earth

The floor in this room has many undulations. The very worn floral Axminster carpet must have other layers beneath it, and probably newspapers beneath that, for it bridges the drops in the floor boards with a natural connection as though covering smooth mounds of dirt. I can feel the floor joists sitting on the damp soil, spongy where they embrace the cold earth; wood decaying back into the ground. This image of the floor sinking into the musty earth covered with layers of worn Axminster carpet while the coal fire burns and the mantle clock chimes is the mimetic fragment of possibility. It is not the missing piece that matters, but rather the space it reveals as touchable and unscreened, the point of fracture where images multiply and the text splinters. I am inside this space, touching it, smelling it, hearing it. I observe myself in it, I stand for the image that-has-been; there are no photographic reproductions.

 

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