A Snake That Bites in Anger, Without Warning

  What happens when we record gesture? Do we solidify the ephemeral, or do we destroy it by forever reducing the dynamic to the static? What happens when we disembody these gestures, reducing the individual to a wavering hand?

                    I am lost and I am alone.

  I need gesture to understand language. I need the untethered gesticulations of a person lost in their own thoughts. I need the warmth of an outstretched hand at the end of a laborious encounter. We work to fill the space between us, to meet on the same ground.

  Without this, communication is a parade of empty words that clammer down from ear to gut.

  These failures seduce me, though, the times when two lines do not meet, when I cannot read the map: I crave the discomfort of an interaction where I cannot understand you. I want to understand why it is that the absence of your body plagues me. I cannot reconcile what you say and what you mean.

  A dead signal: blue screen. It is the swell of a wave that shackles me, a wave that also emancipates me. It is the gathering dusk of a winter day.

  I used to wear only the colour blue.

  Blue is a means and it is an end. It is togetherness and it is division. It is alone and it is in company.

  This map wavers, like the hand that made it. Like the hand that it represents. It is strong, but it is weak.

                  These hands are alone and they are in company.  


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