Soft Creases → Oct ‘24
Presented at the opening of Seventh Gallery’s Research Library
What I would write about a library is vastly different at night
It’s getting late, and I fear I’m seeping more than I intended
Though even in the morning the library holds the same intimacy,
Flickering light and orange honey air
It feels like it should only be open in twilight hours, when reality feels more flustered
Inside these books is a different universe, and outside the library is the world
Those who visit the library straddle the two
A library means to fold
Without shelves, we have piles of books,
Sorted unbiased, frameless
And crawling on hands and knees, searching for kernels
Indents and papercuts leave more than charged words.
Charged words in excess
Bruise and soften shins
Sweat gathering at my lower back
When I tumble it sticks to pages
To be in a library is to sit in a crease
Those nesting in this liminal space
Swim in sweat glands behind knees
Fold at the nape with hair tugged back
The base of this fold isn’t a floor, but more a home, infinite and exponential.
This non-space becomes a sanctuary to those who believe in it
Every so often trolley wheels in the library grow hair, twisted hair braided, and pulled at
Should have stolen some for the cauldron and potions.
After all, I believe annotations can spell out spells.
Where do rubber crumbs go when they’re swept off the table
Brew them into tea and they’ll lay themselves out in the folds of a cup, image a future
I want to believe in something so fully that the energy from thinking conjures a form
Friction hot enough to melt wax, temperature play with a book
Wax making pages hard, still soft enough to buckle at creases
To eroticise an object is to enchant it with mystical power
Perhaps in reading this aloud a ghost is conjured
If i spoke these words into a microphone, would it enchant the cables
If i put this microphone into my mouth would my spit be a potion
Would the excess charge form a gentle kiss for the next reader
It’s hard to take more than a shallow gasp when by chest is bound between worlds
And my mouth must be wet enough to not stumble over my words
Reading this and seeping
Sweating onto pages
And tears softening margins
Cracked spine
Back arched
Let me wring out all of these letters and tie them wide open
Opening folds so the world we built in the crease seeps into reality, or fiction,
Or I suppose the distinction is irrelevant at this point
Friction in the crease, making heat, surfaces blurring into eachother
Coming into contact rubbing and rubbing.
What happens when a spine softens so much that it spreads open