Feeds:
Posts
Comments

Posts Tagged ‘dream stream’

2016/08/img_2200.jpg<

Out from the Red Book (The Book of Voices)

Out from the forbidden book,
the hidden, the book bound
in oxen skin, bound in blood,
written in blood, as ever ( perhaps).
All gods (perhaps) begin in imitation
of the gods before.
Infected by the ticks that suck so greedy for meaning.
They begin (perhaps) as commentators, as compilers of concordance, as hagiographers, innocent and pious. Warming to their subject, become polemical, become critics. Constructing their own palaces they forget they are not dwelling within them, and so they become populated at first with (perhaps) the inanimate objects of remembrance –
a bowl,
a key,
a shrugged-off coat.
But soon the mirrors appear, innocent and deep as pools to windowless walls, become themselves windows, become doors, become landscapes, become the weight of antediluvia, become reason enough, become cared for, become owned, become obligated.
Demons are a different species entire.
Not content with philosophical dream
( who is who and what is real,
really real, that is divinely speaking, that is).
Demons cut the crap,
they want results, statistics, measurements, tangible, manipulatible (viz.)
Demons are out to make real change
in a world they disown and disavow.
A world they have spontaneously generated into,
demons deny evolution and chance.
They are here to correct all the clumsy mistakes, all the errors of judgement, all the delusion, all the fantasy. Demons are not here for the ride. They do not acquiesce. Intellect and cunning are their survival skills. To make a difference.

Wait. Wait.
A rolled mist
Blurring edges
Is sitting on the mountain.
Late summer air is still.
It may or may not rain.
Assiduous sheep are tugging
At the grasses,
Or seated, stare off unfocused:
Repetition of mantra
One continuance of chewed whisper.
Listen now. The air remembers rain.
Small leaves dance.
An incense of warm earth.
It becomes cooler
and the dreams return.

It begins with a slight inflection, a singular infection,
a voice that is or is not familiar. A stream, a trickle of thought.
A seed putting out simple translucent root, a fine idea, a resulting pleasing symmetry of leafed cotyledon. A simple isness, A here it is clear and sharp. Before long it, how you say, ramifies, manifestly bifurcates, adheres to Fibonacci's mad acceleration. Where there was one voice, now a fractalised howl of mob and counter-mob, simultaneous equations where x equals why not.
And so the poor dreamer,
and you, poor dear reader, face the chime of choice
which voice it is to follow and where to jump off ( this careering madness),
and when to argue back and when to say no I am lost
in a construction site for a palace I gave no permission for, on land I may once have said was temporarily mine own, or borrowed, or coveted, or squatted upon in a long evening of rest and so fell into dream and slept and melted into the earth, and dreamt of centuries cascading and so thusly, thusly,
the branched words
create and dissipate
and melt.

And what then of the nature of the soul? (Another voice, this one, fighting back up for its moment of enunciation. God or demon, I cannot tell). An eternal this, unchanging as rock. Perhaps once it was so. Before Pre-Cambrian, before the Ice's oceanic weight bore down, grooved and dragged, split and scarred. Crushed and ground down in green darkness, ejected into sunlight as sand. This beach, your soul eternal: the gulls angelic and the gulls demonic pattering for worms buried in your upturned, dreaming face ( as it were).

A radical change of direction, a root radial, circumstantial, circumspect, returning to the red. The red book of Carl Gustav, the Red Book of Hergest, The little red, the red rag, the red flag ( who was raised first by slaves in peasant revolt and by the Welsh Valley miners in the Merthyr Riots long before the bolsheviks begun to get bolshy at the Bolshoi).
The red palace,
the red hall,
the red encampment.
Our mitochondrial mothers chanting in darkness,
sweat and iron and honey.
Beyond gods' dreams or demons' politicking. Beyond history of flesh, before and after reason. A drumbeat trance, a passion ululating. A long house divided into rooms, fires and pools of water, a vestibule, an entrance way, a tunnel, a choice of doors, a basket of grain, a purging void, a suspension of all but breath. Before the gods wrote psalms ( such bitter pious violence), before the demons copied them in glorious, golden satire, before the bifurcation of left and right and wrong, before our bilateral superiority, our redundant symmetrical mirroring, before the cultivation of the tree – thought-topped, guilt-rooted. A simple red ark holding all, a grain. Carp, pericarp, stamen, a seed neither plant nor worm nor fish nor fondness. A hearth of mothers. All things, they say, have been your mother. Birthed by all. Nurtured by all. Loved by all. A golden thread of goodness, stitching, stitching. A darn, a repair, a suture.

The cloud has lifted,
Tentative sunlight.
Mountain's crown domes up
Into a temporary sky.
All the flock is rested now,
Stilled and free from hunger
( though a crow still hops between them
Pecking for worms in the grass).

One tide voice recedes. One dream takes the advantage. The red book pulses, veined an endless circuit. It disappears into green hedgerows and down to the valley wood. If the worth is not here, it does not lie elsewhere. The word's sound in another's head. Demon or god, I cannot say. That is all. That is an ending, or a beginning.

Notes: this tribe of voices arose after reading a couple of pages from C.G.Jung's 'Red Book'. The text was a dialogue between two entities, one of whom suggested to the other that it was real but nonetheless a fantasy. This being the case, many more possibilities were able to be conceived. Being real, and being fixed, and being limited. Jung has been assiduously avoided for a century now. More subversive he is than Marx ( who of course modernly eschewed all things spiritual as a hoax). The voices I was entertaining could have been those of the sub-cellular. I have met them before. They have impeccable logic, and are deadly to the pompous ruler of the personality.
How the voices are represented by the red flag of peasant revolt is a clever twist ( just noticed). The cellular majority rising against the oppression of the elite. But also the red rag of forbidden blood. The mysterious female contract with creation, and so the women's huts, and so the Neolithic floor plans of squatting goddess form, and so the subdivided longhouses that remind one of the mitochondria, those indwelling stowaways in every cell – the female genetic line from primeval bacterial beings….

2016/08/img_2198.jpg

Read Full Post »

Book of Voices (This Sky: part 1)

Let us say: this sky, as pink certainly as warmed skin.
This, an indefinite and infinite blue, as those eyes.
And as close,and as distant, as God.
Let us say: there will be again,as ever,one voice that begins,
A clarion clear and moon-bright,
One stirring uttered echoing on the valley flank
Or deep on the sacred golden wood,
Cloutie-hung with shredded prayers,
(Shellac shined black ink careful lines on white silk,
Vehement, scratched curses on lead, tight folded,
Hidden in crack and crevice, utterance to vengeful ones
To do it, do it for me).
A shower of seasons tattered reasons,
Shattered, smattered, sculpted, howled to mothers
( hungry and cold in the dark, glint of light
And voice whispered behind the holy door).
Like this, almost exactly: one clear star
Glinted, marked out, a definite oneness,
A line, a shaft, a rope to upness and downness,
Dimensional isness, a road to stick to.
But as eye accustoms to deeper delved
And shrinking edge of silence:
One more there, and another, and so another
Until the sky is dark with inescapable stars
Vying for eye and patterning the mind with yes
And yes, a plan, a map, a purpose, a chorus
Of foamed ejaculate, a tide ripped and roaring in
Upturning pebble feather flotsam bone and tattered weed
( a flap of iodine, a wriggle).
Let us say, this close to madness
Is this close to revelation.

2015/04/img_1407.jpg

Read Full Post »

A Specious Species ( fragment from ‘Book of Voices’)

Nothing sacred now but our innane, profane cataloging of elements.
Delighting amongst minute, defined aberrations of despair.
Tearing wings off angels, pinning demons, peeled, perused and wriggling.
A reduction to the economic, to the social pressure, to the self-deceived confection
Of low-fat, sugared reason.
Too smart to see the mirror’s edge,
Too self-congratulatory with resonant parsimony, (our rounded, generic, philistine voice),
To notice the hysteric, farting ghosts gesturing in the shadows,
(Who hold all the prompts, pimp and pump the lines).
All the angry poets implode with bluster, become politicians of meagre degree,
Smutty with oiled conviviality, lugubrious with reasonable desecrations.
This world, too sharp, too uncoloured, subtle and muddied,
Requiring battened-down, serial numbered, thirteen-digit barcoded, sixteenth- level encryption, a designed decorum, ready-mealed, chill-packeted
For whenever the sudden, certain hungers disturb the entertainments
Of the bland and chained perceptions.
Blake and his roaring spirits plummet burning from a pest-controlled heaven,
Nicely neurotoxined, polypropylened, thin smiled and NVQ’d.
History scrubbed and redactable, requisitioned, gilded, sold off.
Each empire and squalid colony vacuum-packed,
Date-stamped, forgotten in elusive, intellectual deep freeze…..

Read Full Post »

20131122-223154.jpg

COMMENTARY ON A SUNLIGHT SUTRA

All language
Is a commentary on the
Nature of silence.

All movement,
A desire
To return to stillness.

(In the still, clear cold of almost dawn, the phurba of a cock pheasant’s call melts divisions, ripples out air to the small, bright horizon.)

Time is dead,
Slain by measurement
And subdivision.
Space
Stutters directionless.

Holding too close to sense, we have turned senseless.
Grasping the meaning too fast, we make mockery of Mind.
We have huddled and gathered in
By enslaving and subduing.
We run from paradox, who are maintained
By its pretty dance.

( upon the water a million suns corruscate. They are not there. There is no movement, except the edge of one, and the edge of other.)

Let me say this in another way, let me translate, let me interpret. I shall press out, express, and it shall all run: the juice of, the wine of, the seed of, flow out gushing to water still roots.

The stupid, placid ones
( those who uphold all motion),
The silent, remaining ones
( they who found and maintain),
The unentertaining, unremarkable ones
( they who tie the fabric of everything),

The ones who do not require victory,
Who do not mock the broken,
Who do not sweep away unmitigated failure,
Who do not defile the future,
Who do not despise the past,
Who appear to be voiceless,
Lacking argument, with blank, bright stares: the green, the feathered, the soft-pawed, the disinherited, the awkward, the displaced. All these, all these: eloquent, an ornament and a recompense.

(On the blank tree
This crow
Mouths a call
The wind disguises.
A scattering of runes from Odin’s spear. No fuss in this universe as the sun flips over, turns to face jaded prophecy, a certain arrogant science, a philosophy of endings.)

Now it settles and fades,
Now it whispers subdued,
Explaining nothing.
It has found its place,
Existing, flung together,
Til its release
In deeper silence.

—-

“The Sunlight Sutras” are a collection of aphorisms and mnemonics I published recently as a little, as it were, unilluminated manuscript. Things fed to me by the world, regurgitated, a green vision blurred. ( if interested head to the Blurb bookshop ( http://blurb.com ) and check out the first 15 pages….). This dream stream inspired by one or two sutras, versions and elaborations of which begin the piece off.

—–

20131122-223301.jpg

20131122-223350.jpg

Read Full Post »

20131015-191647.jpg

Great Halls of Memory

Such a long time since last visiting The Victoria and Albert Museum in London. Completely misremembered its architecture and style. In my mind it was red brick and High Gothic, but no, now, at least, it seems to be Victorian Neoclassicism, all columns, domes and marble cladding. Perhaps there are corridors, rooms, floors, wings in different styles, different times, different memories.
Ascend the staircase,
The head that looks out,
The open dome,
The caverned stone skull.
Nothing else but a memory palace. Slow the heart, slow the eye,
The crowds blur and fade,
Their footsteps to whispers,
Their passing to plumes, dust motes dancing

20131015-191426.jpg

.

All that remains, motionless, eternal: the memories, the constructions of memory, the shaping and honing of memory. The forms frozen and holy, the skilful turn of chisel and burin. Dark stairwells, cold. Curved stone scrolls, careful, less inhabited. The images of the dead, a maintenance of expectations,
The mental bones,
The bones of the mind,
The fossil fragments of heart,
Congealment.
Not as it was. Not as it seemed. Mind matter welded to timeless earth. An imposition of perfected memory, fabricated, polished. These we keep. These we cherish. These we honour – the bones of our ancestors, deep in our skull cities.
A record of dancing dust.
A reassessment of forgetting.
Mr Brown would come from afar,
Smiling sweetly ( eyes like jackdaws).
He would know, he would number the portals, the gateways, the porticoes, rearranged by time and place for fond ghosts to find then lose themselves. Hungry ghosts, longing, bored, wandering vestibular chambers.

20131015-191522.jpg

Neither are they our memories
Harboured here.
Not ours, but wrenched,
Wedged, removed
From forgotten, desolate ruins.
Passed down by the impecunious,
The vanquished, the uninterested.

20131015-192300.jpg

Our own little memories, ghost memories, too, no more sweetly harboured at sunset satisfied. They, wandering, away, pick trinkets in other lands, embellishments. Each time told remembered the last time told, the last time, told. An evolution of maps and stories, a hearsay, an edifice of straw and mud, an edifice of marble, collated by grain and polish, by echo, by echo eroded, by echo reborn.
Nothing but chaff and chatter
That fades at closing time,
The weight of stone time,
An instant frozen.
A pin dropping.

20131015-192551.jpg

all the photographs here were taken on my visit. It was not my intention, time and equipment were not sufficient. But I salvaged a few blurry images and worked them a little.it is a place to go to summon strange juxtapositions,reflections,spaces

Read Full Post »

20130925-193043.jpg

WHAT THE GODS SAY

1.

These,
the ghosts
adhering to inner walls,
stains and smudge,
scribbles in haste
‘remember me’.
Words that leapfrog meaning, bray and boast their sounds, exultant cascades untranslatable, insubstantial, picked out, chosen, chaos bouquet, emphatically vague. They are summoned and summon yet more. A duty, to weigh the grains and count.
Enumerate.
Embody.
To be,
(that’s what the scholar said),
to be, only the purpose, the desperate clutch of the sliding mind, the seed to puncture shell, to push aside soil, to explode in cellular satisfaction,
only for a moment,
only a fragment spinning from sight,
(a haze of insect wing, moth dust, singeing carapace),
quick fizz of smoke
before a new
silent morning.

___

20130925-193155.jpg

2.

The gods are talking and
who, now, will listen?
( except the still heads, still ears of cats, furled limbs, breathing soft).
The songs drunken with time, beyond reasonable explanations, beyond vocabulary, even.
A world rhythm,
geologic heart,
solar wind tatters,
a raiment of light.
Bruised and blue, bullied, subdued with belief, the weight of knowing, the want of neat ends. The jazz ravings disdained, we stutter, scatter, mutter into neat insanities, inexcusable attrocities, the most urbane deniabilities: accepted gospels, ( polite murmur, a scatter of slight applause).
Damned, chained,
not fit for consumption,
bagged, tagged, dumped.
Peeled back, flayed, hearts melted, livers liquified, bones removed, it rattles yet: the endless excuses, one more throw, red or black, no more bets.
Certainly, a certain outcome.
These flickering words dissappear.
Peals of laughter.
Exit stage.
Silence.

—-

20130925-193421.jpg
3.

The giants, ensorcelled, (confined to the bitter end, the edge, paled and wan)
Believe they begin to believe they doubt their own existences. Instead, we have designed
Towering tree houses, worlds on a toothpick, serpents performing charity,
Clever monsters spruced up, natty dressed, elocuted, certificated
Charm themselves into, insinuate, invade and invalidate the belated wakers.
They are now the boys in charge, elegantly rewriting memory,
Railroading necessities. The taste for giants long past, evaporated ice.

——

20130925-194047.jpg

4.
Shall I list the devatas, the demons and angels, ( who bear the identical of names, who bear the burdens of our blame). Pinned out, wings splayed, members politely erased, genders hushed up. Who strode worlds: now only the names of new cars, lines of fashion, confections. Reincarnate as pet dogs and cats, the endless dreaming of glories, biding time.

—-

20130925-194244.jpg

the images are taken from a longer sequence of drawings, yet to be titled and still ongoing, an animation of stillness, a shout of silence

Read Full Post »

20130822-232441.jpg

BLINK
(for Nathan)

How is it some patterning of the familiar, some phrase turned this way, that way turns more than echo, enlarges, exponents, fractures into its own chaos pattern?
We blink and the world disappears. We sleep and the universe unravels. We talk to the distance, converse with the invisible, as if our thoughts had pulses. And then there is that silence, in that forest, where that tree falls, unhindered, unremarked, unwitnessed. And the question marks the doubt.
What will be missed?
Slowly turning, slow breezes of distant breath,
We are enwebbed,
Weightless, waiting our turn.
A sweep, a cascade,
A clamour, a whisper,
A yes, an and but,
A slight widening of eye,
A lick of tongue to lip,
A spark, a cinder reseeded.
Upon an ash of dull vocabulary, a sudden dust devil dancing, acrobatic heretic, acrostic cross-stitch. And there it is, temporal flux. Gravity well. A siphon, a vortex, a cascade of neurons inventing new species. A bloom of bacteria basking in the bright futures of near-death.
Nothing is further from the truth, it never crossed my mind, a creature of habit, transfixed in the headlamps. A tumble of the banal: our raw matter to tease out, to squeeze.
I am winged yet
And spinning,
Woven somewhere,
Laced, enbroidered,
Pricked out,
Sketched.
Not quite becoming,
Hesitant.
You were and are a mirror of sorts, silvered, distant. A moon sailing through cloud. There, intimated, expressed, uncovered. A lapse in time. Time-lapse. Shutter speed. Blink. Blink. Forgetting,
Remembering,
Forgetting.
To whom belongs the face in the mirror?( Always looking a little surprised, a little disappointed). Of all the voices in my head, strange rainforest bouquet, there was, is, will be, one more calm, one more complex, a careful equation. News from Nowhere.

” Matter
is merely
mind
deadened
by the development of habit
to the point
where the breaking up
of these habits
is very difficult.”

Stubborn, fixed. It is alchemical. I, alembic, a host of raven wings and a lost crown of kings.
Here, it grows late. There: later or earlier. Those who watch, watch over the sleepers. Those who sleep, dream the waking world. Blink. It begins. Blink. It ends. The mirror remains a mirror reflecting upon what it is not. Blink. Turn away, it ceases. Turn back, it re-appears.
As if never gone away. As if never gone by. As if never gone.
Even, even, they say,
In a complete vacuum,
In a complete darkness,
No matter how dark,
No matter how hard they try,
They say,
There always, always, seems to be
Half a photon
Somehow
Remaining.
Light
Persisting.
(Just
A
Thought.)

—–

20130822-232605.jpg

Read Full Post »

kali1e

WORD OF EARTH ( “geo- logos”) – a dream stream.

(from “RECITATION” (3)

Measureless are the layering of voices stratifying the night. A geology of language. A wisdom of the earth. A voice of weight. A voice of remembering. Mutterings over herbs and hunted, mutterings around campfires, incoherant weepings in empty spaces, rocking, rocking inconsolable.
The few
who have pushed through,
who have passed to the other side of the sky,
where the stars walk
on two legs, like people,
in brightnesss,
in brightness.
They find the rhythmic chants spinning out of the web along its thin, strong lines, its reliable patterns, its junctures. They weave and weave in and out of song, free to find and to lose form, to remember and to forget, but always to return to the axis, climbing their own spine-tree just for the view, just for the view.
In the dark,
snakes and daggers.
The hungry fingers, the hungry eyes.
To be sent out
and not to return home
empty-handed.
To never be bereft again, never that spun hollowness where power pulls to the edges and breathes itself away in a silence more devastating than sobs.
Click, clack,
the needles go.
Snip, snap
the shears.
She gathers up,
she gathers in,
she counts the knots,
she raises the winds.
She claps her hands and waves boil. The black cat weaves between her calves, purring. Patter, patter on the wet sand. The strings move deft between cold fingertips. A catching of moments. They are so intrigued, so curious like cats, like moths, these spirits clamber and elbow in to see more. Sticky wisdom traps them as flies. Their syllables mirrored and pronounced, taken from thin lips, pointed tongues, and turned, turned and shaped, malleable soul breath mingled to free the dreaming souls of drowned sailors anchored in the black, black starless deep.
They float and turn slowly.
Increments of light
bounce around empty eye sockets.
Teeth shed like wheat,
like barley, nicotine-stained.
Worn thin
and grazed by little fishes,
little fishes,
scoured by starfish,
bored by worms.
They rise and feel the release of water’s weight. They rise and rise, blow and shatter to powder, diatom dust. Turned song for whales, cathedrals of breathing space.
Oceans : just unfamiliar skies.
Skies : just uncharted oceans.
Skiff and wherry,
stars tacking dimensional tides,
solar winds,
trawling the chants,
the glimmer scale words,
the protection mantras, the seeds, the forms, the road home.

——

Read Full Post »

west window

ARCHED (Exeter Cathedral)

I was drifting through, sifting through, drowning in, the looking for some particular misplaced images and came across some photographs of Exeter Cathedral from a few years back. As our local town, we are familiar with the studied, silent bulk of the building and can, easily enough forget the utter splendour of the architecture and the dedication and effort that went into its creation. Exeter is not the biggest, but it is a very pleasing interior. It has an impressive West Front even though many of the carvings are replacements for those damaged by bombings in the Blitz. Over the last twenty or so years the interior carvings have been repainted to show their original gilding and bright colours. The roof bosses in Exeter are amongst the best and most varied in England, with a startling creative effusion of the Green Man image.

It squats
Muted, beached.
A honeycombed carapace,
Scoured crab
On drift shoreline.
A cry of gulls,
Still
At evensong.

cathedral front

There is a steadying presence in these old buildings, like ancient trees they set roots and hold time steady, somewhere between then and soon. Continuity. Continuance. A maintenance of faith. A measurement in bells and lessons. An axis, both long and tall. An anchor, a haven.

Caverned,
A weight of years,
Halted, encapsulated.
The green lawns
Where tourists flop
And locals watch
Or lie back.
Below that green turf
Roil and scrape the
White, white bones,
Skull and lolly jaw,
Thigh and hip
pressing upwards.
Like worms by rain
The dead are raised up.
The warm flesh weight
Subtly pushing down upon them,
Disturbed, alerted by the murmur of the living,
The chatter of the breathing,
The careless touch, the laughter.
They turn and stretch and unbend
The need to leave the holy must,
The flow of air, the scurry of gulls,
The shadows coming and going,
Hiding and revealing
The saints’ patient faces
Always looking west.

cathedral yard

Always a little ironic to see the living lying on those careful, green cut lawns. The Cathedral Green quiet, serene, sedate, overlooked by tearooms, by tweed-draped windows. Hardly an inch below the surface, the centuries of the fortunate wealthy piled up closer to God, buried in the wake of His rock ship, harboured in the long hours, waiting resurrection, to join the sunny picnickers, the gossiping long-legged girls, the running children, who all unthinking, brush and pick at the grassblades, the stubble of the dead…..

North Tower1

I will be posting more from this treasure-trove soon. Grainy, dark, inexpert pictures emerging from the shadows. a writhe of words and stone. my tongue is dust and forests frozen, illuminated, transfigured, made mythic…..

Read Full Post »

20130717-160622.jpg

20130717-161012.jpg

DECADENT LINGERIE (dream stream)

Perhaps it was
the early sun,
The night sun,
Or the slim,
low dark moon.

But the halls
and chambers within,
The tales
and stuttered songs,
Were filled with dark
And strange, literate beings.

Wild, bohemian,
relics and collectors
Of the mythic
and the mundane.
A dream full
of forbidden rooms,
Reckless draperies,
swathed velvets,
Lascivious elegance,
experimental liaisons.

Good to see
the corridors of my mind
Disreputable and inhabited,
The forgotten,
the unfashionable,
Breeding experiences
Like there were no
Tomorrow.

Sculpting options,
Reviewing gestures,
Collecting ephemera.

Busy before the moral,
Busybody day curtailed
And manacled these lush
And poisonous flowers,
Slain by opprobrium…..

A very lush dream sequence. Dream buildings always carry a strong atmosphere. They are, after all, the dreamers represention of ‘self’ in some way. My own tend to self-construct around one of a few core architectures, based on real structures, elaborated or morphed together.
One is based on the classic Edinburgh tenamant. A stony, cavernous dimly lit open stone staircase leading up an unholy number of steps, on each landing, two doorways facing each other. The majority are 19th century constructions, so have an inner hall ( in my dream architecture this tends to be a large, square space with a confusing number of closed doors) leading to a variety of high-ceiling rooms with plaster mouldings….
Crossing the Meadows
Frosty autumn morning
Smell of barley and hops:
The brewery down
West End way.
Pale sunlight,
Pale water.
The loom of
Castle Rock.

More often, I construct a space cobbled together from my first flat in Birmingham. A solitary, disreputable maze of a building, again Victorian in construction, in a once elegant, turned seedy, part of town. Split into a bewildering Gormenghast of flats and bedsits inhabited by borderline lunatics, outcasts and keep-themselves-to-themselvers, in my dream constructions it sprouts an unlikely number of split levels, long, thin rooms, rusty balconies that overhang dark, deserted gardens. It breeds a nest of dark, vaguely familiar roads around it….
There is a place of
Poetry there,
Dark,
Colour of dust
And dried blood.
A place of confusions,
Lost directions,
Relict.

Most often, those inner spaces are based on Bridge Street Studios, an inner city canal warehouse complex ( probably now developed into expensive waterside penthouse flats), but when I was there many of the floors, abandoned by East Asian fabric manufacturing companies, had been taken over as the largest and cheapest (hottest, coldest, leakiest) artists’ studios in Birmingham. Divided up by partitions, often ghost towns of creativity, large open floors, huge windows, minimal electricity, always the risk of calamitous waterpipe bursts in cold winters. Again, a multitude of floors, a welter of staircases..
A place of exhibition
A place of seeking out
A hideout, a stakeout
A gathering of unlike minds
A flock of outliers
Dust,perfume,turpentine,
Dead leaves
Blown in,
Collected,
Collected.

Then there is the occassional tasteful Jungian set. A church or cathedral, often with internal growths of trees or other plant forms.. Which brings to mind a particular windswept . island dream, saint’s relics, boats leaving ( always leaving).

A fascination:
How,
From nowhere
Memory of an old dream
Jumps in,
Flavours with mood
Then scinters away
Drawing no conclusions…

20130717-160751.jpg

20130717-160705.jpg

20130717-160517.jpg

20130717-160956.jpg

20130717-161029.jpg

Photographs are from Chichester Cathedral, Ranga Hotel Iceland, traditional Japanese house, Yamanashi, Japan

Not sure if “scinters” was a word, but it is now! ( meaning: fragments, disintegrates, dissolves, flakes off, splinters, etc.)

Read Full Post »

Older Posts »

%d bloggers like this: