1999
Dream as Ana Kokkinos
Artefact: Article, ‘Boys on the Slide: Two indies by lesbian directors explore the boundaries of masculinity’, written by Heather Findlay, Girlfriends, December issue, 1999.
Millennium is finally approaching
Ana’s days are filled head on with
Press junkets and
A near-overwhelming anxiety of impending catastrophe
Waiting for the planet to tip itself over the edge
Clocks clicking up to count the final second
Only to be swallowed by a vast magnetic void
Swept away by fire
Angels
Lust, disease
Plateaus of snow
And then nothing
Once the fire, angels, lust, disease, snow
Are all consumed
Ana’s nights are simple, then
Predictable
She selects a movie from the dream-inventory lining her mind
Always a new one
She can pull anything down from the shelf
Future releases
All features not coming anytime soon
Settles down to tune in
Sofa time, zone out
Sleep-mind watching through the eyes
Of this expert near-sleep mind
Waiting for the crescendo
The break in the score
Or a certain close-up
To reach into her
To extend deeply and caress something
To feel for the edges
To massage her organs
Liver
Kidneys, gut
What’s that other one
That one at the back
Behind the others?
…
She’s good at picking
But most times the reaching
The trying to get in there
In to her
Just doesn’t
Flat no
Uh-uh
The music manipulative
The camera work visible and awkward
Too slick, too tricksy
Performances fabricated
See-through
This time she selects a documentary
Tired of acting and make-believe
This one from those future shelves
Marked by year
Not by title, nor director
Seventeen years from now
Black-and-white, with songs
Songs that have a hole in the middle of them
Where the expectation of a song can fall
Right through and away
A voice that’s tired
Not practised in singing, lately
Another voice that’s not practised in speaking to the camera
Shy
Conscious of breaking down in this room with the crew, watching
The whole thing, captured
But speaking anyway
Finding a way through
Ana thinks of narrative
Of things not making sense
Of the lack of an arc
Looks at the black boots lined up in the hallway
Considers putting her feet inside them
Arms in the suit jacket, too
Stretching out, albatross-like
Fingers shimmering
Feeling for the threads of magic that are there inside the air
Inside the taxi cab that slides through the dark sadness of London
All those miles away
Ana sees, for a moment, everything that is coming in the new century
A terrifying display
Not arcing
Exploding
A shape she can’t compute
Accidents and gaps
A stumbling beauty of mess
Falling away
Wrenching a tear in the fabric of things
And simultaneously
All the hands reaching, patiently
The voices looking
Unknowing punch-drunk eyes
The painting of stars
The putting together of words, anew
Ana’s days are filled head on with
Press junkets and
A near-overwhelming anxiety of impending catastrophe
Waiting for the planet to tip itself over the edge
Clocks clicking up to count the final second
Only to be swallowed by a vast magnetic void
Swept away by fire
Angels
Lust, disease
Plateaus of snow
And then nothing
Once the fire, angels, lust, disease, snow
Are all consumed
Ana’s nights are simple, then
Predictable
She selects a movie from the dream-inventory lining her mind
Always a new one
She can pull anything down from the shelf
Future releases
All features not coming anytime soon
Settles down to tune in
Sofa time, zone out
Sleep-mind watching through the eyes
Of this expert near-sleep mind
Waiting for the crescendo
The break in the score
Or a certain close-up
To reach into her
To extend deeply and caress something
To feel for the edges
To massage her organs
Liver
Kidneys, gut
What’s that other one
That one at the back
Behind the others?
…
She’s good at picking
But most times the reaching
The trying to get in there
In to her
Just doesn’t
Flat no
Uh-uh
The music manipulative
The camera work visible and awkward
Too slick, too tricksy
Performances fabricated
See-through
This time she selects a documentary
Tired of acting and make-believe
This one from those future shelves
Marked by year
Not by title, nor director
Seventeen years from now
Black-and-white, with songs
Songs that have a hole in the middle of them
Where the expectation of a song can fall
Right through and away
A voice that’s tired
Not practised in singing, lately
Another voice that’s not practised in speaking to the camera
Shy
Conscious of breaking down in this room with the crew, watching
The whole thing, captured
But speaking anyway
Finding a way through
Ana thinks of narrative
Of things not making sense
Of the lack of an arc
Looks at the black boots lined up in the hallway
Considers putting her feet inside them
Arms in the suit jacket, too
Stretching out, albatross-like
Fingers shimmering
Feeling for the threads of magic that are there inside the air
Inside the taxi cab that slides through the dark sadness of London
All those miles away
Ana sees, for a moment, everything that is coming in the new century
A terrifying display
Not arcing
Exploding
A shape she can’t compute
Accidents and gaps
A stumbling beauty of mess
Falling away
Wrenching a tear in the fabric of things
And simultaneously
All the hands reaching, patiently
The voices looking
Unknowing punch-drunk eyes
The painting of stars
The putting together of words, anew