6.20pm, January 5th, 1980

Sometime, close to 2pm.
I stand on the metro listening to Pete Yorn and Scarlett Johansson’s cute love songs, being happy. I am  about to write a paper in the Concordia library. I am ready for work, motivated, wearing my red lipstick, I smile at people, I flirt a little- today is a good day.

Chelsey writes about bringing some coffee in a library friendly mug, I respond: ”Aahhh, too late…”

Then, the driver pulls the breaks. It feels as if the train hits a wall as I lose my balance. “qq,…u” is the last thing I get to type into my phone. The books fly from my arm. Boltanski’s photographic practice and others. They lie there 2 meters away from me. I hear people screaming and running in one direction. I know what happened immediately. I felt it and so did everyone else. The bump was weird. The breaks- that’s normal, it happens. That bump was off. I register the first female sobs.

The metro shuts down I sit on the floor “I don’t know what to do” is blasting out of my headphones. I consider it appropriate to turn my I-Pod off- an odd second of rationality.Then, I start hyperventilating. I am not good with death. People try to get out. The doors remain shut. It’s that right-out-of-the movie- claustrophobia kicking in. I cannot be bothered, let me cry. No! Don’t help me, let me be right now. Please. I think about the driver. He is going through hell. He might never put a foot into the metro again. A red jacket lies on the platform. People want to see the body. Imagination is never enough. Unless we see it why believe it, right? That red jacket on the platform is more real than anything to me at this moment.  I feel nauseous. I cry. And I ask myself what about, and who? People violently open the doors connecting the train wagons. I sit on the floor. I wait it out. Someone wants to pick me up. I wait it out. I watch people grabbing each other’s arms consoling the one’s who cry or panic.

5 minutes ago no one gave a shit about another on this train, now we are some kind of family. It is city-schizophrenia par excellence.

Then finally the doors open. I stumble out. Again, a guy tries to get a good view as a man starts yelling at him, telling him to get the fuck out. I have trouble breathing- then I breath too much, and get drowsy. I sit down outside in front of a café. I am not good with death. I have never been. I just cannot understand it. I cannot accept it. And even more un-graspable: That will to end one’s life, the maybe most powerful will there is.

My phone drops, I turn it back on. It’s apparently 6.20pm on January 5^th 1980.

I have a shot of Jameson. The city is beaming on this gorgeous February day. Construction noise- steel hammering on steel echoing between the downtown buildings.

I need to get the hell out of here.

I need my camera.