in the Arizona desert

the artist talks about exit culture. this idea is new to me. already confused by his sculptures I open my ears a little wider. he paints a picture of communities emerging across the globe committing to another way of doing things / rejecting death and taxes / our Western capitalist / consumer-minded existence. there are people cultivating new shapes and shades of civilisation under stones and glass domes in the desert. new states forging different futures. some grow rainforests and harvest their own goods. others are not yet manifest, existing in theory and chat rooms filled with strangers willed to feel like-minded in resentment for a world they can't escape.

prompted by the curator, the artist talks about the tasks facing those that choose to leave and build a new world out of nothing. though he indulges in the optimism and excitement of the worlds he traces (all fixed on improving current ways of being), he refrains from painting newness any which colour or way. I sense his doubt in the words he bites on his tongue. how can anybody guarantee that an attempt to improve won't echo the mistakes they wish to run from? can anything new be anything more than a frankensteined shard of the past?

after the talk before looking at his work again I ask what led him to think about the exit. he tells me he visited some of the new worlds himself. we look at photos on his phone of vast abandoned boulevards. rows of roads curated with hedges and sculptures. grey walls glistening with patterns and stories like some dystopic vision / Cold War Sistine Chapel. there is a glass pyramid cradling an aquarium in the Arizona desert. he tells me I should visit. they love to show the old world what they're building.

his paintings trace passing light like sunset through kaleidoscopic frames abstracting into nonsense. strange shapes, colours soft and layered in oil. stained-glass glimpses of a church for some future religion. hidden electronics spin lazer cut gingham shapes in plastic lifetime tables. I watch them moving through holes framed through plastic painter's palettes.

our odyssey

our odyssey is void

or time between one dream and the next

our odyssey is playing out in every scream and breath

your odyssey is mythical

my odyssey's the same

getting lost inside the supermarket

forgetting why I came.

some dreams disappear

some nights are for sleep. some nights are for dreaming. some dreams disappear though some are worth keeping. in the morning we ask and tell each other all about the ones we want to and remember. you tell yours with excitement and precision, like adventures from a children's book of cautionary tales. I tell mine vague like clouds, only able to recall the general shapes and movements as they pass into the morning.

without you I dream of plagues and monsters I can only run so far from. the nightmares scare me back to limbo in the darkness between bedtime and another dawn. I reach for former friends and family through endless airport terminals and cyclones. running from a madman that can only be my future I lose all sense to Christmas on the beach. the songs sound alien and I want to go home.

on my phone you ask how I slept. without wanting to worry I tell you I woke a few times from nightmares. you say that's very troubling but dreams aren't real (although we are). I pinch myself and know you're wrong. if only you could see this something / your spell through my eyes.

one is bigger than the other

and I don't recognise the part of me that you draw out without trying. though this body is his puppet he moves and sounds in different ways, lacking reason and patience with an ear only for you. you don't seem to mind the company. you dance with him so well.

I wish I had the words for all the worlds I want to give you. exposed by lack of language I am shaking, unprotected from the elements and feeling. being where we are is all it takes to spit me deeper into danger. through the eye of your storm I sink into the sea orbiting the pupils staring back. in the well I breathe some secret sort of spell I tell myself I shouldn't see or think about: some remnant of the stars from which you came before the clay and taxes. I tell you I don't understand your eyes. you tell me one is bigger than the other.

dolphins in the fountain

in my room you want to explore the pictures on my walls. I start to notice more and fall a little further. when we open ourselves to each other / where we are the moment feels like home. in the feeling I start to melt again under your orchestra and we are all that matters for a moment. when I open my eyes I fall into yours without a say in the matter, pulled into a dream by the ankles. we move like sound. we sound like finding dolphins in the fountain.

in the back seat I watch the lights of traffic pass over your face. the night casts you holy in new colours like a moving painting. I can't wait to learn you better.

the ceiling starts to rain

somewhere between tomorrow and my vat of swimming memories I find myself under stage lights for the finale of a musical or opera. though I seem to know my cues and movements I don't remember how it's going to end. the whole ensemble dons long robes flowing heavy with the movement of our limbs. they cover almost every inch of skin below the neck. a dramatic score rumbles from the pit to conjure spirits or the fall of man; a friend nudges me to move upstage to catch my stone. with the looming brass crescendo the ceiling starts to rain rocks: pebbles precede bigger bricks of granite threatening much worse than scratches or bruises on unexpectant eyes. my rock is heavy and nearly sinks me with my knuckles to the floor.

an invisible audience spectates. I hear their gasps in shock as we the players struggle with our falling sky. some of us miss our moment and cannot find our marks. I watch bigger stones and boulders land on heads and shoulders. a chorus of chanting gives way to screams clawing to release the sudden pain of injury and anger. the rocks keep falling. the players start to join them stagnant on the stage and I lose my war against the urge to fly out into the dark. leaping offstage I run through the audience, none of whom can look away from such captivating theatre. the foyer folds into a similarly neon-lit supermarket I don't know but crave escape from into the night. once familiar discopop grates through overhead speakers against my ears to the stomp and howl of some other monster in the labyrinth that cannot help but take my money.

when I escape the minotaur the night is cold and I need to find my way home. passing by the creek instead of bed I wind up looking for a fish. between what I want and what I need I find an ingénue from home knelt at the foot of the stream. her once blonde hair died a dark dirt brown splays a pool around her figure as she talks to the river. I sense there's magic in her gaze and rush away to not be cursed. on the way I hear the water dancing softly to her spells. I wake before I find you.

fish boy

there is something in your eyes

I didn't see until I did

if words would work I'd find the one that this belongs to

though they don't and so I won't

and I am captive to this something

in the waters of the irides

aquamarine

or some other kind of blue

cursed to change a little with the light

the dark

and sensations of your skin (on mine)

fingertips and open lips

your laugh

and other sounds that seas would part for

there is something in your eyes

I think you see it too

if words would work would we will them to our waters?

cast a net into the sea?

are words worth wasting precious time spared for this something and your arms?

I breathe the air between us

you hold my face as though it matters

let me melt into my cotton

rise and fall and melt the same

and I don't know where you came from

but I think I like this fish.