24th November 2020


This is a space for you to get close to me.


23rd November 2020


Everything starts but doesn’t want to conclude.




Fumbling with these envelopes. I want them to resist becoming uniform. A desire that I appreciate is the antithesis of how I get dressed. Something in the putting on of one thing, says I must not do the same anywhere else. I arrive nowhere anymore. At my desk I toy with idea of going somewhere. These envelopes are my new suitcase. My words travel better and more than I do.

13th November 2020 12:20pm


Today’s clothes; a white t shirt, the jumper you gave me, blue jeans. I am wondering does attendance always ask for there to be a host. What if the host is just a room within a building? Someone would still have to open the door. Give the official “hello”, something that would explain the manners of the place. No elbows on the table. No trainers. No hats. No talking on phones. I think I will write an invitation that reverses these negations. Something that reads: “You are invited to attend; we await your presence.” A generous invite, don’t you think?

7th November 2020


The days feel different. Less alone. Even though I am still as alone as ever. I am still in the room of confrontations, waiting for more noise. But there seems to be no noise here. I stole your black coat. You said I should protect myself, and this seemed the best companion. If I can’t be with you, why not have a part of you here. Although I wonder if perhaps this time it is you who cannot be with me. Did I mention I have been preparing my talk on the question of attendance? To be honest, I have struggled with structure, as al-ways. It is as though I cannot persuade myself to trap this formless idea as it seeps into every thought I have. I ask myself, how is it to be there, how comes we cannot make more of our moments together? This transitioning between happening and event and back again. Like Newton’s cradle. I talk aloud to myself here. There is no one else with me. Just the small lamp we bought. Although there are many chairs, their legs chopped down. I sit on the tallest chair I could find, hoping that this will give me a better angle to see if any shadow crosses through the expanse. I whisper repeatedly the words “as long as I am speaking, as long as I am writing, my pain is less keen.”  So little comes of it. It is just another justification that I am here, in the room of confrontations, which I would prefer to call the room of conditions. For I know all too well that one leads to the other, and that my talk of attendance hinges on my under-standing of the conditions that brought me here. You know all my conditions already. A lock to my uncut key.  Do you believe silence is a form of attendance? Or do we need our body? And what of our ashes? What of those tiny fragments that ask for our words? I sense that my sense of duty is born from this, and that in this time of sorrow and isolation, this duty has come calling again. Although I am not sure I am ready. Do you believe I am ready? You always seem to know what’s best for me. Today I say, my question is, the question of attendance. Which is the work of the body that feels. A labour that is rarely acknowledged. A labour that calls the body to interact with objects, to touch them, to care for them, to share them, to gift them. To give them the opportunity to become a signal to all those who need to be signalled. This is an unforeseen responsibility. Is it not? The state of play feels motivated differently. As though as our bodies were asked to live in isolation, our minds deserted us. Back into the desert. To the place where words break up into letters. These letters are yours, only yours. I will confront them in the same manner I tend to them. I am here to hear all of them as they pass from your mouth into our hands, before becoming the means for making our signals stand up, alert, aware and alive to our movements. I will refuse to work from distance. I will attend to the bond between us, the way one puts their hand around the candle flame or tends to pieces of broken glass on the floor.



I must return to my talk on the question of attendance now.

4th November 2020


I wanted to send you a gift. I spent the last days searching for one that could attend for me. To find a substitute for my lack of attendance. It has become so hard to attend in these days. I don’t even know if I am here for myself anymore. The room feels too close. I keep returning to an image published in the Washington Post of a memorial with only empty chairs. It speaks to this. The emptiness of our attendance. No one person next to another, the pressure of being pressed into any situation, gone, dissipated in one swift gesture. But still I feel this desire to attend. To be there for someone, to arrive in places, to be announced, to be given the license to converse. I then realised. I cannot at-tend your birthday. Which brought me a huge feeling of loss. Last year we were able to celebrate together. At our restaurant. With our wine. How do we go about sharing space, when we are barricaded from such an act? The gift being the thing that we let go of. Much like the conversation. A confirmation of our arrival. Allowing it to stand in for my body, to work on you as a memory. As the substitute. I think perhaps I have been trying to say this all along. I am trying to attend to all that stuff that falls out, the excess, the little things that normally we only notice later on, when you are gone.

Joshua Leon  © 2020