I felt your ‘note’ through the fork resting on my collarbone.
Everlasting Meccano mushrooms, under a rabbit moon in watermelon sugar.
Shedding secrets is a slow snail, cutting off dead ends.
How suddenly everything multiplied and mutated.
Can you see me? I am lying in wet grass waving but handless.
You were a gentle lion tamer turned to stone by your wounds.
Words echo without bodies to breathe them.
Private between people is powerlessness.
I wrote you a note once before
I dropped it through your door
When you had a door
When you had a cat
My eyes are flooded, rest well in your top hat.
There is no end, no forwarding address.
I am sorry we never made that film.
I accidentally smashed a bell jar that contained a bound clock. It fell from the mezzanine; on the way it knocked the swing from its resting place. It’s now ready to be swung.
I put on my oyster shell mask, stuffed a shell with an old skirt and made a hat from some old theatrical sleeves. Now what?
Its nearly Christmas and I am hiding. I bought myself a silver slinky that makes the sound of space when it hits the ground.
It’s a perfect thing round, reflective, rainbow like, elastic, layered, fluid, solid a spiral.
It’s beautiful in its simplicity, its sings and dances.
It’s strong and fragile.
I must be gentle with it.
Today G and I made a two-person elephant from old sheets and calico and walked in step. The granules feel thick at the bottom of my coffee. There are questions I can’t answer.
We watched the start of an old black and white film where a man speaking an unknown language stays forever still whilst around him everything is being digested.
Suicide is complicated.
My grief is a shadow I can see.
Make it go away.
I am not stuck in the ring. I drew the ring. I am the ring so let the rain make ripples.
The Unknown Colour
In the absence of a corkscrew, I have just opened the last bottle of wine bought for the burning with a black screw and a pair of acid yellow pliers.
They are the same pliers I use to extract scalpel blades from the holder when they are blunt. Deer Moon the moment is now. I have changed my screen saver to the only image I have of you looking at me. I have abandoned the blood pen and I am writing to you on a digital white blank page. When I was nearer you, I made a small cuttlefish ship from all the white things I found. For sails it had a feather and a headphone port from an iPhone.
I think I am going to open the grey book that I never got to the middle of. I am going to begin at the end. Holding it closed is the perfect egg-shaped stone my Mum found on the beach that is clothed in yellowing layers. They tell you not to sit on the rocks there now because those faces are dangerous, they crumble and kill.
I buried some of the ash at the base of the oak tree and put the rest down the compost loo to dispel odours. I never did see an albino deer but after I left when I got to where I was going, I saw for the first time a jet-black squirrel.
I am digging a shallow grave with a round silver spoon borrowed from the Mothership. It’s a sunny spot, up high. However hard I bend and twist I can’t see the man, only soft white chalk curves. I am too close to him. At the base of the hill in the Abbey I balanced a feather on the palest solitary blushed rose and breathed in deeply. I know people come here to conceive bit I am sure today that’s not relevant.
On the way here we went to a place where miniature people scurry about wounding trees and building beautiful bridges that go nowhere. A man with gold tooth offered us half a chocolate digestive and stopped us reversing into a ditch. My feet are black with ash and face is warm from the suns gaze. I am happy in this corner between the wall and the window watching the acorn rain. In the graveyard a bush swallowed me as I held tightly to a spindly twig, gently so as not to break it.
The table in front of me has almost nothing man made on it apart from a camera, a phone and an armless Kewpie with seaweed for arms. Cuttle fish ships sail across it.
No more dead dust. I am stroking my body with oiled stones from the sea. We walked barefoot on the beach and spun seaweed. Sometime soon I will fill a bath with it and just float. I am laden with pebbles and driftwood, but I am going to hold what happened here lightly like a cloud of tiny spiders. If you look hard enough at the rock face the sky looks more solid than the land.
Yesterday people came with stories of other people. The parents who moved house without telling their children and fitted the new house out exactly like the old one. The man who had a motorcycle accident and reclaimed himself using his old shirts as an anchor. A collective tale of unwanted dolls from faraway places in plastic tube coffins. Together we got lost and sank onto a bog. We ate a a thousand small fish, perfect in death that had jumped out of the sea with curry, cake and a turkish type of delight from Greece. After dinner we burnt the pleated moon under a full harvest moon, roasted a single marshmallow and breathed in frankincense and myrrh.
Today I passed through the glass and deliberately had my coffee a blood grapefruit not more than three meters from where I had it yesterday. I am facing the oak tree dead on. If I lean one way I can see the solitary swing, lean the other and through the leaves are three others. Two forwards and backwards and a perch with rings.
The single swing is hung from the sturdiest branch, it spins in a chaotic unbalanced, skin chaffing way. I have been looking at it for days. All four rely on the oak tree, I think we are going to be friends for a long time. It like me is not perfect it is scarred and gnarled in parts. I wonder if this is a mast year the year a tree produces more acorns than the deer and squirrels can eat? I have finished and hung my pleated ring in the window. Through that which is seen I filmed myself swinging.
Later I felt you standing there in the clearing did you come to say goodbye.
Hovering in the window are two whole and one-half blank pages. One is a doorway that reflects the sky back to me. I have started pleating the paper from 1996 ‘I swear to take a man I love to the William Morris room’ heading backwards to 1993 ‘I am a pimple on the clear complexion of the earth’ It feels less like destroying more like mending. Together they went to Dorchester to by wax thread and needles. We met by the sea and ate overpriced fish. The dog was sick under the chair. The ink is dry and I have lost my thread let’s start again.
I have paper now also scissors and a stone. paper wraps stone, stone blunts scissors, scissors cut paper do you need all there or just two of the same? You have not appeared. I am going to thread the wax string into the sail needle and see what happens.
Frank, Dickon, Nick, Simon one and two, Benji, Luke, Ben, Rob…Fold, Fold, Fold… ‘I hate me’
I have dismantled 1994- I think I might turn it all into a giant clown’s ruff, for Lucky.
They predicted I would marry but would have many other men in the kitchen making breakfast. I would be hippyish, would hate my kids and make them wear clothes from Oxfam. I would cut out butterflies and hang them from the ceiling, wear weird cloths and leave all the windows open. I am scared the blank pages will steal my words. To late I have cut the cord shall I rearrange, edit extract or just eat it?
There is a pile for travel, Nepal, Cherbourg; one for small notes from the school board; a permit for treks of enchantment; a reference to a burnt eyelid; letters from Belgium, my first pill packet; a paperclip; old photographs; cards from dead people; tattoos to be applied at the same time by friends across the channel and poems and quotes from Chaplin and Rossetti.
A small dent has appeared on my third finger sort of like an old bee sting with a worn-out center. I am writing this in a studio where other people’s archives are hiding, trapped in liminal space. I am afraid of blankness. It hovers, lurks waits to punch, suffocates. It’s a full moon on Saturday. Burning rituals have happened here before. Ash can feed fallow ground. Can it be a fond farewell?
The lady with the grey dog wouldn’t burn her diaries. She keeps them for memory and to give to her daughter to read so she understands her, but she only has sons. My brother stopped by for tea today.
A red admiral butterfly flew in earlier. She said it might be her mother. The moon and the Deer are here to help me.
I am afraid of you blank page because of the old ones. Left-handed people should not use fountain pens. The sky is hammering on the corrugated plastic roof it wants to be heard. I am sitting in a corner outside is a perfect clearing with a single swing. This morning I felt something I turned and caught a flash of the rear end of a deer. There were more, two are dappled with multiple moons. I arrived with a box of supplies packed by my mum inside it she had put an old embroidery hoop and an image of a small girl holding a hula hope int a spinning glass frame. It’s on the table if you spin it it catches the evening sun and turns the room into a carousel. I also bought the Dorset diaries 15-18 1993-1996 from the side all you see is the edge. Diaries are not tidy things, stuff slips out. ‘We don’t grow up we just layer’. I am going to fold the page back make the first of many creases. Why do we keep them? unhealed trauma someone said recently. I think i just saw an albino deer, a sign of divinity, transformation, and soul purification. I stare out the window longing for it to return. I am both doe and fawn being chased by a blank white page. My hand is bloodied now there is no turning back. I can slay with a pen. Stay on the deer tracks. If there is a point on a circle you can get to it two ways. At home in a glass dome, I have a broken pulled glass fawn with an old clay pipe for a leg. Almost I stand it upholding my breath as I replace the lid so it doesn’t fall. Another thing on the table here is a terracotta faceless woman hunched over in a headscarf and shawl. I made her at the same time as the diaries. She is the sister of another figure bent almost double. I don’t know if she still exists. If so she is in the blue mountains near indigo valley. She has travelled further than me. It’s dusk, the deer have returned. I have switched out the lights and am laying, waiting. I no longer fear blank pages because I am already wrapped. I have cut my eyes on thorns and fallen down banks in bad shoes. I turned my coat to amour but now it is returning to fur. I am still wary of predators but am looking across at a wide-open space near running water with a swing where deer’s come often to graze.
Deer Moon meeting you was a gentle joy and I miss you.
I must order more red ink.
Struggling to see.
Is this a picture, story, game or joke?
Half urban, half rural
It’s ambiguous an illusion. Words are wolves and images speak.
Lurid lime green and possibly asbestos red. It begins awkwardly…
I plaited my hair in a traffic jam
The lady in TSB reminds me graciously that I am broke. I said I would come back in September she said when? Sometime in the middle I said, when I get back from the mountains of Galicia where I hope to see glittering white water and hang out with my favuorite nine-year-old.
I am rich but poor in almost every way. Perhaps that’s how it is. It’s the only way to make any sense of it all. I put a stack of books on hold in the anarchist bookshop in Whitechapel. I don’t have the required piercings and am not drinking the right thing out of the right can go there but I did. The man behind the counter very is friendly. I like it here although perhaps I should ease up on the pastels and leather.
During the Violet interlude everything seemed slower and simpler. Now I am running again but this is the strangest thing. I am no longer sure from what! There was a decomposing unidentifiable beast on the side of the road somewhere between junction 7 and 9. No living thing should die alone on the M11.
D asked again if she could plait my hair. This time I said yes gently she made three plaits joined together with band. The nurses asked if she pulled and hurt me. No, I said it was simple, gentle and thoughtful. G sang songs about roses from his bed, beside him were miniature models of the dogs he used to own and a half drunk bottle of iron brew.
Plaiting is really something that should be done more often.
There are five bubbles in the base each on make the world a little more miniature.
Its two lips are soft perfect for pouring, its rim curved. At halfway up its body it expands out. Something I can only feel not see. near the base is a scar. A piece of something grit, stone, creates a indent a faint wave. A modest reminder of the liquidness of its being.
R the electrician came to fix the switch, it has stopped fizzing now. He remembered the missing lamp that used to be on the window ledge before the flood. It was made into a light by Mum’s friend T. I bought it to show him so he can make one (he is an amateur photographer) and realised the camera is an Ilford. Not a ‘Witness’ but a ‘Sportsman’, strange I never noticed that before. There is something wonderful about talking to an electrician about a light. Perfectly pitched, like the jug an equal pour.
I have folded my Z bed and slipped off my uncharacteristic fluffy pom pom slippers (a gift from E).
I have poured the honey from my head and eaten it straight from the greek yoghurt pot. I am wearing G’s Aran jumper as usual.
I read them cover to cover 1993-1996. It is the story of my teenage self being sucked into a slow oozing pool of unrequited love, longing and loneliness. I was not well. I wrote to stay alive.
A teenage naïf with only love in her head. Pallid, afraid with deep set inchoate eyes. A thick line of Kohl above and below. Wearing multifarious costumes bought mostly from the local charity shops. Mute, armed only with a pen, a morphing scrawl.
Painfully pin pickable. Swimming alone in my internal lake, haunted by the moonlight. In love with love, with touch with dreams. Longing…
The pool was matt black and blue, tar like and gritty. Each stroke made me heavier. My head was hurting filled with toxic fumes. My body couldn’t stand it, this sickness. I disappeared.
Hide, don’t speak, walk slowly. I was leaking tears and twists. This Pierrot of prolonged adolescence has been following me ever since dragging a fading moon.
I installed a tap in my mouth and one in my left ear. For months now I have been loosening the faucet. It’s a thick liquid quite unlike water, it doesn’t always flow easily. It holds heat. It comes up from deep in the ribcage the center. To purge can be painful, especially if there are blockages.
I have backward lapses, some days I am reluctant to let go of my ‘moonist fiction’. Funny a lot of the men I thought I loved are moon struck.
As Teenager I was a potter in my diaries, I recall the joy in making these faceless figures. Their heads kept falling off. My mum still has a few of them floating around her house. Small blank white-faced porcelain ghosts. Ancestors of Lucky the comically ordinary clownish thing that lives in me.
Freud had a Begonia like mine. The one I have grown from a gifted cutting. Its’ a dark, pondlike green with irregular white polka dots, deep red pushes through.
The crack is my computer screen has developed a lime, acid green flourish at its edge. Earlier I watched a film about nine islands in Portugal that had been overtaken with purple hydrangeas. They engulfed houses, antennae, everything. A blanket that didn’t seem to suffocate. Will they creep up me? When night fell, in the film behind the crack was a clear white light. That was all I could see. An ordinary brightness.
We are two soft stones tentatively embracing. Palm size. My grip so tight I deprive him of breath. I push through his pale skin and dive, into his chest arriving in the space where his heart should be. I am entirely dissolved.
Lucky’s L lives in Limerence near Lud.
Slicing thick yellow skin, scoring fine lines on soft pink flesh. Hollowing out translucent tart triangles that make my eyes close.
I have packed my bed away I am not staying here tonight. The sheets have the hand on of a girl who probably won’t live to be my age.
I forgot to bring spare underwear. Yesterdays have been rinsed out in shampoo and are drying on the radiator.
I woke up again clutching my head, this often happens alternatively I am pushing my left fist against my heart.
There in the foreground against the landscape of past loves and old life the word NASCENT.
My computer screen has a fine curved violet line across it, the first stripe of a rainbow.
It’s often on the day I am due to leave here that realise I am hungry to stay. It can be a lonely experiment.
Pale Green Pain & Sugar Pink Passion…
The faint smell of other artists excrement is back. Or is it a decomposing countryside creature laid to rest under box of abandoned print that’s been here to long already and I haven’t even been here that long.
What is this place? is hard to know where to begin. The beginning was to long ago and what’s next hasn’t happened yet so let’s start here, now.
It is 22.53 on Wednesday the 8th May. I have just returned from the loo. It was there whilst clearing the cobwebs off the lo roll I decided finally to start writing this. What is this? It’s a bit like the place a little undefinable and prone to change.
There is a pale green light on in the corridor. This tells me an invisible person is recording something that uncannily I can’t hear. The sound proofing isn’t proof if you know what I mean.
It’s not always this way. Two weeks ago, a punk band were thrashing tyres and giant drums till 3.30 in the morning. That time I was the invisible one, they didn’t know I was here.
Today I have managed to walk just 1,990 steps according to the small digital heart on my phone screen. It always looks so promising in its flat red symmetrical way.
Phone’s don’t work here, well not really to answer them you have to go outside and perch precariously on a half dead rusted headless female form . At least that what I think it is.
If you lift your eyes and look over the field there is a shed. One you are not supposed to go inside. Through the window a sad portrait of a crying clown looks past you.
What is this place? and what am I doing here? Today I made seven, well actually six, well really nine but three fucked up, collages with pink pastels and pale green images of unknown countryside.
They all contain figures of women engulfed in pink passion. Some have dark hollows for eyes.
I want to say I arrive here most weeks in a Citron D super with different coloured doors and a body the palest shade of peach. In truth I drive up in a 1.2 engine silver Vaxhaull Corsa called Luigi, he came with his name. He’s loyal but I don’t love him.
Tonight, I drank blood (otherwise translated as Aldi’s Tinto Superior) and watched a
Luis Buñuel film. In it a man saw an ostrich in his bedroom and another in bumless trousers was whipped by his wife in front of four monks.
There is something of Watership Down about this place the rabbits rule although there are predators. Mona the black cat has devoured more than a few babies this spring and this evening I saw for the first time a fox. A snide one, not scared in the slightest by my sneaker steps.
I’ve seen a few books written like this before by writers who aren’t me. What gives a person the right to write? In an Ethiopian restaurant with two friends the other day we talked about how in a lifetime you can’t do everything. Its probably wise to choose and do one thing well.
This isn’t choosing well. I have a GSCE grade C in English literature. My hands are more at home with things than words, but I do love turning pages and repeatedly launching myself off long slides.
Right now, I am reading D.H Lawrence’s Women in Love my friend who last week I told I might love calls him a sexually repressed freak. I think there are flickers in his fiction.
In 195? Ilford photographic made a camera called ‘The Witness’. I just wrote a proposal to restage my parents wedding in Redbridge town hall and us the camera to take the image that never was.
My Dad says perhaps infact they aren’t married at all as they missed the S off he end of their surname on the marriage certificate.
So who am I? I am Lucky its like Lucy but with a K . The K is for Kate.
Someone is setting the alarm and locking me in the green light is still green. No one can steal the gear. I must confess sometimes I wish instead that someone would steal me.
For so long I have longed for love, but I never knew what it looked like.
It is a wide expanse of milky white water set in a landscape that human eyes can’t see.
My body is full of acid green shards of Murano glass. These wounds aren’t healed I am still bleeding.
I make fog to hide in hoping pain won’t find me
I see love as something impossibly heavy
I am afraid you will abandon me
I am afraid you will reject me
I am afraid
T and I are wandering around a 2nd hand shop full of beautiful clothes
We have sex but something terrible happens his penis is mutilated ripped and flattened
I leave alone
I am by the sea its huge overwhelmingly beautiful acid green and curly there is a child face it. I am trying to photograph it but it keeps moving. Someone has lost their glasses they keep washing in and then back out to sea. I find them
There is a small child here alone, I did not do a good job babysitting
M walks towards me, comes up behind and places his hand in the front of my trousers
Slowly he enters me it feels good but loveless he is just doing me a favour
A group of old ladies come down in brightly coloured swimwear to bathe
They are laughing
We leave I am anxious about missing a plane.
I have my ticket it’s flat, blue shaped like a fish it keeps washing away
I was in an identifiable institution it was spotless. The man next to me was also working on a computer. He seemed interested in me I wasn’t sure. I was trying to e-mail the lady upstairs to say I would come to the party. It was almost impossible to find the right button, layer, page.
The man next to me was going to come to. He wanted me to cover myself in some sort of oil and get in this really rusty old good dumb waiter.
He went first as there was only space for one. When the lift came up it was like he had been dipped in acid he was gruesome and melting.
I walked up the stairs through rooms full of sparkling uncomfortable art people. I made it to the party. The small boat peeled away from the large ship. I was travelling fast through a passage of water towards a new type of city. All white and rounded, beautiful but equally uncanny.
Where there are clowns there are dark clowns
Wilma and Nan clowns, farmers, painters, and full moon party throwers.
There’s was a life full of life
Of love, community, and curiosity
I dreamt of M again this time sex was fully present. It was just there already begun.
But not quite, there were parameters for forgetting.
Then a blonde boy his son I think? warned me away. If you do, he said he will forget you in the morning.
Buzzzzzzzzz the phone with the crocodile trapped in it goes its M. Lucy can’t do this morning soz, Maybe weekend?
I reply with a sad face emoji
I’m hollow there are two holes for my eyes. I’m wearing a tattered ruff and holding a half deflated red balloon. Peeking out from behind is a small egg headed creature with a crack for a face. I wind myself up every morning, I rarely sing.
Made from the now familiar pink paper the me mask has two sides. One is a melancholy clown, polka dotted with holes in its hat and a wound in its forehead. The other is trying to sparkle but something large has crashed into its head. The stars look more like explosions.
She hasn’t remembered my birthday for over 20 years (Dad re Mum)
The healing waters is Russia huge, tiled rooms. I am there to be cure
It’s too rough the sea today to use it
I shake the hand of a miniature man with my pinkie
We are on a train and old train with these corridors and maroon upholstery. From the window I can see huge icebergs and multiple red brick buildings, tombs or temples of some sort.
Suddenly it loops back round going back the way we came.
People get off but I don’t I go back to the beginning.
Back to the place of healing waters
The earth begins s to rise up cradling the building we are in
The world is flooded
Iceberg fly past I want to film them, but everything is happening to fast I am not sure what’s going on
Things start falling away, collapsing caving in
Then they drop
In slow motion earth returns to earth
A gentle crash. we land right beside these large rusty green pylons
Two meters to the left and I would have become permanently impaled a dead Marot.
I have stood up, sat down, taken my shoes off, erected a new table and made a cup of tea. I thought I didn’t have a computer charger but it’s okay it seems I have three.
I am now here at the table. It’s sturdy and this is the 1st thing that has ever happened on it.
To my left, no sorry right is a half-finished hat a pile of gloves and a Pierrot’s ruff. It’s possible if I ever read this aloud that I might be wearing them standing in front of you.
So who am I? it’s hard to say but let’s for now say Lucky? it’s a bit like Lucy but with a K.
I am going to try and tell you a story one without a beginning or an end. It’s a little fragmented, jumbled, muddled but there is I hope a certain flow.
The problem is I am not at all sure what to say? My instinct is to flee. I’m sorry it’s a little hard to think straight with all these hands in my head. This is not going at all well, tears are forming panic is setting in. In front of me is an incomplete collection of 266 loosely circular relational objects. The last pierrot in Paris had a similar collection. I have bought a few of these things to show you seven in fact I have always liked 7’s. I am still searching for the story; I am sorry I will try to be still. Let’s start again.
Thankfully a friend popped by with some Menalite in his pocket it’s a clay concretion. Con comes from the Latin together and crescene is to grow. It is layers of minerals that form round central core in a roughly spherical way. It’s a beautiful thing, I have never seen anything quite like it before. It’s It removes fear, increases, fertility and allows you to journey to other realms. It relieves anxiety and heals wounds. They are sometimes called goddess stones or clay babies.
It’s beautiful, complex, soft, awkward and accidental.
Shall I pass it round I would much prefer to talk about you all than me but here I am so I will try and stay with it. With what? I am not quite sure but here with you now sharing something. Perhaps if I unfold my fabric moon and stand on it, I can stay here for a little longer
The same friend on the way out asked what my spirit animal would be. These things are all a little cosmic for me but now he has gone I wonder if it could be a deer. I saw some on the dual carriageway the other day. They, the deer are gentle, but have strength they are vigilant and able to change direction. It’s clearly stated that gentle is not helpless or hopeless.
So, what next we have a menalite and a glass deer with a clay pipe leg? I am looking up at my wall of things I feel thankful I am here in the studio (a place of potential another friend called it and not my flat). That’s because its dark and I hate being in my house alone at night. It suddenly turns from 1920’s ex council flat to a coffin. Lime green loneliness pours through the keyhole and I turn, looking for a way to get out.
It’s a jumble thing are wrong
I can’t find the story
I don’t want to search anymore
How do I get out?
I am standing on the edge guardians of other people’s pools
My reflection is missing
I am dissolved
Where is my life? I have lost it …
Help, Help, Help!
I wear infinite sadness it makes me invisible.
Is there fullness in melancholy?
S was there in an empty cold marble space
I hadn’t seen him for a long time
I followed him down the metal fire escape on the outside of the building
A ferocious poisonous arachnoid embedded it’s sting into his flesh
Over before it had begun
How long had he been hiding there?
Gently rocking heads and a fine delicate pulsing hand
Clay silence, stars, and a blue moon
There is stamping from above
Let’s roll the paper roll around
Connect, fold play
Make a paper heart, a flower a zig zag
‘It’s nice to have the change’
People need things to do
Lightness, nothing expected
Things that are not specific things
Thank you for lending me the scissor from your apron pocket
Let’s play Paper.
In the back of the derelict house, I do not know what to do with is a yellow tiled bathroom.
If you turn on the tap you can go down a floor, its shaped like a slide.
It has turned itself inside itself and wrapped its rubber around my ribcage.
These woven figures I have seen before, testicles, tears, eggs, and Octopuses.
Watch, mirror, reflect
It’s marvelously low fat
Don’t throw paper aeroplanes at me!
A piece of paper (a map) became a bird or a butterfly?
The body is an instrument, slap, clap, knock, rock
What is this stick of black? I can’t do it, or can I?
A gentle dance and a deeply rhythmic one
Drawing sound, sound drawing
A quiet hand placed occasionally on a shoulder
Adapting, doing it your own way
Playing the tambourine with the side of your hand
Slotting paper, boats into paper planes
Maybe it’s time to take a U-turn?
Let’s play the pencil
Umbrellas are like trees
Cinderella and the umbrella
The comb in C’s pocket. I drew the comb, E wrote Comb three times
Folding paper, concertina, fans, ripping shredding feeling
Drawing with combs, playing combs?
What about an ocean Drum?
Marking the music, folding paper
We floated down the dunes to the sea
A lady there told us it was cold, but the nets were only out in one place
T had in back to us, he was standing in a half wooden box
The mussel lady was scooping something from her bucket
They were pulling gently at his arms that were poked through holes in the wood
His swimming shorts were orange check with holes in them
M and I lay on the beach, comfortable, connected, soft
T lay on the other side, close but not touching
I asked him if he wasn’t a man what would he like to be?
He replied with what I think was the very long name of a type of guitar
T was naked and beautiful. His hand poked out from under his chest
I took it in mine and told him he really should fix up his chipped back nail polish
I want to stay here on the beach between these two, but a creature is knocking on the corrugated plastic ceiling and there is someone fiddling with the boiler.
I am late, distracted it’s all happening, I can’t get it out. Two red leather hands sit on my shoulder. I need help!
If I attach all the bamboo poles together and wave a flag will anyone see it?
Today E drew a place of plentiful water and fields of gold.
Octopus headdresses and umbrellas with holes in.
What if I just can’t, keep the cogs going? who would come with oil?
Water, sun, warmth
Where is home?
Tracing the memories of past places
Let’s be gentle, go slower
Help me to choose
I failed at-
I am afraid of
I want to
be a mother
be a partner
“If you want to live and thrive, let a spider run alive” A
The secret is somewhere, like fog when you reach it disappears.
The swimming pool was half empty. I was in but on the outside. C had a giant moustache and D was jumping. People were throwing the padding from bras to each other. I was afraid.
I can’t cry underwater.
The lady in the green jumper held a golden egg, it makes noise when you shake it but she motioned to say she can’t hear. In the opposite hand to the hard egg, I placed a soft red nose. One squishy one, hard. We added noses to our playful fingers and danced, mirroring each other’s movements. Mary joined and serenaded our fingers. We exchanged no words, only laughter.
E felt joy in throwing things and was keen to put a red beret on her head. M liked to catch.
Gentle interruption can work.
I woke myself in the night, again holding my head
The heavy twist turns, suffocatingly
Help me escape my fear
It comes from an unknown place
Again, the question. Can I ever truly jump off the carousel or will Grandma hold me firmly to that golden horse?
There is a spiral inside of me
I have starved it but still it grows
I have drowned it
I have talked to it
I have suffocated it
I have purged it
I have beaten it
I have mourned it
I have ignored it
I have shouted at it
I have embraced it but still it grows
I have not yet forgiven it
Holding, clenching, bracing, balancing, gripping
Holding breath, pauses heartbeat
Holding body, pauses movement
Holding feeling, pauses the future
where is the dismembered hand I long to be places in the centre of my upper back
In water I am held
I am a clown and I want to pull my nose off
Anger is felt in the neck, fear pulses, joy is everywhere
Sadness is missing
For too long I have been away. This 0 has been empty.
Away to a place where the plants that grow from boats hulls are watered with blood.
Away to a place where there are no children, all that was green is black.
Away to a place where music is muffled, and dancing is a solitary pursuit.
Away along a fallopian tube… that way is blocked
Away to a place where nothing breathes.
A way to be anxious
If I keep pulling the blue ribbon, will I find my way?
My way is red with life and many buttons
My way is today, yesterday, and everyday
My way can only be found with others
Yesterday was with H and the small brown stone
Today it was help that is not always helpful.
Every day is Every day
A dreamt about T a man I used to work with.
I discovered accidentally that he had died.
He had made a homemade gun and shot himself with it.
If Pierrot plays out who is id, ego, and super ego?
I felt rejected when my dad went away, perhaps my mum did to.
She fills space with people and things
I fill space with people and things
When I was very young, I used to creep into the basement and drink a top of gin.
My mouth is still full of blue ribbon, something is stuck B and C have seen it.
Moving, always moving no solid ground
Places full of strange faces
Coming going, going coming
The water dried up
Someone chopped my head off
Joy fills the whole us
Touch was often absent
So much unknowing
These walls are bruised and so am I
I am not sure I will come here again
Remember this if I do
Bring friends, bring wonder
A spinning plate, a concertina an outfit of faces.
I will not burn young in a woven carriage
I will die old laughing
Kein … then the pen ran out.
It all ends and then it starts again… the flow
I stare into the pointed end
I blow as hard as I can
I score a silent circle
Hashing harshly and then as if by magic a clown’s face appears.
A moment ago, in this dystopian land a man fell in slow motion into the center of the crossroads.
A short time before I passed the place where the friendly face didn’t want to see me.
Six men sat in a derelict park surrounded by huskies. This is a hard place, and I am sick.
I am still here
Earlier I watched a small girl play in a red dress in a lake sponsored by Audi
Where is wonder? Why huskies?
In the park I love by the playground a man crouched down to do a shit.
Today I returned and slid solo on the slide
My heart is hard to walk with, the clown is not to be feared.
A sad, happy that tries again, again and again.
Two men and a husky just walked by.
The clown did not pick up the phone
All the chairs are empty now
Kein, Kein, Kein
The pens still scratching for joy.
Searching for a reflection.
Are you awake?
The ‘thing’ is back muffling and muddling. The pierrot is watching whilst slowly building a collection of 266 things. Human contact, communication and exchange. A green umbrella, a carton of cream, one clap of thunder, a looking glass, a first aid kit, a pair of yellow gloves, six coffee cups with saucers…
A nebulous apparition, something from the past hard to place, difficult to recognised a thing to fear and to pity. I was a ghost last Friday standing in the centre of a faded three ringed circle drawn on the ground in marble powder.
If I am to be a ghost let me be Louis Fuller or a Pierrot. All painted white, shedding only a single tear, endlessly spinning in my giant pom poms.
Apple, bubble, polka dot perfect.
He is one of a new type, a variety I realise didn’t exist before. I am fading in a polka dot, dapple, bubble blur.
I can’t seem to halt the overzealous eraser.
Here begins invisibility, it’s a lot more painful than I imagined.
Another peer never a pair.
Can a sad clown teach the OohO? It is not a course or a workshop more a conversation.
The blue meanies came today, I am wearing a blue cotton shirt. Perhaps the shirt is the meanie, or the meanie is me. Why do we do it? Today I washed and fed the body but the meanies still found their way in. Trapped deep down in the cave they are, is it wrong to suffocated them? In the yellow submarine in the end they joined everyone in the sky with diamonds. The nowhere man only knows in context. Just out of reach feels very far away.
I am a stone, still but made by movement over time. Last night I made a lemon pendulum for W&L it hangs in the middle of the empty space between their kitchen and living room. We should make things for the people we know. Not the ones we don’t. Drop a small stone in water, walk down a spiral staircase backwards. Maude’s world was sensory, disobedient and gentle. How to make a world like that? A real world not an art world. Harold came into it hurt and came out healed. J is making dividers for his house with tasselled trim the choice of shamans. He told me he needs to make work to live. G showed me pictures of a lady who has made 100’s of paper shoes. We are planning to crochet 1hr lines in a field in devon. Rooms full of slow cyclical movement that smell of rosemary (to jolt memory) and lavender to remind you of summer. Places with things that weigh you down gently. A place where you can make to. Where is this place? I can build it but I also need to find it. If I close my mind and breathe there would be a circular pool, a simple carousel with out the gaudy horses, water, things swaying from above, natural bubbles in the air, textile, fabric to touch, hammocks, smells, sounds, an accordion sometimes, its flexible you can move it to suit you.
Its all in a bag to start
Just add breath and water-
One hammock hand made
A web / a carousel of sorts
Twists body attachments
A cloth/ sheet
A hat/ pillow/ Brugel/ Maude
Scent Lavender Bag
Connectors Suckers/ String/ clips
A rope to skip
A hula hoop
Silence and funnels. Once we blew away that globulous sticky space, I felt strange almost as if there was nothing left. This silence is suffocating. It needs to be drawn out but how? by playing a breathing instrument I can not play? or by making biscuits with the word silence embossed on and eating them slowly? swimming is a silence but in a different way.
There are still eggs in my ovaries. I am eating chia seeds and drinking lemon water. If I mix Ackerman, Breugel, Bo Bardi, Clark, July, M, A, G, R and G the path will build itself I am sure of it. It’s not a yellow brick road more a red on that runs in a spiral.
It’s all in the fountain in Gois that moment when I walked into the centre. Breaking the rules changing the flow. I am pulling the ribbon of silence from inside of myself. The salon is at the centre of me. It’s raining Oo0oOOOoooo’s. I am not building a feeling but a fountain. Give back yourself what you have given to others, allow yourself. You have been connecting to the wrong things. It’s time to stop writing in riddles. No one can unravel the code, not even you. Start somewhere take all that you know and serve it up. Lets see.
The two sides of my face are fighting with each other. I think this happens a lot but its only now I am really aware of it. I don’t know exactly where it is the bit that snaps, but it went again at the weekend. G says the theatre show in Athens made him realise how recently it is that women have been able to feel any sort of free. We are not though are we free? still myself fights myself. This discomfort on the inside often puffs up in the wrong parts, today my right dimple disappeared. Will the air always be full of what I am not? Everyone has an opinion, a good mother perhaps I could be, but I am not? A loving partner I could have if I just let go of love and accepted only ing, but I can’t. Run, run, run my heart says feel the sun, sit in cafes on the street and make anything but money.
B and the bells. An academic witch of sorts he said. A need for lines as well as spirals. As I spun around in the white space two big hands came down to hold me. Like pottery on the wheel spinning constantly but there is a need it seems for very different rhythms.
A clown with a hula hoop on a record player. A woman dressed as a clown with a hula hoop or juggling on a roundabout.
Next time we will go deeper.
There is something I am afraid to write down…
The world needs to have what you know B said, they deserve it. How do I do that?
Talk to 5 friends about what you do record it.
The thing I know but avoid is that I choose to stand on the side of circle’s knowing they won’t give me what I want. This confirms to me that I am indeed invisible.
AWKWARD as part of me as part of practice as a thing to be embraced. The pataphysical ritual. Letting out that imaginary space sharing it. Turning on one spot, walking around fountains, swinging. It’s all moving from the a single position. What is the position? why not share it, shout it, give it away, do something, anything.
There is a force field between me and the world holes are appearing.I am afraid of what I might really be.
Keys, wallet, travel card, phone, coats on, doors open and then! I can’t go through it. There is an invisible, solid wall. I go back inside and quietly, close the door. Why am I not in Donegal looking at stone circles? I cleaned and cleaned. I wiped the mould from the walls, beat the rugs, hoovered, mopped and scrubbed. My hands are dry and my small world smells of vinegar. The person I was due to meet never messaged, no-one has e-mailed. It’s all gone eerily calm.
Yesterday I walked past so many perfect puddles. The rings on the surface of water are wonderful to watch. Hypnotic, there is a rhythm, a pace, slow, reliable and yet strangely still surprising.
A man on top of a mountain is struggling to find his way.
Everything here fells uneasy the sky is crying. In the night they came down from their hide-out. They stirred slowly, slowly, slowly and occasionally burst into quiet involuntary song. By morning all that remained were multiple tupperware pots full of curry.
I no longer wish to be tested or marked, I don’t want to win. There is no prize. We have silver circles imbedded into the skin at the back of our heads that play an imperceptible high pitched noise. It hurts us in such a way that we don’t even notice. They tame us.
The aeroplane hovered but never landed. It threatened to topple. Crouched by a set of shelves behind a plant, barely disguised by its pointed fingers it seemed my time was up? Purple fumes filled the space I tried not to breathe. FEAR
Neon dreams, the future is ‘O’. The space I am in is empty apart from giant branches, neon strips and miniature model sheds. We had travelled along way to have such a short conversation, even my trousers are shrinking from the ankle up.
It’s time to re arrange what stops me. Is it really fear of dead mice? I will put my shoes back on. It was only after I left the garage today I realised I forgotten to put a bra on.
10 days ago or so ago I drew an O on a snow covered table Soho. It was the day before I reached an O. I bought a spotted notebook in the hope it would help me to start again.
The O approach an approach to O. The ladies in the painting followed a red thread, I have always preferred needlepoints that are unfinished. A way to way lay, a black swan, Hope, Paris a clown. Snow is always a surprise. J and I had a snowball fight over a table tennis table in Soho square.
There is a purple plague. The polka dots are still raining down and the wind is howling like it’s hurt. What did I miss? a method, a frame or a system train. Strategy is like tragedy. I am reading a book that talks about another book. There is a woman in it who finds herself stock still at a bus stop no longer knowing which way to go. The other woman who’s in both the 1st and 2nd book only has 1000 matches left to live.
So who am I in this 3rd version. I am right now staring at some old faded bunting that is wavering above a wooden horse I found on a walk. The clock hasn’t quite stopped but it’s a quiet tick tock. If I stay still completely still panic can’t find its way. I long to be under water, part drowning.
Like a vampire he only comes out after dark. Cruella is awake.
Water, fire, light. Can you be extinguished? The corner of the living room is a jungle of cotton wool spores in alarming shades of green and lime. It must have been creeping in slowly, gradually but its only now I see it. For how long have my walls been festering? I douse them with vinegar or wine its a temporary fix but the damp comes from outside. The thing is I don’t know who owns those walls and they don’t have to live inside here. I have written this before I know it. Can anybody hear me, can anybody hear me help! help! help!
COMPETITION, CHAMPIONSHIP, OPEN CALL, RACE, OPPORTUNITY, GAME, TUG OF WAR
…… LOTTERY 0/11
ANXIETY, FIGHT, STRUGGLE, BURN OUT
I am having problems connecting. My glasses are in an Indian restaurant my wallet is in a locker in an archive. I gave E a headache. Retreat or fight? Nervous is not always a wreck.
I have a busy brain and eyes that only half cry. I boiled the puppets, dying their bodies blood red.
Monologues with a puppet, a mini me like Evetta the lady clown. Was Fevvers making a plea for fun, for care, compassion, kindness and integrity? G posted a picture of a pink badge in red thread it reads ‘Maybe I am not to sensitive maybe you are just a dickhead’.
The ladybirds are back they come through the air vent. Today things are finding a way in. A small bird got into the gallery, a moment of chaos before it realised it was trapped in the glass box. L gently aided its escape. The mouse wasn’t so lucky in came in alive and left dead.
I got off the train at the wrong stop because the buggy had toppled over and the babies heads were rolling. It was night, clowns had gathered on a rooftop and on windowsills to play. There was a strange atmosphere. He leant over to touch me and vomited. I ran away still wearing all my clothes.
As he pulled on the blue plastic gloves and buckled his tool belt I wondered if he would cut my hair or my throat. Sometimes big change can start superficially he said. My head is definitely lighter I hope that that is true.
I woke up in one of multiple rooms. They kept flicking like a slide show this one on a roof top had a pale green glow. The door blew open and as I went to close it D a man I knew a long time ago filled the gap.
I thought there was only one but the floor was writhing with orange tailed rodents. The theatre emptied. W and I washed our feet in a flooded room. Last night was endless I couldn’t close it. Why did that man fill the doorway? He wasn’t one I have loved.
Inchoate is my middle name. I am forever just begun, not fully formed or developed.
She sent me away, upstairs to the room with the silver balloons.
There is a person in the corner trapped in an opaque white latex bubble. Elastic movements and a tuft of blonde hair.
Back downstairs I realise the sewing machine is not mine.
We lost one elephant and realised the other one was actually a rhino.
In a box in the front yellow vegetables have grown into faces.
I assumed something here that wasn’t true, I am leaving.
I am crocheting an orange circle.
Last night a friend of mine confessed to me how much he likes play doh.
I received an e-mail from one of the most wonderful women in the world thanking me for giving her permission to play.
I know I know but I don’t know what I know.
Double stitch going round again its not a circle its a spiral.
111 Park Lorne is ribbed for your pleasure. The man sat low at the dusty desk says take to take the door on the left. Grey plastic leather seats await surrounded by curtains and walls that flow in a not quite modern but trying way. There is a another woman there, all the brochures are purple and slightly bruised. Shall I shan’t I what am I doing here?
The 1st time I ever came to London my 13 year old self started out here on this very same street. Dad, Mum, Will and I stayed at the Sherlock Holmes hotel. I remember I was wearing an oversize brown duffle coat married with a brown velvet hat. At the time my collection of the month was mugs. I still have that miniature mug with the image of that man smoking his pipe silhouetted in brown.
Is this the start of your story 111 or 333? R, M and A say yes J no and there are more than a few people I am to afraid to tell.
A fox just ran across the alley at the back. Upstairs and man and woman have fought to the point of exhaustion. So 111 or 333 what do you think? your nowhere even near to being but do you want to exist? Is it wrong to write about you? how about this for a title A boiler and A baby? how 111 or 333 came to be?
I found an octopus at the bottom of the pool.
Something is rotting and I am not sure if it’s part of me. Yellow and black it oozes, it’s waxy like old hide. It is night here there are two black stallions dancing round a field playing with entrails. At the market an English art tutor is giving away replica’s of his students work. Over sized candlesticks, an amorphous glass bottle type object with no top and a small box full of pale green bakelite sundries for a tiny sewing machine. N is taking photographs of things in the bottom of a giant scrupled up paper bag, a book and a water jug. I have in my hand a fragile landscape book full of single performers from the circus, N does not want to photograph this. People are coming and going a lady I don’t know is sat on a wall she is due to give birth soon at the hospital we were at earlier. So are two other friends of mine I say in that same month. A fierce woman with a sharp back bob shouts across like a warning she hasn’t got children! then asks me if I want three?
All the german lined glass napkin bowls are smashed into fours. White paint is flaking off the walls and the tables. I have put the silver hand in a suede pouch for safe keeping. Under their hood the girl or boy in an ill fitting grey tracksuit walking away from me is wearing a bright gold mask. Everything has slowed down. The old lady at the table talks about children I leave. There are three pools at the giant lake, the life guard recommends the sports one. There is a mini tsunami coming small enough to hold in your hand. We are trying to get to the shore, the tide is strong. Something wraps itself around my leg its a small maroon school jumper. We drag ourselves onto the shore using a blue canal boat as a hoist. A sharp knife and a rose float past us. Coming in and out of the bathrooms a are people with paper mache heads adjusting their clothing.
The subway train inside a warehouse was still but the front was moving, covered in accidental dancing papers. I kept going into T’s rooms moving things. The glass shelf was made of two parts it wouldn’t settle. I heard him, ran, hid. He followed me. He knew it was me but I am not sure he even asked why. I walked slowly through a room filled with soft rubber multicoloured tubes T’ watched me. There was a girl with us she needed to sit down. We were together but not connected T exploded, it was pale blue, purple and curdled, it was everywhere.I went to vomit.
Calling EightyOneFry333 for your first appointment
WTR* portal opened 10.30 Thursday it is!
The red curtains hang long on the outside of the building. This won’t be like the last there is a polka dot storm coming.
M and I were in a place like Venice. We went to visit a friend of his. There was a very long cabinet full of glass bells in different sizes. I was trying to catch a train from the wrong city. While waiting for a taxi I dipped the tail of a porcelain mermaid into the water. It changed colour.
We were supposed to going somewhere else. I parked my car outside N’s house it seemed strange that I always parked here but never went in.
Behind the green painted wooden door were familiar but ungraspable faces. C appeared it was as if he was pure warmth. We were each given a bed. We were not going to stay long, things began to happen. I held back, a girl introduced herself she had the same name as me. I was led to a very tall step ladder. At the end it funnelled I could only go so far. Head stuck, above was a clothed erect penis performing. A cry came from a buried place.
I emptied clear jellies full of carrots and asparagus onto a small table. I was not really there everything was cloudy. I walked through the room C was to the left wearing a pale blue onesie, talking to a girl with long straight hair. I wasn’t wearing any trousers, we weren’t leaving.
Bats and blood thats all.
Bright metallic with my name and the date I had lost it on a white paper label. There are others like it thicker knit with international / decorative holes but they were never mine.
I have always loved clothing full of intentional holes. hOle
M was there with me on this planet with the gold jumpers. He opened his arms and I was absorbed by him. Not hugged, not embraced I just fell in. I closed the curtains.
Later on the roof we threw up a dot that was inside an endless tan leg of a tight. It stretched and stretched until it snapped, a lost hosiery comet.
The princess with the pea did she twist, fold, crumple and stretch? I have never filmed myself sleeping. If I balance a stick from the shelf to the top of the door I could put a camera up high there.
M was and is magic
He is and isn’t real
His call was not a pocket call.
A blue tent, a lorry, upstairs oblivious.
The black card says amplify the flaws!
We were not suppose to be there. The short ribbed creatures where dancing. The empty floor was suddenly filled with small beads and miniature vases of deep red goo. J was there I left. I was trying to reach the others but the black metal stairway wouldn’t let me. It buckled, folded and swayed. I was scared.
I haven’t’ been anywhere but I have been away. There has been a giant yellow moon. I was trapped in a red metal elevator, everything was messy. I am twisting fabric to make umbrella’s from sheets and spun trees. The largest tree has fallen in the middle is a gap, a space a doorway? I haven’t tried to play the accordion for a long time.
I am at a table eating jar of olives for my dinner using a double ended rose to flick an empty metal globe.
Sexually attractive or exciting.
Very exciting or appealing.
Not sexually attractive or exciting.
Not very exciting or appealing.
When I open my eyes I realise I am in my favourite room in the place I live sometimes. My fist is clenched, frozen.
I was folding clothes, I knew somehow I shouldn’t be there. They walked up the hill towards me. Thanks for the card P said then paused and continued, your handwriting is so huge, erratic, unreadable not like W’s neat, tidy decisive. P would never say that. The other P is anxious she is in a stick needs money or something. We are under the table, the air heavy with spite, I being accused by D of the things that he has done. D would never say that. N keeps popping in and out of the frame quite why I have no idea. Everywhere I am feels awkward. Amygdala is restless.
I can see a room of incomplete embroideries where the damage and water marks have been lovingly re stitched in shades of red through to white. The threads are not tied off or tame but left free to hang from their sharp needles.
An older man and woman kneel down in their formal attire to play marbles on the concrete.
Red runs four pain less rivers. The letters IV make me push down hard and grate my wrists long my trouser legs. The stone by me now is such a very pale hopeful pink.
Moving forwards facing backwards. In the branches of the tree is a they I will never be. I gather evidence.
A small girl twirled my hair in her hands as she watched potatoes with oggley eyes squash flumps. In the garden is a mild, mini passion fruit bush. Different, exotic even, other in an understated way.
Wrong thing right box, right thing wrong box, wrong box wrong thing, right box wright thing.
Cry, laugh, laugh, cry, laugh loudly, cry loudly stare straight don’t move … panic!
Objects stuff matter a post thing world. How much lighter it could be. 3 years from now I could be a peddler with a projector. All rooms are white until you walk in. Projecting the mind.
Ego disintegrating, non linear interactive experiences, data, mapping, linking.
Slow snails on the nettles. Unknown berries in everything from deep blood red to pure puffed white. Fluff and prickles, things are dying things are growing. On the corner is a rose bush, not beautiful but if you pass it as the right time you can smell its sweet scent. W came eye to eye with a deer recently.
A long time ago I lived off a street near another street that had a clock cafe. The clock is still there but underneath it has all gone pale grey. 19 is still scratched with something like a compass into the black gloss door. I wonder if the Irish man who drank in the brown chair under the giant gold crucifix is still there. What happened to the cat lady who I shared a powder pink bathroom with no widows with. There was also an earless creature who appeared only at night with offerings of Bacardi breezers and VHS’s off unknown american films. I used to put the key in the door breathe in and silently tip toe to the basement.
An extremely wild woodland creature from the kingdom of Elmet.
A blue castle with a hundred turrets seen through a porthole with a flag flying on top. Cascades the clown in grey trousers with a sad face and a badly painted on nose.
Pools of water on different levels some ice cold some bubbling hot, some deep dark blue the others swimming pool turquoise. If you look down there is a cascade of semi circular levels. Each with odd shaped seating. On the odd one their are pairs of giant rocking horses. The water runs underneath you jump into one pool, surface though a another in the milk white caves. I am aware I am not supposed to be here. A couple disappear down narrow alley before I can ask why.
A selkie, a nixie, a clown, red riding hood, snow white, a beast, a lion, a wolf, a witch, a mother, a grandmother, a princess, a fairy or a lady from the well. Red is none and all of theses things.
Method, methodology, plan, system, list. Hard words for a daydreamer, a creature from the sea. How does the octopus do it. It looks at whats there it adapts, squeezes, stretches and finds a way.
If there is a head let’s feed it by wandering off and returning bringing with us the stories and people we have stuck to along the way. What sticks? Who sticks? What are we crawling off to find. To bleed over borders, to learn, to share, to care, for friendship, to taste.
I have been experiencing a fear of the page of what it might mean to commit something to words in a tangible (still fluid) but not fragmented way.
From morn to even, the 8 statues in the city square spoke to me. They are women marking time dancing naked, with flowers.
I got in a lift in Sheffield that had no doors and moved like a mechanical photo booth.
Somehow in these past two pic and mix slightly isolated weeks in Leeds I have started to become a gentle clown.
A clown is both deeply melancholy and a present and happy a person. I am not an Auguste or a Pierrot. Something softer something, female a female clown! Lou Lou one on the first didn’t adopt the grotesque. She went for the glitter. Born in Belgium for me it’s a root a thread but like me she was just passing through. Shape shifting, transforming it’s out of reach but its coming. Let’s be elastic but connected. An octopus has eight legs its true but holding it together is a head a body.
Pathways edges and well springs.
Water, clowns, and octopuses
Selkie’s loose there skin and they get lost.
Is my skin an understated Margret Howell inspired clown costume with the subtlest on red noses. Could I be an intercontinental clown?
A day dreamer, friendly, caring, messy a misfit. Hysterical (sometimes), bored (often), incomplete, contradictory a myth maker. If you see her let me know.
Carrying a ladder, squeeze box, umbrella, apple, rose, balloon, paper hoop… Wearing ruffles, pom pom’s, a beige beret, polka dot scarf, red nose, plimsoles…
Can you only see rainbows from one way?
Bought one white cotton shirt with a ruffle and a red foam nose.
The sky is black and the leaves white.
To brighten we curve up and then down.
To blend we needed softer light and a lower opacity.
The alpine white spark is just out of reach.
Perhaps it was only ever chrome vinyl wrap.
In the woods waiting for the black bear. One kiss is all it took to wake up sleeping beauty.
The bright white spirals swooshed past for the 2nd day in a row they were waving.
The prick was not hard enough to draw blood. The blackberries are all bitter.
A swing set a centimetre from the the edge.
A small child fed me bread.
Not drowning but waving.
Double, duplicate, reflect.
There is a smaller L with a father who travels, she dreams of India. T and I went to the same school. We wear the same featherweight shoes but in fact so does H.
10 minutes it took to figure it out… one of us she said. A visit from a parallel past. Lost in the black forest she stole a tear of jet black glass. The coffin bar and Henry J beans and that beautiful yellow tram.
Will it never end? How can I be sure I won’t become what has gone before? So brutal, so bitter, pull the shutters down keep it out the dark, seeping, gelatinous, sticky, goo. Disown or disconnect, KEEP YOUR DISTANCE. If I wrap myself in tape, red and yellow. It will be a warning keep out, keep out, keep out…
I would like to make a vase for nettles. Tonight there is a thunder moon.
Spinning in a circle for 2 minutes and 41 seconds I could only manage to make the smallest of sounds amidst the orchestra of cement mixers. Grimaldi isn’t even under there he is on the other side of the park.
There is a small space between two wards that is full of butterfly’s.
Tonight I will attach two clown masks to my face and project roses over the top.
I am wild type red+.
Where is the wild gene? What is the wild gene? What compels us to protect and preserve the wild?
The ceiling was covered in gold glitter and there was a man pouring salt from a silver vase, his face hidden behind a beaded curtain. Lucifer and Scorpio rose the biker imploded. Trying hard to unclasp there is a strange security in holding tight to magic.
K has a tattoo on her arm it’s her name in another language. She got it done in Selfridges so In the event of her death she an be identified. K has paid for her funeral in advance; her plot is above her mother; she has a gold certificate.
A large house with unusually high ceilings. In every room there was a wound across the centre of the wallpaper. Each one had been repaired to its former floral glory,blues, pinks,reds. We weren’t in England. A lot of us went out to a long red boat. T was there again he was colouring in reluctantly. At my feet were flowers in green sand, walk on them and they disappear. He went to hold my hand but didn’t, perhaps it was to soon or we were to old for it but in no hardened way.
The crane was to close there was to much pressure the windows fell away. It wasn’t violent just twisted. Lost under red velour. I was looking for my white shoes in a large house that wasn’t mine. I had broken into make a cup of orange tea. My friends were waiting outside but I didn’t leave. T was there did we leave together? At the moment I do find it difficult to breathe.
Marinti and me have played our first notes.
The Dapple is still being talked about at a school nearby. The forbidden fruit perhaps wasn’t an apple but a citroen, a kind of knobbly lemon. The puritans striped out the maypole. Unnecessary is like unknown, it’s deemed dangerous because it can’t be contained or completely understood. It’s like an evaporating cloud. Let there be music, laughter, dancing, art, nudity and maypoles.
A wilding the pip of a cultivated apple throw out of a car window and found growing on the side of the rd.
If you can’t be troublesome then what? How to work in a place thats stopped caring? How to give a gift the recipient refuses. At one time flowers were feared because of their the pagan associations. Perhaps the cultivated rose is not tame at all. Garlands and head dresses, floral carpets and a bath full of petals. Let’s do more not less. The Persians made carpets of flowers and then grew gardens in the same shape. Its time for a floral explosion.
The sirens are still going or perhaps they were always there. Re wild not backwards but forwards. It is something fragmentary, moving, beyond thought, plural,stretchy,bio,living. A deep pool a long note a cry and laughter.
A whole room of golden chairs in a building where it seems every wall is panelled in wood. Tomorrow everyone here will wear hot robes. A few people shuffle by, this is another world. One with a moat of security barriers . A woman with long grey plaits changes the off milk. You can still hear the sirens but they are muffled/ muted.
In one of these wooden rooms that looks over Thames the conversation wanders off and finds itself surrounded by wild chaotic trees in faraway apple woods. Unbound, nameless, unclassified and governed by bears. A right muddle, a wild stock in the heavenly mountains that must be protected at all cost.
I didn’t know her well but I knew her and I liked her. Her card is on my bedside table, what do you do with that?
THE SIRENS HAVE STOPPED.
Neat women in white and navy blue shout out their credit card details, booking tickets for Hokusai secure in their polite places.
The sirens and propellors haven’t stopped. Its blazing in London. A tragedy. A child was thrown from a 10th floor window. A couple, a silhouette, a mercy flag.
75 or 74?
I met a dusty arrogant man in Roehampton who will possibly be there forever. Red and white flags are in places they should never be.
The sirens are still going …
The piles of the past are smaller now.
Just enough to hope.
When I am 99 I hope I will have lived like an octopus. Connected, complicated, frequently found near wild water and loved really loved .Of my eight legs
1 will play the accordion
2 will make places for friends to gather
3 will play
4 will travel
5 will make things
6 will swim in cool lakes and wild seas
7 will read and maybe write a fragmented book
8 will always not know
’This is random I know but you have beautiful feet’ words from a stranger at Finsbury park tube station at 9.16 this morning. Now that I have written it down his passing words they are in some way permanent unless of course I delete them.
In my hand is a golf magazine and a blue package, a gift from my mother to my brothers girlfriend a picture of him as a child? Symbolic but how? relinquishing, retaining, reminding, releasing?
My old friend the map man is going back to the Bauhaus to make beautiful things. He’s the youngest oldest man I am ever likely to meet.
What will stay with you forever? Nothing.
Will inspector Sands please contact the control room.
Will inspector Sands please contact the control room.
Will inspector Sands please contact the control room.
Will inspector Sands please contact the control room.
Will inspector Sands please contact the control room.
Will inspector Sands please contact the control room.
Will inspector Sands please contact the control room.
Will inspector Sands please contact the control room.
Will inspector Sands please contact the control room.
One minute of silence in a service station on the M2.
The someone is the you inside you. We can choose what we think about. Who are they? Lets smash the giant egg and have a party! Life has a capital L. Truth has a capital T.
In pursuit of groundlessness. I am naked this afternoon. Octavia the Octopus tends to her 1000’s of infertile eggs. A man drove to Barcelona in a car fuelled by vegetable oil. I don’t fit in the room that is as wide as my arm span. Am I the Joker?
Family 3, Security 0, Money or Wealth 15, Independence and freedom 69, Adventure 72, Friendship and Companionship 63.
I kept driving but I never arrived. I left the car. I got lost again.
There was a dog, fierce, tawny brown. The old boy’s arrives they wanted to drink teachers, the building turned into a supermarket.
I sat on a white plastic tray and hurtled through claustrophobic snow filled tunnels.
Two blonde two girls one with only one arm and the other naked apart from a pale green apron texted imaginary boyfriends.
In the end it was just the two of us.
He turned to kiss me I turned away
From now on I will always cut avocado’s the short way round.
Lucy Lucy Lucy Lucy Lucy Lucy Lucy Lucy
Red red red red red red read
Read read read read red red read
Lucy read red read red Lucy red Lucy
Read Lucy red dear read read dear
Dear Lucy read red
Dear red read Lucy
Dear read Lucy red
SSSI a site of special scientific interest. A man who has worked at the hospital for 40 years has never seen a wild orchid.
Keys to four places as many as a millionaire. What do you need to make it look like you live there. A bed, a blanket, a towel and a toothbrush. Arranged, bunched or scattered?
Mumbai/Bombay/ Mumbai/Bombay a place I spent three weeks in but my feet never touched the ground.
A gift, a crate of mangos arrived by plane. To be eaten messily by my brother and I in a basement in Brussels. In Delhi at the same time they were being poured into a bucket of ice by a grandmother for her grand children to devour.
Is there always sacrifice in the giving of a gift?
White bluebells and hail are disrupting the violet blankets. H U M A N a human bare to the elbow in shadow. White, yellow, violet not blue. A man and a woman hold hands tightly.
Close up is cloudy but somehow clearer. Could I sign my name as constellation? A kaleidoscope of fragmented sounds. Sleepy bee’s come to visit occasionally. When they realise they are trapped they whirl anxiously. Almost all escape but today I found one curled up on the floor, defeated.
Not to close just over there people are dying.
Taking a bubble bath in the afternoon looking for antennae out of the window.
A man in a blue apron runs into the wood to find a bench to smoke to breathe.The landscape is littered with people in uniform maroon, bright green, and a colour a bit like that door a turquoise type. Why make things so complicated a rose, carnation or a sweet pea. Spring is yellow, purple and white. What is the arrangement? An arrangement in all one colour does white count? A lady wants to lie in a field of poppies.
The red rose is mine, like apple and the toadstool. This rose is half real, half artificial, freeze dried or silk only half dies. It is red red half tactile half digital no… that comes later thats for all of them.
Not forgetting the red shoes and the red balloon how about a red plastic lilo and stilts.
In the woods, always in the woods alone… apples, roses, toadstools. There is often blood, hands, mirrors, a bite, a prick, spinning wool, painting, men, danger, darkness, a gift, temptation, a path, wolves, beasts, fur and a hood.
Swinging in a synthetic red net hammock imported from china. Wrapped in a 100% fake fur wrap.
Human/ flower hybrid the double flower is the queen. Elicit a Duchenne smile. Symmetry, colour, odour, one day we will be able to grow people like we grow roses or make the oil without the people, does that mean blood without bodies?
To dispense, distribute, pass round, hand out. Once upon a time there was a rose day… Beauty and the Beast a disembodied arm. They can be candy, attar, pot pourri or tea . Often white becomes red. Rose is a rose is a rose…
As for the daisies why where the clowns searching for them?
Gray’s anatomy, mushrooms, clouds and the microscopic flaws in metals and plastics. Bought from one of those places where there is a slightly manic man behind the counter sharing his thoughts on molecules and inverted triangles.
Even the magenta rum punch in the Green room couldn’t penetrate. Someone has turned the fan up full its cold. The scaffolding might be falling down and the flying bags are taunting me.
Who was the big white anthropomorphic bear who lay next to me? If I was ten years older or you ten years younger someone said yet again. The black hole is getting larger and slightly less comical. What happens if you jump off the zig zag? Why am I here? A Japanese man sent a bonsai tree to the moon …it didn’t come back.
You blew clean away right over the rooftops.
Today the wind is making the world dance.
The girl at the crossroads looked just like you, she caught my attention. When I got on the tube she was sat opposite. I did not know then that that was the last day of your life.
I dreamt I was crouched down with my head on the floor encased in lego … blue lego.
I have been scrubbing the floors, painting the walls and dealing with mouldy sausages.
I am trying to remember to play … sometimes I succeed. G helps.
I often wonder why I am not?
What monster is lurking through the fog?
‘I was much to far out all my life and not waving but drowning’
Stevie Smith former resident of Palmers Green
Last night I shared my bed with an anxious cat called Hector. She is lonely.
I want to be under the sea in an octopus’s garden in the shade… ohhh I wan’t to be…
Everything just keeps coming back around.
Lost in Brazil, drinking avocado coffee and eating single marshmallows of small saucers with M who was wearing a pair of very ill fitting shorts…
She grumbled loudly behind me we are adults why these foolish/ childish things?
Farewell burgundy weekend. Is burgundy bitter? perhaps not…
A few hours in a place with to much blue. I never knew accidental sunlight could make such straight paths.
If you have been East go South and vice versa.
It is possible men on bicycles don’t always know where they are going.
Can she, will she, ever …???
In Autumn occasionally Dapples float to the surface.
I thought I was on land but actually I am underwater.
On land I am parched, dry packing for yet another journey to find the centre of the sea saw. In the sea, a pool or a moon lit lake I am still… I have arrived.
‘The written word is a fairy, as mocking an elusive as willy wisp’ HM Lud
Company can be found in a cafe.
Nothing is not necessarily a place I want to visit. If there is nothing and everything is unknown then Who am I?
A TINY MYSTERIOUS DOT lost in a LABYRINTH OF DREAMS.
Eating MOONGRASS CHEESE off PLATES WITH APPPLE GREEN BORDERS with a DRAGON in the DARKNESS.
While SILENT PEOPLE wearing UNICORNS HORNs pass through a PLEACHED ALLEY
BY THE SUN THE MOON AND THE STARS
SEMI TRANSPARENT BLUE FIDDLE FISH
GOLDEN APPLES OF THE WEST APPLEIMP LANE
A MIRROR LIKE A MOON A BELL
It is just me and one small mouse. My mother once barricaded one in a cupboard with chairs. Nasty things she calls them. Can I spend the night here just me and this mouse?
A fairy is almost invisible with wings, a small person just like a mouse.
I am drinking apple fresh wine and my cheeks are going red
There are dapples with salty white specks everywhere.
Like a four leaf clover is my dapple over?
As I walked up towards the fairground stall covered in sweet peas all the powdery violet birds in the troughs at the front flew up.
They pinched my clothes and carried me up high to pick an apple from the tallest tree.
I return to the fairground stall and exchanged my apple of a sickly sweet slice of cake.
I am up high in the map mans powder dyed palace surrounded by see through doors. I dreamt he put a bicycle in my bed.
My white towel is on the edge of the white enamel washing machine.
On every wall hangs a part of the world with a hole burnt through it, accidental islands. The light is warm and the walls want to know where next? The Gulf of St Lawrence or the Lands of the Eastern Mediterranean? It’s raining but I don’t want to wear shoes. It’s cold but I won’t put on a jumper. I am hungry but I can’t eat.
The red brick brick building that had its insides on the outside and stairs heading no where is gone. If I look out of the watery glass windows I remember that sometimes I was sad here.
White waterfalls cascade in every doorway. One of the white ribbed vests has escaped from the pile and is dangling elsewhere. I sleep in a small room in a bigger room protected by white cotton from a special place not far from here. All is swaying in tune with the white hammock.
On the study table is an upside down map being gently repaired with white fabric tape.
I pass by a mirror, the only reflection is mine, there is no map man.
I met a girl with a name like a chocolate who is afraid of moving to a wood eight hours away. The oud keeps on going. A man from… actually I am not sure quite where and I chopped vegetables from two different gardens in the east of the city. A blonde haired boy stared intently at the radishes. J added masala, wine, butter together we sprinkled cheese. I sat on a step I have swept before. I behave the same but I am not. G has made a game about the strange man that hoards things in the attic. I cooked a meal for many people I don’t know and some I almost do. S bought along candles and a glow in the dark squirrel. The corridor is lined in gold with a red velvet curtain.
It’s an experiment that feels like it might go wrong. Is it a strange thing to return? The M’s are still spinning. What am I doing here? A clear plastic lightless chandelier has appeared in the cupboard on the stairs. The pictures are curling and peeling off the wall. Short hair has grown long.
There is a new record shop a the end of the street in a building that has lain empty and floor less for over 20 years. The flat on the 4th floor is finished.
I will give my love an apple without e’er a core
I will give my love a house without e’er a door,
I will give my love a palace wherein she may be,
But she may unlock it without any key
My head is the apple without e’er a core,
My mind is the house without e’er a door
My heart is the palace wherein she may be
And she may unlock it without any key
For two weeks now I have been healing
The promise of a gentle sway in the morning sun ended with a thud
I spent a week by wild sea
I am now on top of a Portuguese hill
In a town with two taps that have been running for 159 years.
Nothing happens here
Everything is a constant flow
The clock is late but it chimes on time
There are not interruptions
The accordion man plays every morning
The man in the haberdashery sleeps
Three ladies gather on a bench at dusk
In a square that is not square
A pigeon place with very few pigeons
Often people pass with flowers
There are four funeral directors in the town
A man in a peach shirt and a short haired lady on a bench
Two loud ladies who just don’t notice
A girl in green pauses on a bicycle
A beeping horn
Two loud ladies who just don’t notice
The man in the peach shirt leaves
The girl in green can stay
A cat walks along the roof tops
The loud lady pauses
The girl in green crosses the zebra crossing
A car passes through
The clock is five minutes late
A man holding a hat sits on a low wall
A black cat pauses
A man on the phone passes through
The girl in green rests on the giant heart
The man on the wall with the hat is still there
Two ladies pass through
A car starts
A man with a scythe is talking to the lady in navy blue with dark glasses
Mass has finished
A man with a stick walks his dog
The man with the scythe is not happy
A lady collects water
A man laughs
The girl in green hugs her knees
The clock is still late
Two girls play with a beach ball
lady bring the girl in green a cake
The man in the hat has left the wall
Another man with a hat is still here
The lady in navy blue with dark glasses is still here
Two birds dance
A young girl comes to get water
The girl in green finishes her cake
The girl in green rocks
The clock is late
The girl in green plays the recorder
The other man with the hat is still on the bench
A dog barks
The clock is still late
Shadows and fiddle fish
Glass/ light and the union of black and white
A long eared pale blue moon rabbit
Pocket stones and glass buoys
Spiral stairs and gilded cracks
A mirror like a moon for company
I am sat on a wooden bench with my feet on one of those round tables made from electrical cables. I am cold but it is hot.
The field is full of rabbit holes.
Down there are fragile blue rabbits with unusually long ears.
The wind feels good on bare skin
I want to take a moonlight swim…
The slow evolution of the apple, rose and the toadstool
The double apple is it the dapple, both dappled and double and one of two rivers in Lud.
There is an underwater orchard that currently lives somewhere along the River Cam from time to time during Autumn its dapples escape and appear on the surface of the water.
I found the elusive pool.
A locked gate quickly unlocked
Another world, one which tomorrow I will be granted a key to.
The sun dances under the surface of the water in a somewhat frantic kaleidoscopic way.
I acquired a branch from an apple tree. It is possible it is infused with the thoughts of some beautiful minds that I will never meet.
There used to be a swing in the orchard.
The wood is carpeted in poison ivy, stinging nettles and miniature apples, bright red it colour huddled on top of sweet green stalks.
Bare feet and a deck chair.
‘I live on honey, eggs, and milk, prepared for me by an old lady like an apple (especially in face) and sit all day in a rose garden to work’ Rupert Brooke
“They talked to us of an imaginary world of theirs, where the river was milk, the mud honey, the reeds and trees green sugar, the earth cake, the leaves of the trees (that was odd) ladies’ hats, and the sky Robin’s blue pinafore. Robin was the smallest. The sun was a spot of honey on Robin’s blue pinafore: which, indeed, duly appeared… “What would happen”, said the imaginative Dudley, early in the afternoon, “if you were all in a tree, and at the bottom a big bear sat and waited, so that you couldn’t come down?” “The bear” they told him calmly would die after a little.”
I was telling a lady in wooden room about my alarming twilight alarm clock. It sounds and I wake rigid as ballast from an old ship. Still, aching just as I begin to melt the sound comes again and again.
She told me about a large object in a garden in Suffolk. It turned out to be an abandoned pea hen with a peacock partner. So noisy was it jumping on the roof and squaring at cars that she tried to lure it away with bread soaked in brandy. In despair she tried to shoot it out of the tree but it stuck fast that wise peacock. In the end it was she who had to move on.
A broken vase mended with golden slip…
A natural pool for swimming
Can one be bohemian anymore? and live by wild water in a caravan with five children.
There are times when the line between the worlds is thin. The door of the wardrobe is a little ajar. If you make the choice to give your all you might find shelter or a five point star.
The wood between the worlds
A wardrobe made from wood grown from a Narnia apple pip.
‘Penelope’s web, woven, unwoven and woven again’ Jim Ede
Light, shade darkness and darker. Carried into a strange life, blind folded.
An examination of faerie lore
What is the masculine of faerie?
What is the meaning of hobgoblin/ witch/ travelling carpet/ wizard/ ogre/ a ring of darkness/ a wishing cap/ a magic wand.
Fairy or faerie?
An Alice Exam
Why should apples always be called their French name in wonderland?
An almost fairy creature hoarding painted toys in his paris flat
Holophrase the prelinguistic use of a word to express a concept
A house furnished with experiments. How can a place be a fairytale? What happens when someone tries to make real whats in their head. To really see it.
There is vulnerability in arranging
It is therapeutic to take time to look
As soon as its caught you spoil it somehow
The beauty is in that minute, second moment
Things can’t be recreated
Remember the fairy fruit and the door to Narnia
Lucy was the first to go through it.
When I was young my friend and I climbed a blossom tree and the branch snapped off.
We stitched it back on with celloptape, string and multicoloured wool. It stayed up for awhile but not long it couldn’t be mended.
The Journey out… from Kettles with apple’s.
Plates with apple green borders hang above the long wooden table near Ben Nicholson’s Apples and Pears.
A way of life, a way of love, simplicity, hospitality, beauty.
Unsystematic, simply a collection that changes very slowly. A refuge of peace and order.
The gift of arrangement, re arranging, balance.
A collection is a different way to encounter art. Galleries are like zoo’s for art with slippery floors.
There are no people in the pictures.
Slow time, knowledge and space. A relationship to the natural, spiral shells and circles a lemon that gets replaced everyday.
Vellacot lived in an orchard, someone talked about Samuel Palmers blossom tree.
A utopian idea of america the big apple, a travel fund.
I left Wolfson and went to the Whipple where I found a cabinet full of pomological models of wax apples made by an artisan and used as teaching aids.
The same frazzled lady and her son who were on the plane last time are here again. Two eyes are open to welcome me home but the door is locked and I don’t have a key. Sleeping on the other side I have a window for my head and one for my toes. Lost in Leipzig. Should we return to the places we have left? How do we remember a feeling? It’s the 10th of the 10th at 10. Almost all is illuminated. Chinks of warm light peek out behind dark curtains. Another light is dancing on sheets of silvery foil. Someone has written love on the window. On the fourth floor people eat fish soup; in the basement pancakes and there is a Spanish tortilla walking around searching for a home. The queeng is showing a documentary. I have seen the very same story about different people in a different place. I woke up in a bed from a fairytale and opened a book full of colourful maps. For the Saturday Museum and I it is time to go back to our other home. Thank you all for looking after us so well. I think we may have swallowed one of Hilde’s windows. We nearly left behind the key to our own front door.
This week The Saturday Museum shared a light dinner with friends around tables made of old doors. It is getting colder outside but we were warmed by a candle moon. Someone left the story of a cat who followed a line of light to get to the lady with the bright eyes. Two ladies talked about empty train stations and wild wolves. There are doors with small doors inside them. What would it mean to turn a spy hole inside out? Wax runs into uninvited spaces. The sky above Eisenbahnstr. is pastel in colour. On the last day the sun bought in through the window two flashes of rainbow coloured light. We came we left we saw the clouds we will come back again soon. The Saturday Museum has been thinking about space. We don’t own space; we borrow space we share space. We asked a question. How can Hilde open her eye’s and smile and wave to the street? On the 10th Of October from 8-11 we hope to have another light dinner in the stairwells please do join us…
I saw a white rabbit on the second floor. You can climb the wooden ladder in the attic and put your head out a hole into the sky. Photographing holes, chasing holes, loosing holes, finding holes wondering how to fill holes. The building opposite is covered in eyes. Front/ back/ interior/ exterior/ reveal/ conceal/ dream/ reality/ visible/ invisible. A man upstairs is fixing a holey map and painting patterns on unfinished doors. I have been making small boxes of moving light. Gifts for strangers and friends. The Saturday Museum has become nomadic as opposed to itinerant. It’s wish is to be a member of a constellation. Blue nights, multicoloured sky’s, thinking how best to become gently visible. Simple things a candle, a bulb, a smile. White light, black light, coloured light. A live house is not still. It moves, it flickers.
It has been sometime, The Saturday Museum and I have been thinking of you. The eyes to my door are all taped up. I open and close them and open them again. An eye open to the night is human. This building is holey it breathes. There is a new lamp operated by touch. Two gifts, a wire key and a letter on the chair from England. The key cupboard is now being used for real keys. The letterbox is full of mail most of it unopened. Dark and light, light and dark a fine warm line under a closed door. The other day I met a Friesian farmer who told me that every August thousands of stars fall out of the night sky.
I am opening and closing my eyes. I arrived, I left, I returned, I have gone again but I will be back soon. This week the Saturday Museum and I spent most of our time on the stairs. Filling a broom cupboard with ladders, drinking coffee in dusty places and talking and laughing with the people that pass by. A neon sign arrived that says open. Two people walked past each carrying a mannequins leg. An actor and a painter who have been married for 45 years sheltered in the doorway from the rain. By accident I opened my door to a friend and one hundred and fifty people stopped by. A smile, a wave an open door. What is an entrance and what an exit? I think we will make a book that has no front or back but can be read both ways. I returned my keys but have left behind a letterbox look out for mail. See you all soon…
Bricoleur a beautiful word told to me by a lady full of life who met her husband when she was a clown and he a journeyman. A bricoleur is person who constructs bricolages, using whatever materials are available. A door opens and closes, a bell rings there are footsteps on the stairs, a knock, a smile an accidental encounter with a lady who made music with friends in an old warehouse full of switches. Leipzig breathes there are trees coming out of windows and young boys weaving through railings to find secret places. After a long walk we (The Saturday Museum and friends) nearly got locked in a graveyard. Yesterday I got left behind in a building full of broken windows and doors. There is a small cupboard on the stairs I have fixed the window. Today I wonder if perhaps not all doors are open to everyone.
From London to Leipzig and back again. Locked out breaking in, a new letterbox, keys coming down from above on a string. A chance meeting with a lady who makes coffee for people on a bridge. On Saturday I sat for awhile on the front step but no one came. A smile, a wave a knock on the door. A new friend to walk with who showed me a building with windows made of doors.
A boards in entrances, paintings on walls. Elephants and dinosaurs looking down from above. Open windows and ivy filled doorways in graveyards. The Saturday Museum and I have been dangling our feet over the window ledge and sweeping the street Entrances & Exits continues.
This week I bought a box of keys. The owner of the shop gave me another key to his other place. I let myself in. Inside I found many door handles. I visited a school in the south by a cloud machine. The students talked about the doors they like to pass through. I walked the heating pipe in Lene-Voigt-Park. There you can find ladders without rungs, a lost sofa and an almost invisible tree house. The sun is still making triangles in my room. At Hilde I washed the widows and cleaned the front step. I have been drinking a lot of happy tea and coffee served out of windows. Next week The Saturday Museum will host its first walk please do join us.
The Saturday Museum and I are settling in well to our new home on Hildergardstra. We have learnt how to light the big oven; seen dove gymnastics; eaten pide; visited the big M’s and met some of the friendly neighbours. Our trip to the German countryside has helped to clear out the last of the London cobwebs and now we are ready to get to work. This past week spent at the Atelier House and an accidental find at the flea market has sparked us thinking about Entrances & Exits…
There is calesita in a square where the ghost of an old warehouse looms over a park
A solitary girl roller skates
The old man sweeps the floor
He holds out a wooden pear for the small boy to catch so he can have another spin
Yellow and red roses grow up the barbed wire
Why are all these strange creatures in this cage?
The old man and the old woman who takes the money are chatting and drinking mate
The lone girl chooses the white horse
Then the gold one
The small boy is more interested in the rides on the sides
The calesita squeaks and creaks
The lights come on
In the morning there is a single O of light on the floor, a miniature moon
I am the horse that escaped the cage
I no longer need to go round and round
I still find myself doing it in this city, round trees in a circular park
I want to play in a different way
What is the future?
There are grids and circles and circles in grids and circles out of grids
I do keep thinking about the sad girl in the Mickey Mouse costume…