*Soup cycle

– What’s that for?
– Safekeeping.
– What? I don’t understand.
– Nevermind.

Begin with a young man
Memories of his birth
Youth
Trauma
And then insomnia
A youth with no name for his common story
Visions of his own death
A scene neither tragic nor ordinary
Nevertheless the sense of life suspended in the surreal everpresent

– Turn the light off.
– You won’t be able to see.
– I’m going to type. Turn the light off.
– I thought you were romantic about hand-writing, the sense of ritual, flowing physical motion.
– I need the light to be off.
– Why do you always write these things in the dark?
– It’s a ritual.
– Oh?
– I’m romantic about the darkness and allowing the dimmest of beauties to be seen.
– That is romantic.
– Turn the light off.

Begin with a young man
Lit by the light of computer screens
Pages of text with words out of focus
And then the young man in a field at night
Sitting at a desk with computer screens
Back in the house at the same desk but without the screens or any evidence of a computer except for a wireless keyboard which he doesn’t touch
These are the random images to represent psychotic mind-cycles

– What does the title mean?
– Why do you ask?
– The word – cycle, it appears again here.
– It’s a reference to any number of pieces of literature that feature a pot of soup which is never washed, and always has soup in it. The chef slowly evolves the soup constantly while selling it in small portions to passers-by on the street. The soup is not the same soup in the evening as it is in the morning, nor is it the same the next day.
– This is an analogy of your thoughts?
– Among other things, but it isn’t so self centred. Like everything I write, it is also analogous of you.
– Is that a good or a bad thing?
– As tired as it sounds, it’s whatever you want it to be.
– This would be your fascination with surrendering authorial control to the reader.
– Indeed.

Begin with a young man
Insomnia
And the inability to progress to any certain action until shall we say, a certain itch is scratched
He pauses where he is
Paces
Stops
Moves about the house as if he hasn’t lived there for the last eighteen years
A view of the rooms and objects from his perspective
All things featureless and without colour
Until the itch is scratched, all mental effort is devoted to finding that action
It is necessary and no progress can be made without its execution
Without its execution, all of life becomes irrelevant, and in that way, non-existent

– Write about me.
– I’m writing about something else.
– You said you were writing about me anyway.
– Why are you asking me then?
– I want something less abstract, less representative.
– Why?
– I want you to acknowledge me as a real person, not something to be represented by romanticised abstractions.
– You aren’t real.
– I am real, I’m just not there yet. One day I’ll read this and I’ll want explanations.
– You’re all over this piece. It’s all about you.
– It isn’t, only in an abstract way.
– Abstract for you, but I’m the young man, and this is how I live.
– Life is like this for you? These cyclic encounters? Bare, minimalist visions of interruption and inspiration?
– Indeed.
– Do you love me?

Begin with a young man
Reflections on birth, childhood, youth and trauma
Trauma significant enough to evolve all cycles to the point where almost none of the initial patterns remain
Reflections on approaching young-adulthood
The realisation that young-adulthood is in full swing
The rounded and full-bodied taste of responsibility and accountability
Associated with and represented in physical liquids
Coffee
Wine
Spirits
Insomnia
Income and its ability to make overseas vacations a reality
Reflections on childhood and faceless older figures discussing overseas vacations

– Yes?
– I don’t know. I don’t know what to say. I came here because,
– Yes?
– Because I want to be in the same room with you.
– I can stop if you wish, this won’t go away, plus I’m progressively saving this for safekeeping.
– Haha.
– What’s funny?
– ‘Progressively’ – perhaps the unsexiest word for being in someone’s company.
– Are you thinking about sex?
– Are you?
– Yes.
– So am I. Don’t stop writing. Can I be in the room while you write?
– Don’t get bored.
– Can I read it?
– Of-course.
– I’m going to take off my clothes while you write.
– Do you want to read it from the start?
– I’ll catch up later. Help me with this.
– I’m writing.
– Just this one thing. It’s romantic.
– Indeed.
– Can I ask you a question? Haha – sorry, no sorry it can wait, you’re writing.
– No ask.
– It’s alright, I’m just being silly.
– When you smile and laugh like that I can refuse you nothing.
– It’s just a silly question – don’t stop writing or it’ll leave you.
– It won’t, I assure you.
– Do you love me?
– Yes.

Begin with a young man
Then the same man much aged, reflecting on his insomnia-filled youth
The old man gets up from the chair in which he sits
Exits the room and appears in the house of his youth
He remains old until he reaches the room where the computer is
When he sits down, it is the young man
Insomnia
In an arm-chair behind him there sits a naked woman

– Can I ask you a question?
– Of-course.
– Do you think I’m crazy?
– Are you being serious?
– Yes.
– Hey. I’m sorry did I say something? Are you alright? That’s a stupid question, sorry.
– I love it when you apologise but it isn’t always necessary.
– I know it’s just that… no you most certainly aren’t crazy.
– How do you know?
– It’s less about knowing and more about it being my decision to make. I have decided that you’re not crazy.
– I don’t understand.
– Now that’s not something I often hear from your lips.
– I’m afraid.
– Why?
– I’m afraid that I’ll go crazy before I’ve even remembered you.
– I know.
– Sorry?
– I know that it’s something you’re afraid of.
– How do we deal with that? How do you deal with that? What is it like when I’m in the next room tapping away all this madness – pages and pages of madness.
– You’re beginning to see your own abstraction through my eyes again.
– Just tap, tap, tap on the keyboard.
– Can I interrupt you?
– Of-course.
– I want to talk about this. You know I always do, but right now what you need to do is sleep. Can you do that?
– I don’t know.
– I can’t directly answer all of your questions. Yes, I’m aware that you’ve been ill in life, and it often scares me, though probably nowhere near as much as it scares you.
– I don’t want to scare you.
– I know, and that’s why I suppose I am more inclined to believe that you won’t go crazy, because I feel so loved by you. Because I love you so much.
– You do?
– In ways that are impossible for me to express.

Begin with a young man
Moving back and forth through reflections and projections like an editor scrubbing through a reel of film
Insomnia
Hope in the form of dramatically idealised romance
Tap, tap, tap on a keyboard
Non-linear explorations and extrapolations of thought fragments, memories, hopes, emotions, intimacies
Trauma represented by blankness and void
Represented by over-exposed frames that cannot be omitted from the final cut, nor re-ordered in editing
The frames are now an intimate part of the film, part of its soup cycle, and every frame thereafter evolves because of them, even-though each one contains no image information

– That’s twice you’ve used the word intimacy in quick succession.
– I did?
– And you’re being more literal with your representation.
– Yes.
– You know sometimes I feel like I can see your writing, but I can’t see it.
– I don’t understand.
– Exactly. Like recognising Asian symbols for example, knowing what sound they indicate, but not knowing what the words mean.
– Do you want me to explain it to you?
– Who is this here?
– Who?
– There. Reading over your shoulder.
– It’s you.
– It is? And I say these things?
– You do in this piece.
– I just had the strangest sensation.
– Oh?
– Of looking over my own shoulder, watching myself reading over your shoulder.
– Hm.
– And right now, I’m looking over your shoulder and reading this piece.
– I think I understand what you’re saying.
– I doubt it. I’m going to take off my clothes – help me with this.

Begin with a young man
Insomnia
Ceasing his movements in the face of an itch that must be scratched
He paces about the house
Stops
Views all things as textureless, colourless and without context until the itch is scratched
He decides he wants to write, but no words appear
Moments later an unknown instinct draws him towards another room where films are kept
He selects one borrowed from a friend
Watches it
Pauses for the itch
Returns to the room with the computer and writes

– Did this really happen?
– It’s happening.
– But, hang-on, I thought this was in the past. Which means I’m not there.
– It was in the past.
– Then how am I there?
– You mean here.
– I’m getting muddled up. It’s far too late.
– I’m hoping that when the time comes, you’ll understand.
– What’s that supposed to mean?
– I’m hoping that when the time comes, you’ll understand why I said that too.
– Um, do you understand it?
– There’s no real way for me to answer that.
– Hey write about me.
– Alright.

Begin with a young man and a young woman