WHITE

White (script)

 

In the moments in-between

As he closes his eyes, and realises, and draws this last comfortable breath, everything inside him turns to a single colour.

Over exposed.

Empty and full at the same time.

He is floating on his back, drifting in and outside of himself.

Images super impose and clamber over one another again and again and again, a flickering rhythm of new combinations. The light changes and things become distant, but not invisible. This strange situation is unclear. He is in transition, between one place and another. History is merging into geography.

All of his colours blend into white.

 

 

 

 

 

 

A fogged film.

His earliest childhood memory is sitting in his mother’s lap, watching the ruddy lunar eclipse of nineteen sixty.

As an adult he stares most nights into the inked landscape, waiting. His eyes trick him into seeing a green glow.

He imagines colours dancing across the sky, but they elude him.

Tonight he watches the glow of headlights crawl over the horizon instead. They stand together in silence.

He wants to say something but is still searching for the words.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The colour of his fucking

Is the colour of his first car, in varying shades of dented rust

And the colour behind his eyes And the colour of the tongues that  flicker linger roll on his tip

And the colour of the dark stain souvenir she left from the first time

And the colour of the cursive sound of her summer language

And the colour inside her thighs, rubbed raw

And the colour of his insides

And the colour of his mother’s velvet lap

And the colour of his surge

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

One afternoon.

He pours the cold pale liquid into the hot dark one. They split into infected lumps, rejecting their union immediately. The sight both attracts and repels him. He swallows it in thick, pregnant gulps. When he speaks again, his voice is colourless. It is draining away from him.

He goes for a walk.

The air of the outside is just as stifled and claustrophobic as the inside. A bulging, clouded dome covers the landscape from end to end. He is comforted by the weighted sky, the impassable grey blanket. A dirty mirror he cannot move through.

He begins to see the dust in his eyes, the particles of the air in front of him. The grey noise closing in.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He begins to fantasise about losing his sight. On afternoons spent alone, he uses a silk scarf as a blindfold and fumbles around the house, feeling his way with his fingers, performing mundane tasks. In the privacy of his debilitation, his other senses are heightened. He sits and listens to something in between sound and silence. He crawls up the stairs on his hands and knees. He inhales the fousty scent of the carpet. He shuffles and slides the weight of his body back down again. He smooths his hands over the woodchipped walls to find his way from room to room. He presses his cheek against one and listens in to the movements of next door. He lights the hob. The kettle whistles. It is a clear sound. He feels the heat of the steam with his hand. It scolds him.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It is the end. His unstable observations are rapidly fading bursts.

A chunk of colour, with a luminous quality, smooth and alive, is picked apart into tinier pieces with his thumb and forefinger.

He breathes out.

What if where I am is what I need.