Archive for March, 2017

Empty

March 28, 2017

For a second, I could feel the house as empty, an exhilarating expanding silence.

Un-tied opportunities, no restrictions, lucid future comets firing, in any space I turned to.

The objects that habitually mock my captivity, suddenly promising life, life as lived by people who I can’t even imagine.

The clinging, brooding, criticizing, blaming, foreboding force at which, I recoiled my neck into my chest, tightend my esophagus, my shoulders, leg muscles and held my breath, since some point in the mid 90s when my childhood torment not supplanted by happiness, had actually transferred to a position much more tightly bound.

Might have been gone in that glimpse of surroundings, altered.

One

March 22, 2017

You are the moon and I am a pool of water on the earth.

I watch you come and go and disappear for long stretches.

When you are full for one brief stilled night, the air is dry, you shine, lighting the grasses where blue shadows collect.

Dry ice so sweet I can smell the perfection of particles, your streams of light.

I can hear the beams you make, radiate strongly across space into the atmosphere.

Burst into glowing visibility above my reflecting skin, penetrate lying water of the newts, to sparkle in the sand.

And I try to absorb all I can of you, to flow into you, to become part of you, dearest moon!

Portrait

March 17, 2017

Innocence is bendy and translucent. It has long hair and fragile skin.

Innocence is quite a bit slimmer and it smiles rather less like a schoolteacher.

Innocence has lost its schoolteacher, almost completely, at least until it regains its strength.

A small imp, feeling less like – “A walking tank of liquid shit” this evening, compiles a list of the cakes that Sainsburys bake to an acceptable quality.

Shadowed wit, growing like the filaments of a wild forest fungus, skipping – “quick and light”, is slowly creeping, holding the banisters, with care for the form it carries – that carries it.

Teddy and Donny

March 17, 2017

In the waiting room were two women, not actually at the same time but they were together. Both about 5′ 4″ tall, probably around the age of 70, with collar length hair, hairdresser set with coloured blonde patches. Each wore slacks and puffer jackets, one black, one brown and slightly flamboyantly decorated glasses. They spoke in short bursts with black country accents in a gruffness that comes from manual labour and smoking and as I was the only other person waiting, they cast their search for complimentary and reassuring smiles at me.

The first woman was in the waiting room with a rather shaggy fat white poodle called Donny, while her friend was in the other room seeing the vet, she waited. She and Donny were moderately relaxed.

Soon she swapped places with her friend, who was dragged from the wide flung door of the consulting room on a taught lead, by a less fat white poodle, whose coat had been recently clipped. His name was Teddy.

Teddy’s owner had a shorter perm than Donny’s owner and the couple were not so good at waiting, they paced about the room, the woman making exasperated huffs, and soon Teddy joined in, barking with increasing sharpness and volume until his barks were earsplitting.

Donny and his woman eventually emerged and an exchange took place where it became obvious that although the dogs’ official names as given to the vet, were the longer version, in ordinary life the dogs passed as: “Ted” and “Don”.

This raised the question for me of whether the two dogs were actually replacements for the dead husbands of the women.

They all left the surgery car park together in a fairly new, silver Volvo hatchback.

Library

March 15, 2017

Looking at the spire against the cloudless blue of the first day of heat in March,

at the strange broken memorial urn with yellow sunlight streaked around its circles.

Looking for something authentically from my own motivation…

Does such a thing exist for me? Can I separate authentic motivations from motivations involved with or inspired by other people?

If I isolated these images in a film, would I be able to separate my own motivations in choosing, from connections I have with other people?

Does anyone have motivations that are isolated from the influence of other people, or is motivation intrinsically a social process? A process of intersubjective transactions?

Am I suffering from somebody else’s abusive interpretations about me being inauthentic and their association of this with my lack of creativity?

She spoke across the table: “Have you been to London?”

“Yes, we’ve been a few times, have you? Have you been to London?”

She answered: “Only the once when a policeman lifted me up, to see the Trooping of the Colour! But I’ve never been back, not all my life. It’s too expensive!”

Just as I thought about the spire, she came along the graveyard path with her enormous plaid bag, and spoke to me: “It’s a beautiful day!” I nodded yes.

Negative

March 8, 2017

The minutes pass, and through the wind I board the bus and pass the points again, carried behind a woman with a cough.

Slowly through traffic queues – the fading afternoon…

By the time I have the dog in the fields, an hour and a half have passed, and I am making a film in the dusk in negative, making the sky orange and heavy, still thinking about my own faulty actions.

The bare oak trees are white like x-rays of lungs, the dog has her black and white patches reversed and looks not much different except for her tail tip being a black flag instead of a white one.

I make a different sort of  film pointing forwards instead of down, like some white shadowed planet.

Nearly two hours have passed, as I raise the camera up to the branches of the oak, they sing a resounding note, that flux clangs in my brain, my chest and ears;

The film is lost;

And in a moment my fears and punishments echo … as death reverses!

And the oak branches, are black again.