It is not yet December, but the sky darkens earlier every evening and there are other signs of wintering times ahead. The past few months have been frenetic. It’s been an academic hand-to-mouth existence with talks and papers passably ready no more that a day or so – if even that – in advance of whenever it was the event took place.
The HII at Belfield, Potsdam, Vienna, Brussels. The Curragh, Malahide, Brookfield, DIT Cathal Brugha. And Liverpool.
I’ve hawked my wears with an enthusiasm that can be put down to hope more than belief but, in the main, found an encouraging amount of interest in what was being rehearsed. And so the planned wintering: another well-intentioned turn to the page. Which – even in the shadow of the necessary recompile and reset of ideas, memory of earnest talks in cafes and on hotel corridors, the exchange of business cards and hearts, digital indiscretion, and the compact folding in on itself of more than one professional hope; ons fiemies – looms like some trompe-l’oeil future. Or as a restorative and regaling turn, perhaps, which makes complete the journey from July to here and signals – finally – the calculus required in cutting loose from Venetian days and the abandonment of rigorous, longitudinal project in favour of the more venal, gainful and available.
All of which results in my working on a new grammar. One of inventiveness, the sustained, responsibility, probity in the face of disappointment. Questions – as Attridge might say – of indebtedness to the other, of trust and betrayal, and of confession and truth to the self. So yes, there’s performance in it all and instantiation. The ineluctable address of intention towards what might otherwise be idle longing, makes for this possibility. However faint and far away and however awry the actualization that may result.
And of course it may be the travel pass needed to clear this karoo for once and for all. To drum under different skies. Or it may be an end of dreaming.