Denying the Correlative

March 11, 2011 at 11:12 pm (Art, Bodies, Costume, Halves, Rooms) (, , )

He is standing poised perfect on the brink of the stage. I want to scream, feel the dust at the back of my throat. It billows towards the stalls, balconies and boxes like a smoke. We know that it will take him into the footlights, the glare. Lead powder cakes his face in poisons, the narrow dress stretched across his shoulders. I realise it is the emerald velvet he always begged me to wear. Of course, that man is just a mass of flesh and splintered bone, but he asked for that and relished it. How degrading, abandoning us for the whole world. How could he leave us for a great hunk of wood and stone? I can’t compete with that, with all the water. And in the world this tiny room, reeking of sweat and plush. The golden bangles at his wrists clink and clamour as he raises his arms and lets his chest bask in a ghost applause. “All the world is a stage”, you once reminded me. And you are so close to the edge.

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