The man who flew into space

Written in response to Ilya Kabakov's 1980-81 installation The Man Who Flew into Space from his Apartment

1

Fragments are all that are left. Story debris. Charred words. Splintered sentences. Out of the wreckage we piece together what might have been. We find molten metal mixed with molten man. Like black fabric to the naked eye. Steel bent double as the city cries. We build crosses out of girders seeking solace out of shame. We build walls to the world out of new questions. The question mark traces the path of his ascent, descent and point of impact. We ask what did this stand for? Who built it? What killed him? Why here? And we wonder what if. What if the wind had changed? What if the clouds had come? What if the trajectory had not been the same? We knew it had to happen but wonder how and what will fill the holes in the hearts of those left behind, the city and its children. Sticks and stones will never hurt. Bricks and mortar will never heal. All that is left fizzes and crackles across history, across screens, across faces, and our bloody nails halo our fingers as we reach out to the light when we realise that we can’t live life like something beautiful when we die.

2

Every time I look out of my window. I etch his face upon the sky. Whether moulding clouds into his likeness. Or tracing stars with half-closed eyes. Every time I listen to the wind I score his voice upon its staves. Longing to hear a loving whisper. Though the voice is not the same. Every time I feel the rain I sense him falling down. He permeates the concrete. He penetrates the ground. Every time I see the picture of the room he left behind. The hole still serves to haunt me. More than it reminds. He is the sky, the earth, the stars, the sea. His face, his voice, his history. But I know he’s standing next to me. Every time I look out of my window.

3

He worked all day and he worked all night. Noah-like. Know-it-all. Waiting for a flood that never came. Blood, sweat and tears stained his face, his clothes, his Black and Decker. Hammers fell and nails succumbed, wilting into wood. Occasionally fainting. Screws followed their endless thread into grain. Palms blistered. Brow wet. Splinters drove themselves into thumbs. Hot swarf snagged itself on sweater. Sleeves rolled up and forehead creased, ‘For crying out loud!’ he cried out loud. No one heard his cries. They heard his music. Mike Reid sings Ugly Duckling. His father’s dusty vinyl distilled by a rusty stylus. They heard his hammer. They heard his drill. Whirring. Worming through the ceiling. Shaking vases next door. Curtains twitched and eyebrows raised at what he might be doing. For days locked away in number 42a. Packages arrived. Left by the door. Noone left the flat anymore. Binbags built a bunker around him. Filled with plaster, wallpaper, springs and things. And inside, for forty days and forty nights he built a hole. A hole through the house. A hole through his heart. And then on the last day, he rested. Then he took off his shoes. Sat down. Waited. For a sound like a thousand spinning coins coming to a heavy halt.

4

There once was an ugly duckling with feathers all stubby and brown and the other birds in so many words said ‘Oi get out of town’ Oi Mush. ‘Get out’ Yeah you. ‘Get Out’ Move your Harris. ‘Get out of town.’ And he went with a quack and a waddle and a quack and a flurry of eiderdown. There he went waddle waddle all on his Jack Jones and he didn’t half have the hump. That poor little ugly duckling went wandering far and near but everyplace they said to his face ‘ere do us a favour, get out of here.’ Cor' what a prawn. ‘Get out.’ Cop the boat race. ‘Get out’ I can’t stand it. ‘Get out of here’. And he went with a quack and a waddle and a quack and a very unhappy tear. All through the wintertime, he hid himself away and ashamed to show his face, afraid of what others might say. All through the wintertime in his lonely clump of weeds till a flock of swans did spy him there and very soon agreed, ‘You’re a very fine swan indeed.’

5

One morning he was awoken by the sound of flight. A pigeon crash-landed in his kitchen. Indoors, out of context, the miracle of flight is more potent. The displacement of air by the wings more tangible. The space taken up by the bird as it wrestles with its own piece of personal sky more intrusive. He felt her feathered backlash as she struggled to find airspace without walls. Coaxing. Cajoling. He opened the window as far as it would go. But she was impossible to comfort. He left the room, with her in it, trying to escape this domestic land with its electric plant life and its glass trees. Crockery clattered, light shades swayed, water splashed across the ceiling and slashed the walls. Like upside down rain. All rules of sky were broken, turned inside out. In time, she was gone, leaving only a feather and the freshly beaten air. Sometimes lying in bed, as the dawn bleeds through the curtains, he awaits the sound of her return. His eyes pretend night has come back and he can find dreams again.

6

Experiment in the notion of the nature of escape. First catch some flies in an old jam jar. Screw the lid on nice and tight. Then place it on a windowsill with its bottom pressed against the glass in daylight. Carefully, unscrew the lid with the jar remaining in a horizontal position. The flies will try to exit the jar towards the window and not realise that the only exit is behind them, through the neck of the jar. Most will continue to thrash and to strain at the sight of their glassy-eyed freedom. Some will perish through wing fatigue. Some will be thrashed to death by the frenetic wingwork of the others. Some will give up trying and lie down to die. None will escape despite the ease with which they could. Try it with bees, wasps, ladybirds, butterflies, daddy long legs, mosquitos, any winged insect reacts the same. Nobody has ever tried it with humans. Nobody has ever known a glass jar big enough. Nobody has ever wanted enough jam. Except flies.

7

The bones of the wing of a pigeon are similar in many respects to the arm of the man; the lower arm has two bones like a human forearm. After the wrist joint the bones, as in the case of a pigeon’s foot, are considerably elongated compared to human bones. They are joined on to the finger joints or the phalanges of the wing. Also at the wrist joint is the pollex or thumb. Round this thumb is a tuft of feathers known as the bastard wing. The exact purpose of this bastard wing is not known, but it is suggested that pigeons use it on landing to break up the airflow over the wing, and it acts very similarly to the way slots are used on some aircraft. Others believe it is the pigeon equivalent of the coxix or the appendix, that it has become obsolete through evolution. Still, no one has ever removed the bastard wing to see what effect this has on its flight. Neither has anyone ever caught a pigeon in an old jam jar.

8

Oh those bones, oh those bones, oh those skeleton bones. Oh those bones, oh those bones, oh those skeleton bones. Oh those bones, oh those bones, oh those skeleton bones. Oh mercy how they scare! With the toe bone connected to the foot bone, and the foot bone connected to the ankle bone, and the ankle bone connected to the leg bone. With the leg bone connected to the knee bone, and the knee bone connected to the thigh bone, and the thigh bone connected to the hip bone. With the hip bone connected to the back bone, and the back bone connected to the neck bone, and the neck bone connected to the head bone. Oh mercy how they scare!

9

Three times whilst drunk he thought he could fly. Three times, he very nearly tried. Three times, he had been saved by a knock at the door, the ring of a phone, or the return of a loved one. Maybe next time, he won’t be as lucky. He felt for the floor far flung below and saw it as a cushion, a pile of cardboard boxes, a concrete trampoline. He saw the clouds as stepping-stones and the blue sky as malleable to man, like treading water, but easier on the arms, legs and lungs. Once, he walked out onto a fire escape in his pants, held onto the railing and imagined diving, and he thought if he fell, the car park would open up in gravelly waves, the lines that denote spaces would rise and fall and the curbs would splash up the walls. He stood on the edge of the roof and marvelled at the feeling of freedom that must come between jumping and landing. A third time, he found himself wondering if he would survive falling into a fire screaming ‘What this party needs is a burning man!’

10

The healing power of pigeons has often been noted and commented upon. A bird will return from a race badly injured after hitting an unmarked wire, but within a matter of days the wound heals up and the bird, after being rested, can be sent again. This healing ability is due to the rapid circulation and the richness of the blood. The heartbeats of a pigeon are much faster than those of a human heart. The pigeon is pumping round blood rich in both red and white corpuscles. The special function of the white corpuscles is the healing of damaged tissue and the combating of disease; thus the high rate of blood circulation makes possible the rapid healing of injuries. The blood has, of course, the other functions of carrying digested food throughout the body and of transferring the life-giving oxygen to every part of the body. No connection has ever been made between the healing power of pigeons and the purpose of the bastard wing. Still, no one has ever removed the bastard wing.

11

Summer rain is fallen from a cloudless sky and in the haze, the blaze of wet concrete causes a sixties glow. Cement and toil alive again. If only scent for a moment. Orange night, lit by still-born dawn and tungsten light, breathes a sigh of relief at burst cheeks and broken promises. He dances in his dreams to the drip-fed freedom. Insomniac neighbours who never talk rush to windows, shuttered up for the summer. One by one the shafts of light from homes, from smiles, strike the dead, damp night. Turning tired eyes lids wide open to the wet – catching tears – a backward cry. The humidity ends its smothering hug. He can sleep again. If only sent for a moment. When summer rain is fallen from a cloudless sky. Sometimes lying in bed, as the dawn bleeds through the curtains, he awaits the sound of its return. His eyes pretend the black of night has come back and he can find his dreams again.

12

‘Write something beautiful.‘ She asks him. When planes fall out the sky. And we numb, held still by the blink. Do we lie? ‘Now our life is butterflies sucking honey through a syringe’ he tells her. ‘You’ll never get another shot when trains collide.’ And in the slam, the screech, the shrill silences. The heart brakes. Have we died? Our bloody nails halo our fingers as we reach out to the light. She holds him. When cars leave the road. Upturned and burning. A blush with death after rush hour sex. How he sighs. His lipskin parts to gritted kisses. Imagining his fate. All this flies through his mind as he sits and waits. For a sound like a thousand spinning coins coming to a heavy halt. He writes. As he holds the pen that feeds him. About his life. When he was born. When he will die. Why he can’t write something beautiful. When he tries. Silence.