A photoset titled ‘waiting is a deirium’, a photograph of a woman licking the back of a man’s neck, the evening news, weather reports, a cross-jurisdictional comparison paper on the most boring of topics. Letters and notes. In my phone, in notebooks, on loose leaf paper, on scraps (I live on scraps, this is distance, what they don’t tell you, of all the distances). A thought that I could catalogue all the ways it is possible to miss someone, to say I miss you says nothing, the thin strip of skin the narrow place your shirt sleeves don’t cover, to hold mouths there. To miss, absence. To be without and to be waiting, always expectant, always hopeful, always defeated, the back and forth, the dance between, the knowing nothing except the song in your own skin. No one tells you about waiting. The waiting room just outside the gold room, the gold room, where everyone finally gets what they want. I am waiting my turn. We are waiting our turn. This is what words say. Whispered words, hurried words, quiet words, screaming words, this is what we are, words and words, thousands of words. And bodies. Bodies tired and aching. Bodies unfelt, uninhabited, like ruins of great cities, or small villages, or houses, complete and perfect waiting to be lived in, waiting to hold and keep safe, to welcome, to accommodate, to shelter. Houses, villages, cities awaiting a return, what purpose without? Bodies waiting, to become, to return, to be, home. I wait. Waiting is a delirium.
Corin Sworn, Doubt and Scaffolding, 2014
Johannes Bendzulla, Not OK, 2012
Johannes Bendzulla, OK, 2012
(every night a drowning)