this might have been one of the worst years in history, and yet I can pinpoint many moments of joy and beauty amongst the pain. I keep coming back to something I wrote in 2016 when I was volunteering in Calais: The promised land is within us. Heaven and Hell are to be found in the same place.
8/8 – grateful for: freedom to choose, freedom to take part, freedom to deflect, freedom to learn, freedom to love, freedom to move your body
30/10 grateful for: changing seasons, children, curiosity, cities and all their nuances and hidden corners, that which is open and free, family and support, friends and support, art sans art world, feeling the breeze on ur face, warm cosy clothes, grime, a blue sky on a cold day, tea, london parks in the morning, coffee and a cigarette, always listening, always learning and unlearning
13/11. grateful for: friendship, comfortable silences, connection, rest, that feeling when you have walked so far your legs burn, snowtopped mountains, for sunshine through fog, for respite, for just being, for caring for one another.
last night i dreamt of a gigantic tidal wave rising. I watched it from the beach as it rose, once, twice, out of nowhere. then i ran away as fast as I could. I dreamt of a tidal wave that came from nowhere and engulfed us. I dreamt of death and all its friends. I dont understand how to deal with grief and i can feel it sitting in the pit of my stomach and reminding me of my own failings in its selfishness. last night i dreamt of the tidalwave that swept you away from the living into the sea of death.
This one was my lungs filling
(or) This one was the reflection of my lungs filling
The stillest lapping of smoke on the dashboard of the silver renault clio smashing through thai summer rain.
Taxidermied. Stopped Dead. Temp-Mort, Dead-Time
The last frame flickers, the cellulose nitrate disfigures and burns like a cigarette butt pressed into the cheek of the car interior, of a loved one.
Just out of shot, out of the frame, the iphone camera blurs, zooms in; a nostril, a chin, the endless grey of a motorway, and murmurs
An exploding sky. The day you turned to dust
I learnt to read the constellations and you were making fireflies out of the greyest, bleakest, shittest of evenings. The flattest landscapes turned mountainous, corrupted and erupted. This was the corner which I found you that bleak night w/here, w/hole,
my eyes adjusting to the darkness making constellations from dust specks on the blue office carpet in my shoebox apartment.
How can the dead be so perfectly alive
– on the bathroom floor
– in the shower
– cold tiles against thighs
– Inside my swimming goggles which left an imprint on my cheeks for 3 hours
– In the swimming pool
– in the swimming pool changing room
The corners of the pool are filled with detritus, bodily debris, sand and grit, dust and plasters. I find it oddly comforting to focus on – blurred and softly shaking like the atoms in my belly that glide through the thick water, ‘I am detritus’, ‘I am detritus’, ‘I am a piece of shit’ I repeat to myself like a transcendental meditation. Ahh. Thats Better.
The winter light was so bright that the water became nothng but a glow, and I was hurtling at fullspeed through a tunnel of night, upstream, downriver, to the top of the hill, the deadzone, with zero sound or wind or wifi to be felt for miles, that exhilirating freedom of nothing-ness in the otherwise -oversaturated,and,accellerating,swipeswipe,deadend,loveless,minimumwage,illegaltenant,barelyscrapingby – better on drugs – pissed – up – life-
Oh, beauteous power of nature, I roar into the airwaves – to delve into the deluge of the slips and slime under the mossy enclave of a 1000 year old tree where weird and monstrous creatures are fucking and flourishing. Thats where I wanna be. All slippery and sublime and out of this world.
All Power To All The People !
My lungs expand with smoke rot, the belly carve, my name into the fleshy underside
Of a tree we planted in your memory
The soil packs around my bones heavy underneath damp skies
Fires are sparked from dead wood