The pain of our mothers is not something that bears thinking about.
The sun has shone endlessly since this began, great brilliant blue skies and buttercups and forget me nots, dandelion and wild roses and burdoch. The sun hits a patch of my skin that sits on the patio. The sun hits, the garden blooms, and I wonder when I will feel human
I smoke a cigarette. I had told myself i would give up but just living is a cross to bear at the moment, living the most precious of states
Blood runs through my veins.
It is extremely warm for April
I spray sun tan lotion on my skin
The trees glisten
Its unreasonably warm
I listen to the still beating drum of cars passing on the nearby interchange
after the flood the tide creeps in
and I’m on hands and knees, on all fours, in the eye of the storm
The sun sets over 1000 cities
The roads run still
The motorbike engine whirrs and i fasten my feet into the stirrups
I don’t recognise myself or my body
These days the moon sits in solitude of the sun
Beneath my feet i watch the asphalt rushing by, shifting multicoloured through every shade of grey on gods green earth
I dream tonight of a world where all people live freely in harmony
Dragonflies buzzing around my head
Swatting flies from my gaped mouth.
Closed my eyes and imagined my body turned to dust, bones in the desert, flesh rising like flames licked, a waterfall, an ocean
Ran till I couldn’t breathe anymore
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.
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
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, sunshine through fog, for respite, for just being, for caring for one another.
sitting on the boulevard eating cold noodles, its late september and summer has crept away. the sea is full, swelling and pounding against the wall with growls like great thunderstorms; spraying and folding over itself, straining at the barriers that hold it in. At Hellsmouth a great black wave rises and falls into grey and green gradients. the debris of summer teeming with flies black and buzzing. everything melts away. i woke up this morning with a cosmic wound.
Its passed down, the hole. I used to play in a hole at the end of the garden, my hidden spot, the moss growing on the compost bin, the cracked glass of the dusty window on the shed lit with morning light. I would hide & spit worlds into stones with sticky baby fingers and primary coloured plastic blocks covered in specks of dirt, I would bury them deep in the ground with my secrets.
…buried deep in the snow were my secrets; buried deep down under piles of ice. I forgot that a place could be so white, so heaving with thickness. White ice piling like soft pillows reflects the spots in my eyes.
I’m eating lukewarm bread and peeling eggs and everything is frozen around me. The whites of my eyes are reflected in these great puddles, like round white eggs fried on the ice.
I’m trying to remember my insignificance, surrounded by tiny shards of cardboard picked apart by nervous fingers, here and here and here.
Tonight I sleep restless in an attic room.
I felt so bad I wanted to die.
Im not turned on by anything. flicking through the TV channels, the night is alive outside, dark and teeming with the kind of life that surfaces on the streets of London after 12pm on a Friday night. I got stoned and crashed out in the hotel room. The ceiling was painted with fake clouds, underlit by that same blue hue emitted by a sleeping laptop, or rather the blue hue that keeps you from sleeping. Fuck, the clouds were so realistic. I ate a whole bag of jellybeans and fell asleep with the television on. I woke to a text from a girl on Tinder about sunshine but there were no windows, and I felt like I had been pushed through a time capsule, my head was dense with sugar and nicotine. The maid kept knocking on the door and I just couldnt get off. I woke up again a few hours later to the tv blaring.
Sticky walls, Babyfish, swimming upstream,
I Dont Give A Fuck About Your Art World
(give my another chance baby, Ill never hurt you baby)
The moon pulls you off of my skin
I haven’t got anything left
My lips fall apart like rainwater crushed against skin crashing with seafoam
My bones turn to sand underneath you
dirty fingernails, he shouts at me in the street and grabs my body and calls me a bitch. My tongue is heavy in my mouth heavy slippery stuck erupting sensation tingle reverberation across my back shoulders shockwave shaking muscles low key pain undulating belly rot heavy and expanding flutter dance black liquid seeping through my skin pushing against my sea wall. The belly undulates. The belly undulates
(give my another chance baby, Ill never hurt you baby)
I wanted you
To rip me in two
Like petals in the wind
I wanted to be carried on
Stretched over mine
Until I disappear
I never thought I would be here again squealing for my morals
skin stretched under
Yours like a horse corpse
Shed on the bathroom floor
My fucking body quaking
Under yours the bullet
Slung from sinking ships
Red lipstick kissed the rim
I dont trust the boy
Who breathes life in lips
Sun kissed the windowpane
Silver lips walled up
Shining curve of light
The sky went grey before i had a chance to feel the water licking my body
She is made from stone and gold-plated. Flies settle on your legs hairs sprout from roots. You are uprooted – deep –
Waves lap and children scream as cold water shocks their diving bodies
Stationary boats rock to the beat of the ocean current
I dug down deep into the sand beneath me to find gold plated stones
Flies circle my body waning
Sails flying a crisp breeze like biting into an apple
I worked to the bone.
Under the undergrowth, the piles of seaweed rot
Your muscles flex in milky waters,
Give me something to believe in.
> Everything has been so potent over the last few years, the political backdrop to our lives unravels into chaos and we slowly slide, hiding, into digital worlds that map our thoughts into timelines & unearth curated selections of memories. Meanwhile we navigate growth and becoming, personal lives, (un)/employment, lack of clarity, love and heartbreak, depression and joy. You may imagine it as two interlocking timelines.>,>
> I can trace these years through books read, instagram posts, tweets, people encountered/loved/fucked, bouts of depression, moments of joy. Memories become so important. I don’t know if everyone does it, but I relish in them, glamorise them, repaint them over and over in my mind as details fade and dissolve into sketch-marks.
2012 – Brighton Beach: Noone belongs here more than you, Miranda July
2013 – The writing on the wall, brighton viaduct 2013
If You Repeat Something Enough It Becomes True
2014 – Ghosts of my life // Mark Fisher on Burial //
Wanting an angel to be watching over you, where there is nowhere to go and all you can do is sit in Mcdonalds and not answer your phone.
2015. Sunless- Chris Marker
a trace is found, is lost, all the folklore of dreams is so much in its place that the next day when i’m awake, I realise that I continue to seek in the basement labyrinth the presence concealed the night before.
2016 – Ocean Vuong. Because It’s Summer.
You say thank you, thank you, thank you because you haven’t learned the purpose of forgive me because that’s what you say when a stranger steps out of summer and offers you another hour to live.
2017 – Mouth Scene. 17th Feb, Seydisfjordur, Iceland
To, The Hanging Blood
To, The Burning Rain
August 14th, Trafalgar Square
Blessed are the meek for they shall inherit the earth
Plz capture our tears with ur selfie stick prosthetic
semiotic infrastructures become human patterns of behaviour
8 October 2017 – Robert Montgomery, Billboard, London Fields
Modernism is a psychic love wave – A big gush of sky breath. A shimmer of kindness sung by the ancient earth / it is in the voices of the wind in the trees / it is wild and high in the beauty of the wind turbines that will one day scythe the hair of the troglodyte trump
2017 – Crudo // Olivia Laing. The long hot summer of 2017, the world is falling apart.
It was 19:45 on 13 May 2017. she bought two bottles of duty free champagne in orange boxes, that was the kind of person she was going to be from now on.
Beatrice Gibson, Crone Music @ Camden Arts Centre
This is what happened, I suggested another kind of language, the language of things. The language of shapes, surfaces and wide screens. I suggested speaking through objects and glass. The film became the landscape of those things, the thing, made up of those things, the remnants of a conversation
evergreen – leaves – mountain ripple – moss – freshcut – fade
rain dripping through the iron ceiling. I pull the root from the tree. Your chest- water dripping from the bark. On the mezzanine, telling me about your mother.
blood seeping from a hollow stone. the curve of lips. im sorry (oh) not sure where to put this love, spread eagle, face burrowd into pussy, spit all over the bathroom floor, tiled cold. handshake
Sound maps of Westbrook Beach.
Different colours correspond to mechanical sounds of construction, natural sounds of sea/birds, and interjected by passing voices.
Ive let the data-giants into my private-life and now I track my dreams through electricity
im not sure how it works, how it knows when or how I am sleeping, whether I should be scared of the device on my pillow next to my head that produces graphs & sends them to the cloud where they accumulate for years- What would anyone do with my sleep cycles? Isnt sleep the only thing that cant really be monetized? Even though I just gave a company £1.49 to tell me how im sleeping, because I guess Im sleeping wrong. Once sleep is monetized our dreams arent even safe.
sic. (The Third Reich Of Dreams is a book by Charlotte Berandt that maps the psychosocial affect of fascism on the dreams of people during the height of the 2nd world war. )