Dear Kevin Spacey.
This is not a sustainable city; it doesn’t care about the future much. It can’t build bones. When the apocolypse comes, the first thing to crumble, into shitty little bits, is language.
In London, which is where I live, when you peacefully protest, or sometimes simply exist, you may be Kettled. This is a confinement. It robs your time, and stalls your movement for up to nine hours, but after a six week break on a Med island, I found myself feeling somewhat loose! Returning home; the city punched me in the head and lumbar for five days, till I hopped back onto its hostile clock, for fear of my life! Then, everything I measured. Elsewhere, across the Atlantic, language plasticates, like a disaster movie.
I’m trying to arrange an archaeological dig – into the marrow of my home. It’s got low density, bone-madness, gappy. Glass apartments go up, the pound goes down, we run short on London bricks! The structure of language affects its speaker’s condition, or world view. Viscera Versa too. THIS I KNOW. As usual, it’s too easy to tell you, it’s not easy to know where to start, but borders will close.
What would it mean to organize with you, or you, or you, for, say, three thousand years? Let’s think wide! This is a masterpiece! Of underused forms, overused technologies, false tears and surplus – flowing in, draining out, but I am not here. I’m in London, writing my novel, sweating a lot), financialising my future, wrapping my reproduction up with futurity while I suppose i’m saying… I suppose i’m saying I suppose i’m saying.
I’m hoping for the best.
Part 6: Island life metabolism
Part 7: Magic
First published in Failed States issue no.1: island, September 2017.
Cally Spooner is an artist. Around the time of publication she was writer in residence at the Whitechapel Gallery, London, where she was starting to write a novel.