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1 This space is where we lived, for a short time. Potential space, Bone space and flesh space where time, pulses, pauses….surges – where night undressed us naked, open. A new space. where hope hung in orange trees and our tears gave birth to birds that flew joyfully from our eyes like the flickering of a blue flame and others would look on in awe.
2 Is your space; unknowingly colonized by books, papers, poems, operas and pains that were not yours.
3 Was my space, of airport exhaust, fluorescent lights, anonymous hotel rooms, bars, strip clubs, living room floors. Abstraction of map space erasing borders. This space was no space — a space apart — from myself. Floating like dust caught in morning light. No center, de-centered. No home — homeless. This space of no space.
4 Is the space that we live in now. A space filled with static and thunderstorms, a space inhabited by contradictions, of space and no space, of the giving and taking of space. This space defined by home-less-ness. In this space, a rusted barbed fence cuts across a prairie, a space filled with landmines laid haphazardly years ago. With numerous maps made of flesh, of childhood, of past lovers, of expectations, of fears, of the fear of insanity; to determine borders I gather coastlines and vistas, membranes and skin…come to where the bread crumbs you left behind, to find a way back, were eaten by the hungry birds of reason − This space, a field of running to and from − where I looked for a place to lay my head, and lied down too soon in the wrong field.
This space, this blank page, of a muted opera or a choreography of stumbling.
5 Since last night; a space of throwing objects. A pushing back. . Border disputes. A defining of a new order. A Decolonization. An erasing. A redrawing of maps. This lack of space creating
an awkward bruised space that now separates us.
6 Your space returned to you. A stage of identity. Integrity of self. Freedom. A space where a white cat, eyes half closed watches you sleep.
7 Is my new space. A door, a window, a hot cup of tea, a vase of flowers, an old book and a warm winter bed full of dreaming. Created by the separation of spaces. A bridge space. A space of choice. Of dark roots that reach into rich loam, of a trembling hope. This space, separate from you. Apart.
In the corner a desk full of invitation addressed to you but not sent. All the windows open .