a tragedy of sundresses
a tragedy of sundresses, lost freedom —but maybe just an attitude— locked in a closet, saved in boxes “was trying to have a moment here by myself but the sun was out and the whole street had their windows open my neighbour turned up his radio, wasn’t great.” instead the way your eyes light up in summer “think i see a glimmer of who you were at my age.” to swallow away yet another declaration of love —a feeble attempt to be more mature—whatever that means— “i mean, i have been using anti-aging cosmetics since i was seventeen!” a good modern female: hairy too-strong legs the only weapon at times when you run out of fingernails those muscular legs the only body part capable of breaking you out of that feminine confinement and out of possible headlock. no more sleeperhold please. 3 2 1 inside insides is mostly shit, or blood inside buildings is mostly stuff, junk inside minds is a mystery to me and a universe “need magic to outlive this thing —life— because by just living, it doesn’t mean anything we’ve got to subjectify everything.” “don’t speak to me badly the way they speak about girls it would make an object unhappy those slippers in the hallway the cutlery in the drawer never mind a human being.” what is good is the sprouts in glass pots on my window sill being hit by the sun a button without a shirt a coin “it ain’t lonely because you find yourself alone in a room in a city somewhere it ain’t lonely just because you find yourself alone in a city in a forest on a river bank in some country on some continent some planet it ain’t lonely just because.” a whole life stored in boxes, suitcases on shelves a body on top of a body like a dome like a cage protecting what’s inside or protecting the outside of it getting out gestures against loneliness cut against the thread back against the wind imagine swimming—gliding— off stream a flicker on the table lemon water it is the proper hand that pleases, sometimes one can manage to forget the couple put a mattress in the pool of sunlight on the living room floor when she enters his house it is a luxury he has trees and a balcony and more square feet and more calmth and less fear when i put my pen down or pick up the phone and say nothing when the difficult thoughts come to me in between glasses of juice and cups of coffee and i taste your sun-bred sweat somehow sweet ripples of a towel or age on the skin of your back remind me of being near water, throwing pebbles in and i am thirsty re-direct my thoughts to close the door on darkness remember blue is darkness made visible and observe how coolly it shines over my days blues how i tried to cup it in my hands liquid lapis and drink it down down down feeling healthier when flowing nothing that says nothing i say when the mother stops calling and you don’t feel like talking i forget how to use my voice ice cream melting dripping over my skin i am made tender by watching the curl of your lips, the little bit of teeth and the hair and the smell and wetness, in places i am made tender and i’m unsure whether i should cry or— plenty of days i walk through the city wrong warm sweaters with sandals a key but no money in my pocket unprotected i feel with my mouth mask on mother calls, asks me to come home and i can’t the goal is to not go back the goal is to sustain myself and take pleasure in being alone routines rituals cooking sleeping crying bathing routines and rituals and phone calls tethering me to outside outside a mind outside a room - stine sampers, june 2020 a tragedy of sundresses was part of the online presentation of inne eyserman’s residency at Q-O2, brussels, exploring text-sound-image and storytelling through performance and interaction in a web environment.
