Waiting with regal smiles and vaguely tense limbs at Tate-front, crossing over the frail trees in blind spots – hidden yet waiting to be found. Eager faces yellow-falsified by the pavement-potted lamps beaming up furiously. Metalcircles. Check-shirted, waiting. Receiving sustenance in the dark hours. Time-squashed now that destination lights glowed-and-diminished as that sanctuary neared. Had I shared this experience before? The memories began to acquire a familiarity that I knew had to be counterfeit, because the bignight-into-baby-morning script was a brand new vibe. I knew too that I hadn’t been here in this capacity. But the déjŕ-visions in my head must have bubbled up from somewhere: the skeletons of them had to be coming from an authentic photo-place. Very strange almost-experiences being illustrated now as a selection box melting and mashed together, hundreds of mini-memories faintly there, just available and varying in style and density. Minutely different textures; potpourri faces, spectrum-shade skies, voices in collage, years’-worth dawns. I knew it must be unfamiliar but the seen-before, done-before feeling, the gradually candescent new day, the litmus paper, sense-of-knowing fire-smiles, and the relief, were all palpable and been-there-flecked, so I couldn’t ignore the sensation as I glided with young-day lightness.
Strained vision: orangey blobs nestling into panoramas. Blurry actualities distorted, then unpixelated, the HD-facewards. Muddled sounds all-of-a-sudden prescient, in-focus, and gargantuan. I remember this switch to clearness and recall the brilliance of how the earthliness of things began to pronounce itself, becoming undimmed in the metallic glow-ball. Real fullness in the heart of everything – and I believed in it, even if no one else did. The first-hand memory I have suggests an unblemished warmness in everyone. Nothing was purposeless and we held nothing back. Maudsley dawn-photos. Magnesium explosions, assault of shutters. Slow-forming sleep bombed out of eyes. Mission accomplished: satisfied grins in new transparency. Residual crowd scoffing the deserved biscuits, whole mouths dipped in mud-brown teas. Then I am prepared for home and needy for eventual bed. Cold white air at the bus stop. Pollen returning in bursts leading to a dismal crescendo. Deadened-green shrubbery. Dotted LED – and the routemaster, marauding into the lane and showing no respect for silences. The scene is complete and the vision fully formed. When I reach the yellow room, the medium-light is a dull presence behind the curtains. And in that room, where a new day is starting to spring up through dayish noises, while the callow sun-whitishness stirs and inflates my comfort, sleep is quickly found.
© Copyright 2017 John Maher