Falling as a craning neck the sky quotes eucalyptus. I wait at an exit point between demarcated parks. Heated numbers ascend twelve steps from trains of oiled bars. Like the times that I had visited before I anticipate warmth. Like those times that I had visited before I am affected by the certainty of the cold. Here at the edge of grass I am out of uniform, and so I forget my weight. I feel a breeze capture the frame of the stairs where I stand unattached. I do not know from where you will turn in from and at which point this will take my attention away from the cold, or if in fact it will achieve this at all.
I see an organised conversation between the building and its façade. Alongside a stain of pedestrian men are stairs of stepping legs. Leveling out among the corners are steep juts, seen as careful pauses in a white and purple scheme. Countering the corner I take a heavy step. Openings appear as closings, windows meet in trios. A bending frame takes to walking. A steady traffic of body-frames are grouping, producing certain strides. Dispersing into assemblages, to join the purposeful schema. My cold rise forges a blanket mass. Joining elevations slide and then align. Workers like to lie like this, awaiting second-tries.
A bulldozer frozen, it will want to move. A stationary devourer of my site at large stays in, long dozing. Calling out names with taut attention sign letters compare their lengths. Folded over silver fencing a carpet of desert mesh. Figures pry for attention where early trunks cover the path in mute reflection. To follow it over and up fully. Turning wide to bend in purple grain. This outer cover holds in static awareness. My meeting hill, the line between tanbark neighbours. Following steeply along an outer side. Ossified stone, set down, used as a seat. On joining limbs stay folded in retreat.
Kneeling into soft loam I stretch and decompose. The poles that I too use are covered in burnt mask. My long forms rest, seal in the flatness then link to other parts. Misaligned lengths stand up when bobbing in ripe sequence. Folding with observation a plane of silent wood meets an empty step. Total stones follow a partial ledge where grass is meeting glass. I continue to circumnavigate by circling between warm outlets. Turning on in seconds I am a sprinkler of quicksand sequence.
Walking under vacuumed warmth filling the outer wall. Falling out to make a path from here, swaying slowly or staying still. Taking silent rest, parachutes of sandstone swell in overhauling excess. To see a lone collection, a single stripe between worn parks. Knowing this to be landed rest, to take the inevitable lull. Then, when a break fills, to be continuing. Collecting in seconds, taking with measure. Showing myself counting with traction. Volumes of request gain for one, or one for two. To recall this setting stone, a walk finding its weave.
Settled smudges sleep in the guided water. Flattened zones are painted thick in a gleaming slander. Outlines steer with white and green. Half-looking limbs stretch using trees. A fractured chime fills all ground from above or elsewhere. It is trailing while keeping steep. Tall slogans take formation, are made to stand weightless. Unexpired movements take shape amid swells of tired air.
I am my own predictive text, a landing scape or pylon with moveable desire. I get walked for hours. When nearing I lose mode, my manner, I can become and change with release. Still I stand and turn and look and wrap myself into clothes, retreating from the buses and green lights and swirls that settle into a silent pattern of sorts. I recall the timeframe. I see how now is now. The time that we are settled within becomes this. Lanes wide and full coalesce with bodies to become clear of cars. It was the opposite place to where I stood that you looked and saw and as I assumed looked to another place like I did too. Then the green was caught again and I walked and was wrapping myself into clothes and so I saw you see this as you swapped and shuffled a little as I walked through.
Adelle Mills is an artist.
