I take a bus journey from the centre of town into the suburbs, the fertile fields of learning and comfort. The aquarium sky has a qualitative tension not yet released by the end of the working day.
The bus is all awkward hands and shadowed visuals, the throw of a streetlight and the burst of cold that arrives with new passengers. The dull vibration becomes us.
[Notes on Physical Contact]
i) A small man next to me keeps touching my inner thigh with his suitcase.
ii) An old lady opposite is breathing the same air as her friend; it is as though their lips are touching.
iii) A taller, gaunt man lets his hand linger upon that of a disconsolate office worker’s.
iv) Without realising, a sullen youth is probing an old man’s hair with his fingertips.
v) I can’t stop staring at the folds of skin, just above the belt, of that lady.
The dull vibration becomes us. The windows are steaming up.
I can see her.
She does not know who she is, but she is the girl that made me cry by reminding me of the girl that made me cry. Her face suggests circumstance way beyond the obvious chronology. She is the realisation of loss, the progression through meaningless symptoms and into rallying surges of feeling, a pleasure unto the unknown, the beautiful distance so far ahead of itself that it no longer becomes a distance.
I think I love her and her drifting landmarks more than the world.