Sadness clouded like a great, nebulous haze of incorporeal purple nothing – she was gone. The stimuli, the steps through the linoleum (I presumed) the gates of Victoria Coach Station, Joe’s hug. It would seem too easy to call them all hollow. It would too easy to say anything. She was gone. I tried to focus a cracked, unreliable lens through the haze in those weeks.
The urge to rationalize the disordered, the fragmented and the disembodied. The want for dramatization was destructive, knowing that this too will fall into memory, into notebooks, into a seldom clicked document and ultimately a biography or an obituary, if you were lucky and at best, a speech.
Where to begin? How to chronologically order everything that was said. Everything she smiled, scoffed or laughed at. The trips to the Tate (Modern and Britain, and the ubiquity of CCTV past Millbank, the Google Maps route that advocated parkour), the peregrinations and walks along the South Bank. Past the BFI. The innumerable underground journeys. The way she nibbled, squirrel-like on soft mints, her coiling sea-monster tongue ravenous. The Freuds, The Kusamas, a richness of experience in those weeks that could only be alluded to. Perpetually fatigued from waking at 7am most mornings, it mattered not.
It shall descend into a breathless, vertiginous spiralling list of everything, every idiosyncrasy I adore. Everything we share. There isn’t time to write 400 pages. I want to continue living it. With her. Without a second wasted in fruitless, absurd struggle. Nor should it negate the value or purpose of dramatizing experience into literature or documentation. The unexamined life isn’t worth living, after all.
In Derrida’s own words, “any apparently coherent system of thought can be shown to have underlying irresolvable antimonies, such that there are multiple and conflicting readings that must be held simultaneously”
Too much dissonance. Too much to say. Words can barely etch a line of something much larger at any one time…
I just want her back.