notes towards | the performance of memory
To collect the hurtled fragments of realties formed to repress the potential for departure
To tend with doting softness to the rotten apple this came from his tree.
The stories collect, in mourning, veiled in black to approaches unmet.
They advanced, stony eyed as travellers of the bleak winter skies, parting at noon when the bell chimes, to gather, to collect, to imagine.
“this was the way we always went, through every day and every moment”
She sits, soft, waiting for emotion. He departs and the clock has lost it hands. The room is painted now, blue, for his eyes and the skies they will watch passing.
Their door now is closed, silent murmurs, a tiptoe, a sweeping arm, the brush of a cold feather, a moment passes, she runs, faster now, in the darker night, each road as libertine to memory lost and found, marked.
“ you remember, don’t you?” she stares blank to the white wall, his hand makes holes in concrete, limp to emotion. The city stares to them, she asks now, “ where then, where do we depart”
A hurling, hurtling, falling demise to a warm forest, they hold strong the rubble in their pockets, collect in plastic tubes the vapours of the city fume.
The realities they had form were crumbling slowly like the shell of the city they still called home; as it was all to be rebuilt. The new towers beginning now to breathe, to take shape and form in shells which they archived in black box.
The emergence, the new state, malleable and fluid; “ we will come here to built our dreams” The bulldozers awaken, still exhausted from their last job, marching in line to construct some new reality.
The city here, as they sit, the two of them, her in a flimsy white dress, him in waistcoat and worn top hat, they sit in a darkened room, a candle burns by the window with no glass. The view here is silent, the embers of yesterday fires still burn and the paths still lay exhausted by their own destruction. They do not speak, rather the sit silent, intent on sorting through the piles and piles of images of what might have been, what could have been and what never was. There is no anger, emotion now rests dormant, rather the images, in the winds which rise and fall, now let them scatter. She imagines it may be her confetti for a lost love, he grimaces as the images leave for the winds, his memory departs with them, he rests silent, looking only at the textures of the floor.
Their theatre becomes home now, returning less and less to the broken roads, the city as reported, they can hear the wireless, but it seems a memory. She paces the floor scattered with maps, he has painted them all now, white, as his mind, to fuel a quiet. This scene, she renders at peace now, for the seas of her mind are forever in storm.
Urban re:passages 
J’attends l’exécution.. c’est étrange pour entendre les caractères par le texte. Sombre, triste et brûlant, il me rappelle des trouvères?
Dear Beatrice. That quite awful memory at the top of your posting? Perhaps one day you might have something like that in our difficult 940 x 198 pixels “social format” that we could put into our top frame at soem appropriate moment? Thanks so much for your ideas and images. Eric