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untitled 1: including an in memoriam for Douglas Wright, 14 October 1956 – 14 November 2018

The great Spanish writer—not an opinion, a fact, my friendHe would or he might begin with something suitably self-deprecating—a reference to another writer, an artist who, perhaps, was more far-sighted,in not worrying so much about his place in things, worrying at her hems,edges and scabs, at the places where the body—of work, obviously—comesundone, as it inevitably does, Douglas Wright died this week, I say thisnot to be topical, but in respect of an image and its necessary resonance, or,let us say, vibration with another—necessary, because the only reason everfor an image, to initiate one, is to set it up in such a way that it pingoff another, calling everyone, at this overflowing table, to attention with the edgeof a knife, how sharp we will never know, tap against an empty glass—a game of golf, Douglas in a liminal state induced by drugs of a medical nature,purportedly, hearing the news, on the radio, a voice: it says, thisthis will really really put New Zealand at last put New Zealand New Zealandon the world the world on the world stage; and voices from a stand ofmacrocarpa, adjacent to the golf course, echoing up over the balcony, inthrough an open window, to where Douglas lies, on a couch, in a statebetween waking and dreaming, hearing the voices commingle, thosefrom the stand of macrocarpa, adjacent to the golf course, where golfballs often end up being hit by accident, voices of the searchers for the lostgolf balls, calling out, WHERE IS IT? HERE and IT’S OVER HERE, WHERE? I FOUND IT! and that voice on the radio, so that … but here I become confused, because the nextimage enters, not prematurely, I hope, but soon enough that it sets offthe former image, so that we almost trip over it—HERE New Zealand on the world stage IT’S OVER HEREat last—and I would like to champion, at this point, Ghost Dance, the sourceof this former image, having its source in its author, Douglas Wright, whois also, sadly, former, as the greatest artistic autobiography ever written bya by by a by a New Zealander by a New Zealander … OVER HERE … Lost …from the world stage, forever. Vila-Matas was the famous Spanish author. The next image is—can it in all truth be called an image? when it isa matter of voices?—and Douglas’s voice, I hear his cadences, pronouncingon the, what was it we had lost? the sense of the strength of movementcoming from the pelvis, that we had lost, in our young dancers—the nexta voice says pleasereturn to your seatit sweeps the aisleclear at the same time David Byrneis singing anothervoice and anotherclose, Stay in yourlines. You are beingYou are outof control, Sonnyor is it Girlie?I have the strangeunwonted accompanying sensations,not entirely unpleasant, of arms, not entirely unpleasant, onlyunwonted, of arms holding me and the hands attemptingto take holdof the left arm in the classic armlock we know from films, and twist it behind my back, movies about forced removal of potentially disruptive and violent—and againthe fit of the words is false, without falsifying, since this isindeed what we do with miscreants: the bodyguard, no, he isa security guard, with a beautiful word emblazoned—the mostexaggerated form of embroidery or printing—emblazoned on his back, VENUESECURITY all one word, like a gang patch. Douglas Wright and David Byrne. Douglas was just 62. What isan age, when you do not grow old?David Byrne David David Byrne amazing fantastic and beautifullydeconstructed in the concert version of American Utopia twowordsvenuesecurity at the Spark telco arena, although this makes it sound likethey built it, they did not—do brands maintain their psychosexual overtone?of having been inflicted in a hot moment of contact—let us say, “the lieof the land she meant yesshe meant yes”It was a white and middleclass and quite fat night on the metaphorical bleachersat the David Byrne concert tonight,the second encore ended with a rollcall of names of murderedAfrican-Americans (two words?)

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whose killings in racially charged circumstances have elevated them into the hall of martyrs” says VarietyThere is an insupportable irony in the fact that my assailants were all brownbecause I wanted to danceDanceis it a health and safety issue that so few serious modern composers whoare accepted as suchcommit themselves to music to dance to?DanceI cannot imagine Douglas Wright dying

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