TheVisitorAssistant

ACT I SCENE I

Blurry eyed I doth sit and wait

For this impending play’s fate.

Perched, the empty auditorium is cold,

Frozen still.  A pop up book waiting for new folds.

The odd crease is seen from wear and tear

For today is the finale. Tonight will end this pair

Of stage and critic, I no longer able to gaze intensely

Or (as now) dismissively,

For tomorrow a stagehand will sweep,

This will become a place to mourn and weep

Due to dusted dreams, demolished walls of white

And doodles hugged by angels white, hardened muses, who, in spite,

Condemn such visual culture to this church,

This altar.  This funeral parlour demands such curse

As death of the author’s playwright or prose

Where all can watch, may they be friends or foes,

For once immortal through frames and glass

One can never turn back from this fat-headed farce.

It becomes addictive.  Audiences keep returning

To see your soul spilled out and rested burning

Upon canvas, wood or such, whatever is your choice of weapon.

Whatever is your choice of attack. (Undoubtedly it will have already been done.)

And it no longer stuns us, worshippers and followers of nobrow

Our opinions lost.  Instead we shall sour now

And reiterate views of superior others

Not listen to ourselves, brothers and lovers,

But identify with a faceless figure.

Here I am prone to linger,

For dreams I do often dream

Consist of my character description as such and keen.

Intensely I read and re-read and more,

For there is many a theory to explore

Crimp and Prior, Baudrillard and Satre,

Sontag, O’Doherty, Buck-Morss, de Botton and Walker,

Barthes and Berger, Benjamin and Foster,

Adorno, Bloch, Freud, Proust, Kracauer,

Campany, Foucault, Debord and Kant,

Nietzche, Heidegger, Jameson, I can’t

Can’t, can not speak anymore of those I aspire to be

And as my focus is pulled back quickly,

Due to footsteps heard below,

I think of one of my favourites, Andre Malraux.

ACT I SCENE II

Ripples appear upon my once smooth enclosure wall.

I remain perched on my branch.  Still.  Silent.  I make no call,

For that is not my role in this performance,

As my figure cloaked in charcoal, nameless, enhances

My rank upon my arm for all to view

Though honestly they rarely do.

I am not here to be heard, how absurd,

I am a faithful albatross, a gliding bird,

My coat, the dense black of crow, though no screeching

My yellow beak nestled upon my left wing

Eyes alert and protected, glowing from behind prisms

That, if they dared, could unleash a fury that rarely comes.

It does raise its hand but once in a red moon,

And that is not coming soon.

So glossy they stare forward, prepared for drill in my cage

As the curtain rises, first steps enter the stage.

The play commences forth:

Two ladies, enter left, move north,

A whispered dialogue proceeds. (They wish not to include me.)

Therefore I do not flinch.  I reside and be,

Monochrome and camouflaged, a constant calm.

Aesthetisize the gallery, I evoke its certain charm

So that visitors do not feel lonely

As I never do, (if only.)

I know once this act has played out

The pause is long where no one is about

Except me and my literary chums

I have time to console my weekly sums.

Day dream of my loves day

To think one day, we’ll have our way

Spend time together, face to face,

Instead of using text in our voices place.

They move, turn ungracefully toward the next.

If only I could, that image I’d hex.

For it glares out filmic references when I am alone

Obvious and dull.  Though “crowd” always pause longest here, though prone

To hypnosis, its canvas spellbinds and catches

Just a piece of the viewers soul.  Behind the trees a witch’s plan hatches

In the green light of stippled trees

Its projection to a viewer please.

However, if you had looked harder

Witnessed only in the silence and if you had looked further

You could see her shadow moving

Even, shhhh, listen closely.  Hear her voice so soothing

Luring you into her trap.

I remain statuesque, palms in my lap

The characters draw back.

Humbled, she is at a lack.

Her prey has got away,

Lucky to live another day

Unlike I, a slave unto her song.

Even tomorrow, when I am gone I will be able to sing along.

The characters plot plays out.

Around the stage they move about

Following a ghostly trail

That’s been left there, where cleaners, they fail

To sweep our print away from each step taken

Our past is there, forever forsaken

To be eaten up by concrete skin

To be immortal is difficult; who knows where to begin.

Kundera offered me hope on his leaves

His words are my time’s thieves.

Happy am I to have them stolen

For when they have finished, it is I who has won.

Sentences glide through my mind forever,

Well done Milan, you have accomplished your task and my endeavour!

I aspire to be able to sleep in your shadow,

Not worry for myself and feel no woe

Because I shall live on, like you

(My favourites you, Campany and Malraux.)

This stream of consciousness has travelled fast

On stage, without noticing, it’s a double cast.

Only now can a dance procide.

Steps begin to imitate one another, as the couples move side by side,

Paces quicken then stop.  The melody is off beat.

Tap my toes in time (if I could) upon a leg of my seat.

All too soon it is over.  They swirl through the space

Their exits, slightly clumsy, are not aired with grace

Rather confusion to their exit stage right.

Wooden stairs?  Where do they take flight?

Follow and see Alice, more of the same awaits.

Rise up to the next floor; follow your fates.

ACT I SCENE III

It is here and now a shadow arrives to take my place.

We smile toward each other’s face

As here is the site that questions form,

Can all this feeling be the norm?

Am I supposed to feel like this?

Will this ever lead to a meetings kiss?

Or will we simply remain on this conveyor belt

Of mindless repetition?  This is what is felt

By every eager eyed hawk that perches here

By every paint stained soul that holds the cube dear.

In conversation I touch my hair,

Stroke my neck, and deeply stare

Into his eyes that flitter toward the air

Then back to my gaze with all secrets shown bare.

It is here that awkward moments in mine mind arise

With a straighten of my posture it does subside.

I try to concentrate on the flowing words that trickle and enchant

But I imagine his lips on another job and realise I can’t.

So I rise, converse allusively, then quick step out.

My twin and dancing partner replaces my mannequins pose and begins to count,

For thirty minutes they must sit and wait

And pray that I will not run late,

For boredom will only set in

After half an hour’s been.

ACT II SCENE I

On entering this casual lair

Doth hang the fragrance of feted air,

Of past feasts roasted in a minutes ping,

The inner walls collecting everything,

And grasping them tight within the tower

Until so foul its all turned sour

And a glass-fronted frame is opened wide

For warm afternoon’s breath to step inside.

It is here that I may relax and stand

And look upon so proud this red bricked land

Of modern art and technological starts.

The canal even plays its part.

As green Venice whispers in her sleep,

‘I dare not admit, dare not compete,

For here lies a secrets hold,

A secret that should remain untold.’

Now to eat.  I open wide

My blue and grey lockers eye.

There no surprise is found within

Reach inside do I its opened mouths din

And pull forth a bottle of H2O,

Salt and vinegar crisps and tupperware so

My home made salad will remain brittle and fresh,

As the price of this is much less

Than when I used to, everyday,

Go out to purely buy and pay

For a sandwich that was not ideal

But was all included in my meal deal.

I pick up a folk,

Eyes raise upward to the rhythmic angel above the door.

My interval is passing ever fast.

I sit at King Arthur’s table, the steady constant mast

That looms in the centre of this encircled room.

Pistachio green, the chosen colour for this cocoon

Which, along with mixed scents of old and new,

Could make a headache boil and brew

Within ones head, yearning for ones bed

‘Pull yourself together’ your inner self’s said.

And eat up fast!

For this time is past

And the seconds are counting down.

Drink my drink, search through suede bag; see what can be found.

I’m hoping for a kitkat chocolate rush,

My too long fingers rummage, search longingly, at a push

Till finally my sense has found

A snack! My heart leaps up but then falls down.

It is a low fat sweetened treat.

I sink deep and heavy into my seat.

Salad, water and a healthy dessert,

How, this afternoon, will I stay alert?

Eat it quick and enjoy the sugar as I chew

I know it won’t last long for the calories are few,

Upon completion of the flyte

I am emptied of all delight.

My time is up; the end is nigh,

I lock away my bag and sigh

Back to work, back to my branch

My alone time is gone; I’ve lost my chance

To relax and simply be, no cares

I must go, except this time I’ll ascend the stairs

And repeat my morning prose again.

All throughout the afternoon, same old same.

ACT III SCENE I

Blurry eyed I doth sit and wait

For this impending plays fate.

Perched, the empty auditorium is cold,

Frozen still.  A pop up book waiting for new folds.

It is here, with this reprise

That I wish to fall upon my knees

And pray to gods like Saatchi,

Confess my commitment and offer my consciousness completely,

As if they were to approach me at the crossroad

(The devils and angels of commercialism) to take my hearts abode

And reinvent it, bend it, reshape its mould,

To in turn remove, steal and break my soul.

If only the door could open for my sacrifice.

As I promise to thee, both heaven and hell, my spirit will surfice.

For it is pure and true to thee.

If only a chance would be given you would see 

That this is the truth, my feelings honest

And I give me unto you wholly, no return, this I promise.

With a sigh of knowing I take into my hands my Air Guitar

And settle into its comfortable text, its sparkle, pizzazz, its abracadabra!

For reality is key to this tale

Though interrupted at two fifteen, Rocinante takes sail.

With this noise brings in the crowds

(So loud)

And I am engulfed by what ‘its’ all about,

No longer will I ever doubt

This enclosed box, while culture explodes onto the crisp walls

For all to see, and for all to see for them to cry and call:

Art is alive and living!

And here is where it is given!

Take it!  As the music stops.  And brings silence’s ever more vivid return.

The crowds disperse from the show.  Finish their patrol’s to learn

That a crime was not committed here.

In fact the crows are actually sincere

And cherish what they do.  Why not?

It is safe and secure sitting on our spot.

One hour must pass before, again, I am asked why?

So nestle down once more will I.

I do pursue opinions, though mine is held tightly in a bind

They will, however, try to buy you and your mind,

As it is said only the curious have something to find

So trip into the unknown, for I am not scared.  Even though there will be no place to hide.

ACT III SCENE II

Find myself now between black and grey.

I have so much I wish to whisper, so much I wish to say

With another actor upon my stage.

The plot is played out of my hands; I’m left bolted to my cage.

That is until an elderly lady enters stage left

With a man upon her arm, time has been her life’s theft.

He releases his grasp.  She now, slightly unstable, can soar solo,

Clumsily swooping around the floor.  Her soliloquy is splendid, though

She never makes great pace.

Her shadow seems lined prim with lace.

Angelic steps allow her glittered gaze to search around the second floor,

Her portrait is fine and in time she has seen the world and more.

Hawk eyed I watch intensely as she breaths in before each piece.

Smiles always at hand to fold her features, as her eyes cheerfully feast.

Her hand reaches out, shaking to touch, to feel and caress,

I am unwilling to put hold to this act, but my inner voice arises from its nest

‘Please, no touching’ I speak subversively to her frame,

With these words, the free bird I did tame

Against my will.  I want to run toward her, not bite

But grab her wing and excite it across the flightless kites.

For she too, as am I, is a flightless kite, here this day,

She steps quietly over my watch, not a word spoken, not a single phrase she says.

I return to my perch, my twenty-six steps across the gallery’s width back,

Back, my head rolled upon my chest I feel at a lack

And then there she stood.

Looking upon me, inspecting whether or not she could,

She should verbalise her troubles?  To release what creases her brow so hard.

Her junior partner is no longer by her side.  Alone she waits as my eyes rise and reach her regard.

A shot, a click, a lock that sticks,

I am glued in, targeted I am fixed.

Elsa speaks toward me, tightly wrapped protected in pink wool,

Fluently and eloquent, her words are round and full

She leans toward my bowed figure; her hearing is failing,

We speak of art and her heart goes sailing

Through her past, The Bronx Group, Gormley, her mind filled has burst

(Agrees Emin is raw and truthful, though dislikes Damien Hirst)

Her shoulder bag heavy, ready for any event,

Nevertheless this weight is a burden, a sign of her past; her back is arched and bent.

An hour’s past, pipes begin to do their thing

Elsa springs to mortality, reborn, she begins to dance and sing.

Around the noise she steps.  Careful not to trip on where the wires are kept,

She is in control all of the time, never out of her depth.

With this, Robert appears stage right.  He stands rigid but jovially laughs.

Elsa exclaims ‘I’m simply reacting to this art!’

I grin and agree, for she surely

Is right to be this bubbly.

For the noise is loud and gets the attention of this classroom

Only when it stops does she, but the giggles still loom.

As the articulation continues and flows

I believe her to be lovely from her greying brown bob to her tight clad toes.

Enthusiastically a trilogy of opinion grows

Disagreements taken lightly, only movements and theories thrown.

We catch each one, take our time to digest

(We can not concur on which or who is the best)

People come and go

Move across the floor, to and fro

We notice not of their steps or spins or their grace,

Do not see if they dance, skip or sing, or at their pace

But only can hear, see and touch, smell and taste

One another’s thoughts, even through haste

Of verbal descriptions and such (have you seen what I have seen?)

And so on and so forth. (I’ve seen but have you been…?)

Time again steals our speeches, Robert insists they must go.

They must collect their umbrellas, thank you but the clock is our foe.

A shake of her butter soft hand and a wave she is off

Down the glass staircase to the entrance while I stay aloft.

I liked your spirit, Elsa, you’re really lovely my dear.

Swift hands have circled.  My afternoon soliloquy is here.

ACT IV SCENE I

Once more I disperse amongst shadows.

This time however my replacement knows

That there is only ninety degrees to be coloured in

Before I return reborn and ready to again begin.

So not much prose, if any, is written between these two

Just a glance, a smile.  That’s all that’s needed, it will make do

As my time is short and precious,

Although I wish not to be alone, I make no oral fuss

So then toward the tower I pace

I’m in the lead against times race.

Suddenly my stride subsides.

My figure coils as I realise

That nothing nice awaits me there

I’ve nothing to read or eat, I’ll just have to sit, stare and despair

And look upon the same red bricked horizon once again,

I approach and can hear voices conversing inside.  Now I am glad I came,

For a moment I thought I might step outside

And become a pawn in a crowd, simply just be and hide

Amongst the other faceless street walkers

Or maybe be a mystery thin air talker.

Instead I remained true to schedule,

Although originally thought this interval would be my days lull

But as I push forth the door two familiar faces smile

A welcomed welcome I burst with Elsa tales, and all the while

They sit me down, listen and make me tea,

It is here that I am content and can truly be.

I am the only female form present however,

So we discuss surfing for one and chaps for the other.

There’s Rich with his tan and his battered old board,

While David, suited and booted, dreams of being a Sir or a Lord.

Giggles and chit-chat makes the tempo take speed,

We must go back on duty and this we don’t need

As a lovely time has been had by all

And my spirits are high and they will not fall

For the end of the day is in sight.

There is an hour left to us, the triplets, delight

So off we go back to stare vacant into the white, where dreams are made

Where plans hatch and ideas get laid.

Adieu till later my boyish counterparts,

Let the end of the day begin, bring it on, let it start.

ACT V SCENE 1

On my return my branch is empty.  I spy across the room

My tag team pal is already off; she did not hesitate or loom.

I therefore suspect that I was late

And perhaps she was angry at this affairs state,

Politely choosing to flee the scene

Instead of staying to discuss and maybe scream.

I skulk back and reside upon my perch, hunched back

Like a lion, look proudly upon my land and bare my teeth to the fact

That I had infact eaten more than my quarter of pie

That over twenty minutes in actuality has gone by.

I look inquisitively at my timekeeper and begin to feel slight pains

As the guilt begins to bubble and brew, but then my mind switches lanes.

The sand is dispersing fast.

Not much longer do I need to last

For home time is nigh

I release a long and easy sigh

And once again I remain seated still,

Take up this state while fifty minutes kill.

death of the author