#hyphencathy

[hyphencathy]

Hyphen-Cathy exhibition, an amazing final piece made - a true collaboration.

[smudgewriting]

Writing

[smudgewriting]

Noise 

‘Um… sorry….er… Sir? You dropped your ticket…’ ‘Oh, um, okay thanks.’ … ‘Probably don’t wanna leave that behind, am I right? Probably something pretty important!’ ‘Yeah, I suppose.’ ‘So what is that, a ticket? For a train? Oh – sorry it’s none of my business. ’ ‘No, it’s okay. No actually it’s a football ticket.’ ‘I see. Which team?’ ‘Er… Tottenham.’ ‘Ah.’ ‘Why? Who do you support?’ ‘Oh, I don’t. I’m just interested.’ ‘Okay…’ ‘It’s dated a while ago, huh? Why do you keep it? Sentimental?’ ‘Not really, I guess I just never empty my pockets.’ ‘I’m the same. Still got an old stick of gum I must have had for about three years in there.’ ‘Mhmm.’ ‘And these glasses, they’re old. Just have the lenses changed. They’re a little small now, if you see, but I like them. They’re, like, vintage-me.’ ‘Yeah I get it.’ ‘Sorry, didn’t wake you up, did I?’ ‘No, I wasn’t asleep.’ ‘Didn’t think you were. Odd place to sleep on a tube, wouldn’t you say? Lovely place, but still odd.’ ‘Yeah, I suppose.’ ‘Do you like the underground?’ ‘Um… Well, I never really thought about it before. It’s alright I suppose.’ ‘I love it. Ride the trains all day.’ ‘Why?’ ‘It’s as good a way as any to pass the time. Wouldn’t you say?’ ‘I guess. So are you just riding them today?’ ‘Yes. No. Well, kind of. See, I am going somewhere. Just like taking my time to get there.’ ‘… I see.’ ‘Really? Not many people get that. See I don’t think there is such a thing as “wasting time”, because the very act of “wasting time” is time well spent, in my book. But sometimes I think that’s just me.’ ‘Ah… Well, this is my stop. It was nice meeting you-’ ‘– Cathy.’ ‘Cathy. Right.’

[smudgewriting]

Silence

It was always packed at Paddington at four so much so that Cathy considered as she always did getting off of the tube and continuing her time-wasting by foot for today especially that would slow down time nicely but the train was already moving off and Cathy had found her seat her favourite seat only person in London her mother always said to love the tubes she settled her book on her lap and faced the blank pages they were always blank these days her eye was caught by the flicker of a mouse tail nearby it was the shoe lace of the boy next to her scattered in artistic disarray across the floor his sleeves were slumped at his side and his baggy jersey straightened and creased as the body beneath sighed to the beating hooves beneath the train eyes were closed beneath the brim of his hood but Cathy knew he was not asleep probably just pretending she peered closer at the laces under the rims of her glasses they were an ombre of mud and dyed nylon the result of a thousand careless wanderings maybe late at night in places you wouldn’t expect mud to reach  like a corner of Camden or a dark alley in the East end under spider-webbed streetlamps that block out the stars she turned back to her page but her eye was caught again by something falling nearby she scratched that something fluttering nearby it was made of paper but it wasn’t a shopping list and it wasn’t a letter that much she could be certain of it was something official a ticket of some kind maybe it was for the cinema from the date-night of a failed romance or a train ticket one to visit someone who lies ill a grandmother with her eyes barely open waiting hopefully desperately expectantly for her grandson to arrive to say his goodbye but will he come will he ever make it if this ticket lies abandoned trodden into the chewing gum and dust to leave her waiting always waiting?

Gently, Cathy reached down and picked up the ticket to give back to the boy.

[hyphencathy]

Silence

It was always packed at Paddington at four so much so that Cathy considered as she always did getting off of the tube and continuing her time-wasting by foot for today especially that would slow down time nicely but the train was already moving off and Cathy had found her seat her favourite seat only person in London her mother always said to love the tubes she settled her book on her lap and faced the blank pages they were always blank these days her eye was caught by the flicker of a mouse tail nearby it was the shoe lace of the boy next to her scattered in artistic disarray across the floor his sleeves were slumped at his side and his baggy jersey straightened and creased as the body beneath sighed to the beating hooves beneath the train eyes were closed beneath the brim of his hood but Cathy knew he was not asleep probably just pretending she peered closer at the laces under the rims of her glasses they were an ombre of mud and dyed nylon the result of a thousand careless wanderings maybe late at night in places you wouldn’t expect mud to reach  like a corner of Camden or a dark alley in the East end under spider-webbed streetlamps that block out the stars she turned back to her page but her eye was caught again by something falling nearby she scratched that something fluttering nearby it was made of paper but it wasn’t a shopping list and it wasn’t a letter that much she could be certain of it was something official a ticket of some kind maybe it was for the cinema from the date-night of a failed romance or a train ticket one to visit someone who lies ill a grandmother with her eyes barely open waiting hopefully desperately expectantly for her grandson to arrive to say his goodbye but will he come will he ever make it if this ticket lies abandoned trodden into the chewing gum and dust to leave her waiting always waiting?

Gently, Cathy reached down and picked up the ticket to give back to the boy.