Falling from a dud plane, I was so enamored by the composition of falling debris- a locomotive, in parts- I fell through the air, swimming and falling. I had a wasp as a fellow. It became too late to open the shoot. I became fascinated with the edge- the moment at which it would be too late to deploy the shoot- a game of chicken. Dreamlike, I slowed as I came close to the ground, silent and there like a watercolor painting, landing even on my feet. I did die. I think this was a death, touching down. but it was a natural thing, and I remained present throughout. The wasp in a vignette, stung me all over, crawling and stinging in a circle around my wrists, and mid-thigh, and I told the story from an armchair years later, and I had a terrible redness at the ends of my two last fingers, and also from the middle of my pointer down to it’s tip. It reminded me as a viewer (outside of myself) of frostbite- utter death of the appendages. The wasp stung me and crippled me; I imagine because it was a wasp. The takeaway symbol of the morning is the hand with the shocker fingers, red from the knuckles to the tips, useless, like dipped in chocolate syrup.
