Wednesday, 6 November 2013
I pass, camera on a phantom ride, the hospice where my grandma - no, my auntie - died. Grandma, not grandmother; auntie, never aunt: the diminutives by which we know our relatives. 'Everyone is someone's' - news-murmuring piety - true as cliché - itself cliché - itself a recursion of certitude. There are four lights. I show you the Overman. The Politics of Ecstasy in corridors where freshened air concealed the disinfectant smell. Exercising in the room where she was dying. Anorexic sociopathy. The suits that never felt right, the sunglasses I wished to wear all day the day of the funeral.