Version Two

The writing is on the wall. And it is written in the language of footprints.

Punctuated by the different toe-steps, different degrees of monochromic color. The initial lines are written in dark sooty script-bold and loud and unelegant and uneven, like shouting in conversation across the dinner table. Then, as the walking continues, the footy-words become lighter and lighter, softer and softer, hushed into a library voice, into finally traceless white; into finally a mute silence. Absorbed into the terrible infinity of the white that is barely contained between the planes of space around it.

There are always planes around us and they always seem to be there in straight lines. 90° angles which imply that even in an art that they believe is freedom of expression, is free, free free- is actually still trapped within the belly of nature, the red belly logic of the universe-Jonah walking upside-down in the Whale’s belly for three nights and three days- his scream streaming into silence as he is swallowed…from the light of day into the darkness, he becomes a ghost, he has no more shadow. But even he knows, the lines always tell the truth.; the lines of the Whale’s esophagus descending into black tell him that he cannot escape the mysteries of God, the lines going upward on the building tell you that the building goes up, the slanted lines of the window shutters dutifully inform you as to the degree at which the windows are opened, and by extension, the state of the inhabitant behind the window. The one window in particular, the shutters closed completely ( even to the miracle of the wall-walker outside) spell the gospel of the man living inside who possibly came home very late, and very drunk, and now has that killer hangover headache which is like a strange inescapable photosensitive trance in which he is painfully aware of his every movement and is utterly glad the window was closed the previous night before ( blocking out the morning light that is like the annoyingly cheerful stewardess on a flight home from breaking up). He is glad he does not have to get up from bed and can just grovel before his memories, muffled by the alcohol and pillows, screened too quickly and too intensely in his head, like speeding so fast that the world in the periphery becomes reduced- into a smudge of lines extending from the focal point of vision at the zenith before him, or you or the wall walker man. He is not immune, nor has amnesty; he too is imprisoned by the logic of the straight lines. What is more, it seems he is harpooned by it- speared through the genitals by the white rope of his harness, trapped in the path he must take- the precarious balance between suspension and seductive coochie-coo of gravity luring him to splat on the peopled asphalt below.

Walking along the path of clear righteousness, suspended above the unconscious, that walks with them side by side. They look forward and never to the side, seemly ignoring the unconscious altogether if it were not for the dark grey fingers of their shadows extended towards the black ink of infinity pool. If they fell in it would absorb them without a sound- save for the thick oily waves rippling slowly against each other, with the solemnity of space.

White on black on white. Black on white on black. Its like a threesome of a strange trio, the wall, the floor, the dance. No actually, like a geometric orgy- the square ceiling is there, the shadows, the ladder is there, the ropes are all there, and there are all the shades in between the two negatives. The absence of white which is black and the absence of black which is white; they are mutually exclusive yet exist in a strange marriage. The white- indifferent, apathetic, reflecting- all wavelengths, a fortress of rejection… The black- all consuming, desperate, expansive, absorbing all wavelengths, a mosh pit of acceptance… White the squeamish virgin and black the indiscriminate whore.