play with mould or make do with
Bodies centre stage
Bodies likely, predictable. Spatial adjuncts
To motionless colourless borders
If a camera has power it’s perhaps to make hands, their shapes fraught (thrust up in the air) uptight with or by the forces controlling them. Hands cower, recoil
Perhaps to be loved, recoiled
After all, what’re you saying? What am I trying to
Pockmarked and ill,
Skin almost transparent wrenched feverish it covers joints, tendons, skeleton
I clutch at straws.
Breaking out in a rash.
In fact, you said: (out of the blue) is your index finger longer or shorter than your ring finger? I might have said, well, they’re about the same. As in
No, the index is slightly shorter. I guess
It changes depending on how
On how the hand rests, restless
Back in late January I think. I’m lying in bed my hand relentlessly
Restlessly, skimming Wikipedia, like old times. Eyes watering like this,
The things set in place. Phenomena
And early February I think. I think lying on the floor with shapes exiting your mouth, your hands somewhere, marked by silence, maybe tears, redundancy of speech
There, you see, moving on
It’s probably hard to put two and two to,
Until you’ve seen the suburbs
Fraying, dynamics of eye contact
One of the stand-ins wore a hoodie thick white strands dangling on camera
Off-duty, fancy lighting, multiple screens
Lit up like an actor, rushing around