Thursday, 31 March 2005


Two men sit in a room, culpable. There is a young girl, sitting at the table just behind them, in the little wooden room with a piano. I point my finger.

You, you! You sitting there are definately not a theorist. You are a teacher, but you teach nothing. The five-year-old girl next you, the one holding a violin, understands that human nature is much more than the external application of an inner plan, and as such, any theoretical attempts to understand this conversation that we are having, are immediately flawed. You misunderstand language. You may laugh, but it is true.

So why did you deny it when I asked? You looked, the both of you, two grown men just looked at each other like loving confidantes and hid within the silence.

But I found you. There began a confrontation.

You raised questions and voices, this stage blocked out beforehand, movements recorded, I am playing as much a part in this as the piano, the piano with its lid cocked open like a jaw. You talk erroneously of time and history and heritage and rights and masculinity in a delirious stream of nonsense. You mop your brow for a second, and cautiously remember where you are. There is no support here. Your crutches drift away like logs to the mill. You carry on talking of remonstration in dull unconvincing tones, laboured protestations, the mark of a wrong man tangled in his own problems.

The so-called problems of this argument do not exist for the five-year-old girl. She holds her violin, with her mouth open, and stares at us. You shift, awkward spine.

You are simply a product of the mental confusion instigated by misconception and false theory. It is within you, and the space you created early in the day’s fade, that language and art have often been wholly misunderstood. Within the dirty glasses that hold your table to its function, your roots lie, and they seek out falsities.

The problems of language are in fact problems with the misunderstanding of language.

For a second, I look back towards the room I have just come from and I see the door opening slowly, another visitor. The door makes the moment entirely irrelevant as it opens, denoting a real and a supposed reality; an incorrect nuance of language.

He left, the man, just got up and left.

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