barque

Jeremy Hardingham. Incarnate's And yet but still just this.

This is not the transcript for an event, though from it Hardingham juggled up his latest panoply of thrills for the Edinburgh Fringe Festival 1998. It is a fragment of desire, whose lacunae lick the reader’s imaginative muscle, requesting assent and complicity with its shambolico-tragical spectacle. Intermittently dazzling and perpetually required, And yet but still just this is without doubt a new form.

1-903488-06-0. 1999. 24 pp. OUT OF PRINT

Prologue. / Argument. / Abstract.

You have been brought here to pay a debt. This was given. You have come here to reconcile. With what is now in place you have come to remark, and look back over what you have wrought. You are four pieces stricken with the fundament of a love tracing across spaces between your self's example: you are me. You are seven now, translucent passing over a luminous number not too much into contact, addressed. Apostrophe must fills the room about. Which has begun inside (some duress) and is now outside. Not seeing what you hear at the edge of drawn back: this is movement. Encroaches by changing direction is brought interceptive entrances ill lit but ungainly - sequencing (trucking out) lines about sure faces and sure death. Approach, accredit what initiation you will. And gather amongst re-hash some semblance and tone. Luminous immediacy and gutted in wastage this time is allowing of cross-purposed love. So from when speed was scarce there couldn't happen any attention, to be given to the debt.

An inevitable meeting occurred when bursting out of some excrescence came the staccato flashes from some bright plaque which consumed as it skirted reading and eating and an exit was implemented.

So another start from you will write us on. In rehearsal.

Ought warnings to empty themselves in exercises drawn on meal talk. Yet but only just is still enough. The split is dire its plain to see. And this must be a work of debt to put that ring there. I have time. I have worn colours. I am determined. This must be addictive. I am torn. Between carpets and cigarettes, apart. And the need to still have old stories. And phonecalls to other places are electrically an apostrophe: a turning away in time, towards another, or another point. At which may be found just what. Is the redundant turn taking its turn. Except that meal only quote take one want another to that which is contained amongst friends, employees, contemporaries, neighbours, pieces, star-lit cunt, spoken secretly, in love, taking only just about its reach too much echoing a space to fill with owing not enough. Against this is repeated I repeat I repeat expedience. Could ever one be so close and not - apart from in keeping with such another - contact?

Attempt pains to uncry is overreach.