Disused Skate-Park

Incapacity; a temporary closure of certain functional directives- the rinsing over of sounds and light intensities that come and go as the body sits inert seemingly sinking into the pavement. No one in sight. But the rumble of engineering works close at hand. Trains too going past and birds constantly twitter. There's the graffiti- stained wall; the light sprayed dark and the dark sprayed light again; patches that open up to the passing sun  in between layering's of cloud bouncing it back out in an impossible glow or with the dark, fixing it in the brick itself as warmth that hardly settles. The sun is inconsistent from down here or rather the clouds are inconsistently covering it now and again. With the loud echo of refractive sun on a white-skull?- and the warm glimmer from out of the darkly sprayed lettering, my eyes are pulsating between open and closed and so the images on the wall, such that they are- as first one thing is superimposed on another- break up and never get to a point of patterning. The eideitic flickering of continual blinks and holds gathers into and out from the scenery as this one pulse constantly repeating and going astray. The exposure like a cat's eye is being peeled open and closed  through the action of the lids even as the eye remains still; unseeing. Light transgressions; sudden jumps in exposure create this automatic drill- almost pneumatic- around the muscles and flesh of the eye. It is not the eye that is the active part. It is all the props and holds that place it just so. But in fact perhaps it is nothing to do with the vision at all. It's that constant deep rumbling of a construction work that is out of view together with the high frequency tweets that interject this from the birds that come and go flitting on this empty branch and then that. These random sounds somehow hold my body here fast on this wall with the graffiti of countless generations who have grown up and been replaced one after another rising and falling and that leap too far out to be deciphered or barely become anything at all in the subtle and nuanced lines that hardly have a chance to capture the fleeting light.

Back on the canal a heron is still waiting to be fed looking up expectantly to a window that is closed. The window is reflecting back the murky water below and the brightly colored boats- green, blue, yellow and red seem to be melting into and equally rising out of these depths. The heron is tottering back and forth closer to the edge of the water or closer to the grass bank as people go by.