The great Spanish writer—not an opinion, a fact, my friend
He would or he might begin with something suitably self-deprecating—
a reference to another writer, an artist who, perhaps, was more far-sighted,
in not worrying so much about his place in things, worrying at her hems,
edges and scabs, at the places where the body—of work, obviously—comes
undone, as it inevitably does, Douglas Wright died this week, I say this
not to be topical, but in respect of an image and its necessary resonance, or,
let us say, vibration with another—necessary, because the only reason ever
for an image, to initiate one, is to set it up in such a way that it ping
off another, calling everyone, at this overflowing table, to attention with the edge
of a knife, how sharp we will never know, tap against an empty glass—a
game of golf, Douglas in a liminal state induced by drugs of a medical nature,
purportedly, hearing the news, on the radio, a voice: it says, this
this will really really put New Zealand at last put New Zealand New Zealand
on the world the world on the world stage; and voices from a stand of
macrocarpa, adjacent to the golf course, echoing up over the balcony, in
through an open window, to where Douglas lies, on a couch, in a state
between waking and dreaming, hearing the voices commingle, those
from the stand of macrocarpa, adjacent to the golf course, where golf
balls often end up being hit by accident, voices of the searchers for the lost
golf balls, calling out, WHERE IS IT? HERE and IT’S OVER HERE,
WHERE? I FOUND IT! and that voice
on the radio, so that … but here I become confused, because the next
image enters, not prematurely, I hope, but soon enough that it sets off
the former image, so that we almost trip over it—HERE
New Zealand on the world stage IT’S OVER HERE
at last—and I would like to champion, at this point, Ghost Dance, the source
of this former image, having its source in its author, Douglas Wright, who
is also, sadly, former, as the greatest artistic autobiography ever written by
a by by a by a New Zealander by a New Zealander … OVER HERE … Lost …
from the world stage, forever. Vila-Matas was the famous Spanish author.
The next image is—can it in all truth be called an image? when it is
a matter of voices?—and Douglas’s voice, I hear his cadences, pronouncing
on the, what was it we had lost? the sense of the strength of movement
coming from the pelvis, that we had lost, in our young dancers—the next
a voice says please
return to your seat
it sweeps the aisle
clear at the same
time David Byrne
is singing another
voice and another
close, Stay in your
lines.
You are being
You are out
of control, Sonny
or is it Girlie?
I have the strange
unwonted accompanying sensations,
not entirely unpleasant, of arms, not entirely unpleasant, only
unwonted, of arms holding me and the hands attempting
to take hold
of the left arm in the classic armlock we know from films, and twist it
behind my back, movies about forced removal
of potentially disruptive and violent—and again
the fit of the words is false, without falsifying, since this is
indeed what we do with miscreants: the bodyguard, no, he is
a security guard, with a beautiful word emblazoned—the most
exaggerated form of embroidery or printing—emblazoned on his back, VENUE
SECURITY all one word, like a gang patch.
Douglas Wright and David Byrne. Douglas was just 62. What is
an age, when you do not grow old?
David Byrne David David Byrne amazing fantastic and beautifully
deconstructed in the concert version of American Utopia two
words
venuesecurity at the Spark telco arena, although this makes it sound like
they built it, they did not—do brands maintain their psychosexual overtone?
of having been inflicted in a hot moment of contact—let us say, “the lie
of the land
she meant yes
she meant yes”
It was a white and middleclass and quite fat night on the metaphorical bleachers
at the David Byrne concert tonight,
the second encore ended with a rollcall of names of murdered
African-Americans (two words?)
“whose killings in racially charged circumstances have elevated them into the hall of martyrs” says Variety
There is an insupportable irony in the fact that my assailants were all brown
because I wanted to dance
Dance
is it a health and safety issue that so few serious modern composers who
are accepted as such
commit themselves to music to dance to?
Dance
I cannot imagine Douglas Wright dying
