In Bed With Owen Vince

first glance, – _ 1

I used to not dream, except about these silent and grand white structures. You could barely call them buildings. I’d either dream of those or not at all. The other night I dreamt that I fell into a spider’s web, waking up, and couldn’t remember whether I needed to pull eggs and silk from my face and my body. I’ve only just moved, and have no curtains yet. From here I can see the massive grilled facade of a factory – converted. There is – was – an oversized fabric octopus within it that span around, rhythmically, hovering. My room is also in a converted factory building. I find myself wondering what they manufactured here, sometimes, while my mind is empty. My favourite painting is going to hang on the wall to my left – but only  about a tenth of the size of the real thing. It’s by Cy Twombly – a ragged, white line runs across the image, like the drawing of a chalk road. I could watch it for hours.

second glance, – _ 2

Sometimes I don’t enjoy writing. I want to make these very dense images of buildings and materials taken from up close, or of objects reflected in surfaces. My girlfriend has begun hanging them in her house, these images, in stark black IKEA frames. I dreamt of spiders again – it is becoming a theme, but this time they were only very gentle, and patient. Writing is an instrument; I think it weighs about the same as a mechanical drill, or perhaps a gutted salmon. Unpacking, I realise I own a lot of vases, wrapped in tissue paper. I think about what it would be like to sit on terraces which overlook the ocean, just drinking coffee or beer and talking. Somebody outside is laughing. I am watching a video of John.

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