Bodies
of Difference
A
Different Body Experiences
A Different Universe |
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Endlessly
subject to
re-interpretation
re-formation |
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Shelf
He hollowed out the excavation just that bit more to fit his body and the
shelf he was carrying.
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[First,
by mistake, I wrote 'caring', which he seemed to do for the shelf and how
he handled it. Then, trying to put this right, I put, 'carding.' This might
have applied in some sense to the shelf at some time too, holding a card
index, or might in the future if not previously — if it had that kind
of a future or any which some might have doubted seeing its position now
in the excavation.] |
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he worry about creating too much of an over-hang and the whole thing collapsing,
burying himself and the shelf in suffocation? |
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[I
remember a news item. 'Item' so passing, but I can't say I remember some
kids on the sands, digging a cave for themselves in the dunes and the sand,
being dry and unstable dune sand in particular, fell in smothering one at
least. I can't say because I don't remember the children. I didn't know
them. It's the news item, no gestures, no likeness, no moments to identify.
It's always the news item remembered.. Like the woman who reversed over
her baby in the drive way of her house. She'd laid it down in its carrycot
and then forgot she had. Is this the way it happened? The forgetting and
the cold of laid 'it?' Was it 'him' or 'her?' So crucial to her yet I don't
remember which, just 'baby?' Nor how long ago so how old, which will sharp
in her constantly if she survived. I wonder what happened to her and feel
like something's been cut off in me because I know of the news item. Not
wanting to, just ears filled with the words, not selecting either, so a
cut-off, not a caring yet how not a caring in shock?] |
The
shelf is obviously a plank of wood. It's second incarnation? It has brackets
still attached as well, besides some marks showing it to be a shelf. So
perhaps it's third life, even a later one. Who knows what it was as a piece
of wood or as a tree, come to that.
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(Do
the functions ascribed make the lives or those who ascribe? Or is identity
an illusion and it wasn't even a tree?). |
He
handles it carefully, changing it's position a number of times. First vertical,
propped against him, then testing the edge of the excavation by leaning
it at a considerable angle onto it. He tries it on the rough, irregular
floor in front of him but, though he obviously appreciates it here, it's
not enough. In some way, for him, it is unsatisfactory. He seems to come
to a decision and moves the shelf to the other, far side. Rests it temporarily,
we assume, then starts more digging making a concave shape in, not exactly
the back but more the corner. It's like a shell of himself sitting, with
a little extra room at his head. He, partially taking up this shape, sits
and makes a gentle scraping motion on the rear wall.
Using his eye, rather than relying on movements of hands and arms, he appears
to measure and find wanting because he immediately sets to with more vigorous
strokes, paring away a deeper recess. Looking again to check, yet not needing
to look at the shelf as if he knows it too well for that, he starts again
on this new revealed surface the soft, gentle scraping.
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| In
the wall they look like the reverse of a sculpture. The form so fine scaled,
like a mould. |
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(I
felt as if, on the other side of this material, someone could be watching
and seeing this relief appear; a nose, then an ear with another a short
distance away.) |
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Finally
he gives it a brief glance. Seems too brief to be of measurement, however
he appears satisfied and eases himself around.
Some of this last shaping he did by hand. For a moment he studies the material
on his hands, rolling it this way and that with a kind of consideration.
Lifting it on his fingers and taking a deep, careful breath getting to know
it. Then, as if catching himself, he briskly wipes it on a cloth. It looks
like a cloth not a handkerchief. |
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Where did the cloth come from? |
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(I
don't know if he's the type for handkerchiefs. I can't tell his age, perhaps
he's too young and it's those large boxes of tissues rather than his having
the routine of cotton handkerchiefs.) |
Did
he have a plan? Until now his preparations seemed to come from where he
found himself to be but who knows. Speculating on these things the siteing
of the plank, sorry shelf, is nearly missed. He lifts it inexpertly, which
is yet isn't, surprising — how often do we handle shelves in an average
day? However he found his skill when sitting the shelf in the seeming made-to-measure
fittings. Hand in glove and all that, except there was no time lingering
over this; the shelf was up then forgotten or at least ignored.
Suddenly we see him intently regarding a map. Turning it this way and that
too, as if making something else out of it than what it was.
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(What
did this man feel? He felt for the shelf or so it had seemed until it was
in position; for the clay when he worked or rather afterwards, having been
completely engaged with doing the job, no tender or exploratory moments
there) |
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On the map a finger appears; starts to trace
a path. As it moves it leaves behind a glowing line the width of the finger.
He peered down at the hand, no there was only a forefinger, not alarmed
but following closely the movements. Eyes flickering occasionally back to
the path marked out in the orange glow; the beginning settling now to that
peach flesh of some photographs and with no glowing aura.
He dreamed of a gentle slope of grass; the grass flattening with the direction
of the wind. It wasn't grass now, not a blade but it could be, after all
look how quickly grasses, weeds grew and took hold at the edges of even
well used areas. Not this place though, they were cut down too regularly
for that and his mind moved between these two images, superimposing one
on the other and by this imposition force one to accept the outcome of the
dream.
Suddenly thick-grip-tyre-treads spun, shooting dust in sparks not settling
until a full contingent had moved sharply to a curve halt around the excavation.
Just as quickly the excavation, the shelf and the man were scooped into
the air and held momentarily still in the mouth of a medium sized excavator;
it then started moving. The map, thrown upwards beyond the excavation and
the man, fell in jagged swoops. The finger, falteringly at first then in
quick flits, tried to recapture it's position on the map. Not concerned
about the fall or staying with the map when it rested but in needing or
wanting each moment to be in a certain position on the map.
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Return
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Return to whitehurst.info |
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Bodies
of Difference
A Different Body
Experiences
A Different Universe
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