Nick Mauss, By, With, To & From

I was late. Double puncture. I had cycled over on one of the b bikes. Had trouble finding a parking station. I was greeted in front of the house by a group of smiling men wearing colourful shirts. Patterns of abstraction. I went straight to the bar. A short beautiful man with an accent. His long hair tied in a knot. My hair pinned up in a less macho fashion. Its ok. What’s ok? No no, it is Sakee. Oh yes please. One. Lime crushed with sugar topped with Sakee. Ice. Green beans for nibbles. I collected a few in a brown paper bag. I took a strole through the rooms. Curtains dipped in colour. Red squares on black. See-through light blue. Impenetrable dark blue. Moving. Widening the space. Creating a passageway. Breaking it off. Entrapment. People talking in hidden corners. I didn’t stop to join the conversations. I climbed through a large triangular cut out in the fabric. Circle on top. Upward smaller triangle. Forward. Arm stretched. Pictogram. Sporty. Taking notes on my ancient s^msung. Broken up words. Sentences cut short. White outlines. A man. Perhaps holding a cigarette. 3 people hanging out. Or fucking.         came .. With only ~:n         Back at the bar I met a conservator. She told me about a mural in Italy. Behind it was discovered an unfinished Pablo Picasso. Or was it in fact completed. Should one uncover the unknown painting or restore the already visible painting? I started talking about an erotic thriller by Brian de Palma with a conservator in Italy.  A film about uncovering hidden layers. Broken family ties. Absent fathers. Our conversation was cut short by a moving curtain drawing a half circle. White washed-out pink. New encounter revealed. Nic. We carried on the conversation about absent families. Disapproving parents. Friends replacing relatives. Planned journeys to Germany. His birthplace. Return to NYC. A soulful lady started moaning through the speakers. Now its all over. For the last goodbye. Calling you baby please. Let me down easy. Please. Let me down. The wet glass slid off the table. Shatter. Smash. Crash. Scream. Reached limit. I carried on with a replaced glass of red wine. Avocado on toast. Spicy pasta. Pineapple dipped in paprika. Coffee. Nic showed me the giant brain of the house. A huge black computer tower. It was linked up with the smaller brain that controlled the curtains. Controlling the song. Everyone had left. Before my departure we smoked a last bit of weed. Milovan had gotten it from an earlier encounter. DP. He assured us they were gentle. I left the house dragging half a bottle of red wine. Light drizzle. I pulled up the hood on my shiny black raincoat from Decathlon. A glowing cigarette appeared from the shadowy hole where my face would have been. The fire was extinguished by drops of rain falling more rapidly. I passed open car boots. Men pulling out orange suits with florescent stripes. Thermos coffee. I bashed my front teeth on the tip of the bottle. Wine mixed with blood. Empty. I threw the bottle in the Thames. Wind picking up. Detour over a locked gate through swaying trees. Kennington Gardens. 6 men walking amongst the dancing shadows. All talking about fucking. No one fucking. The trees leaned forward every time I closed my eyes. Branches undid my hairdo. Ripping the curls out of my hair. I hissed at them. Chased them off with a stare. The sun was coming up. An elderly chav. Local with an erection. I sucked him off. His mate watched. Eruption over his exposed belly. Shivers. I wanked over his trousers.

At a second sunrise I googled songs with the title Let me down easy. A popular title track. I got stuck with Bettye LaVette singing live at Shindig in 1965. Repeat until I was late for work.

When you pass by me. Say hello once in while. When you pass by me baby. Does it hurt to smile. Don’t turn your back on me so bad.
Let me down easy.
Let me down easy.
Please.
Please.
Please.
Please.
Let me
down.

Text by Adam Christensen