Spill Writing

‘Sounding the event’ (on loss)




It takes an hour for the sand to pass

between the two connected glass bulbs.


You can turn it around

Once it’s all done

Once you’ve watched it pour through

An inevitable end,

But perhaps a turning of a kind.
Loss is not about time,

Although etched onto memory

Inscribed into the heart

A physical weight

Softer than sand

Of here and of the end

And of nothing that follows

But of listening in

Of playing it out

Of playing it out without a witness

Because the witnessing is painful

And what of pain

In loss

In grief.



The acts of violence on the body

The echoes of an act

Not a gesture

It summons what is not here

It promises a memory

A sense of place

A photograph

Two brothers embracing

Already dizzy with time.



I propose we consider

A dimension of life

As a political sphere of experience

As a listening in

As a not knowing

As somewhere between legislation

Between language and ritual

Between not knowing


Not knowing.



From the locked doors

I can tell

This is a difficult absence

It is not quite an absence

But it is an event to be sounded

An event that keeps trying to stay

A magical event

Of sorts.



What is a breath through reels of film

Loss as a dark poetics

An encounter with a locked room

A space of death and of now

A space of the unseen.



I think of violence and mourning

Of loss on a grand scale

Of illness and fear

And what it means to encounter


To make room for mourning

To grieve

‘Losing something one cannot fathom’



Is this how something of us is revealed

(a meditation on moratlity)

The ultimate performance of

Life that has been

That has been disposed

That has been taken over.

(who am I, without you).



The inextricable link

The body and its mourning

The body in conflict

The body on the other side

The precarity of being without

The imminent not being


In the sea

In the forest

On land.



Being unbounded, as such.

Being vulnerable, as such.

Being open, as such.

An opening up,

A giving over.



What is making me wonder

What will come through caring

What will come through attention

What will come through listening.


What comes through the removal of the aesthetics and material dimensions of live experience.

What are the ways I am hearing you.



I am sitting still, very still.

I am a magician, and I am sitting very still

I am a magician, and I am mortal.

I am a magician, and I perform dark magic.

I am a magician and I am waiting for an event to occur.


Something about providing an experience to be unbound.

Undoing the present

A cinematic unhinging.


Mortar and pestle and ashes to be burnt,

The soft wind of autumn

The mansion and its ghosts

A different kind of looking