no utopia, august 2017
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@verythingness
no utopia, august 2017
Two infinite loop love poems, and a site-specific response text for The Factory exhibition in Djúpavík, Iceland.
A hazy half moon, hanging Over blue grass with Roots like fine hair.
The silken sea glitters Under the fine half moon Like the everything grass.
The fine roots reach Down into the silken ground Under the blue half moon.
The soft sea is fine Like the silken grass And your everything hair.
Extract from (2.)
A dog barks, somewhere.
The ground bakes and the roads waver.
Time slows.
A car alarm, birds, playing children.
Behind a fence, people laughing in their garden.
The park is dotted with sunbathers.
Each group in their own little bubble.
The branches are still.
A couple walk by slowly, arm in arm.
You finish your drink and put the empty can on the grass.
It falls over immediately,
Butterflies flit around a flower bush.
Flies buzz.
A bee skirts us.
We lie still, taking it in.
We press our ears to the ground.
It is full of life.
We try not to think.
Just being empty things.
Flowing through the world,
letting the world flow through us.
1.
If we start in the roots, then that’s something. At the bottom, where it’s still and dark. There’s no light. Mostly solid matter. Small things, crushed together into big things. Shells and sand. Weight and density. Chalk and rock. Sink your way down here, into the sediments. It’s okay, it’s not like, being dead. We’re just here. The earth isn't holding us. We glide through it. Down further, through denser layers. Tasting the ground. Swimming. Solid space. Nothing resists. Life, like, all around is, like, nowhere around us. So much is here. Feel it running through you, like fingers kneading away knots. Correcting. Being in it feels good. All this everything... Let’s go deeper still. , If we start at the top, then that’s something. Waking in a funny position. Wind whipping at our clothing. We slept up here, through the sunrise. We adjust. The first stages. The not knowing. The slow spread of smiles over our faces. Waking into the world. We are here, still, again. Manifesting, rendering, imaginary birds. The daylight licks the clouds. Embrace it. Savouring the sounds. Moving, slowly at first. Kicking our legs. Negotiating the air. Accelerating slowly. We dip and weave, spin, turn. Then gliding side by side. The infinite blue gradient. Near each other, hovering in an updraft. Touching fingertips. Holding. The longest time, Then smile and break apart. Wheeling, banking. Dipping below the weather. The ground far below. Diving further. Plummeting, playing. We cackle. Come with, come with! Rapidly approaching. The steep hillside. Rolling now, giggling, Tumbling, To a halt, and still. Panting, smiling, eyes opening. Little pink flowers. Some wild thyme. Strands of sheep's wool in rough reeds. Plant smell and mountains. The fresh air, gulping. Evening pinkish. Being, perceiving, Standing, brushing ourselves down. Look around. Flat-topped, snow-capped mountains. A chill in the air. Waterfall sound, not far away. "It's pretty," I say. "Pretty cold," you say. We look at each other and smile. There's a path through the reeds. "Let's go there." Nearby, a stream. We find the edge and look at wet stones. Born from the mountain. We follow the trickle downhill. We walk with it through the heathland. Like dry old hair. Stones and sandy rubble. There's a marshy patch, sodden. We've reached the swamp bottom. We stand and look. "Flies." We walk around it and follow the fence. After a short while, there's a metal stile over barbed wire. A few steps up, a few steps down. From wild ground into a sort-of back garden. Minimally tended to, inside a rope fence. A campsite, maybe, in summer? The house is peeling paint. We walk around it, quietly, to the front. A wide dirt driveway, a silver people carrier. No people. Tree-lined. The pebbles end. A concrete road with no pavements. Look left. The dotted central line, straight into the distance. Into the wilds. "Let's go right." There are houses, nestled in the valley. At the bottom of the road, we reach the old harbour. Piled boulders. The sea wall, and shrapnel. Boats in stands, rusting. Tidal lapping, moss and weeds. Streetlights. A fishing hook. There is nobody here. A red house, a green house. A chill in the air. We kick through scraps of rope, shell, netting. A long-dead gull and some bits of plastic. The last house at the end of the path. The weathered blue gate is swinging in the wind. A sagging front fence. We walk through. Slab steps over damp grass. Step, step, step, like a game. A whale vertebrae in the flowerbed. “Are they growing a whale?” The sun is sinking behind the mountains. The sky is bruising. This day, dying young. An overturned tricycle. Closed curtains. Gutter creak. Dead bush. Winter is coming. The front door. You touch it and it swings open. Inside, dusty mail. A shelf of ornaments. A blue glass elephant with a broken trunk. Old coats, hanging. Musty. A greasy stove, a hanging apron. It's quiet, we notice our breathing. Walking slowly. An open double door, into the study. Shelves groaning silently under weight of books Slowly yellowing. Someone sits behind the desk. Cut glass decanter, whisky on ice, a heavy-bottomed glass. Smoke rising from the ashtray. Old hair, combed neatly. Contracting pupils. Wordlessly regarding. Linked fingers, crossed legs. Neatly pressed trousers with vertical creases. US flag pinned on blazer lapel. A pile of papers. State secrets, They look to the window, It has started to snow. Dream catcher, green crystal, bird bones. We sit together in silence, looking out. Just being things that were. Nothing dies, not really.
lost is at least real
Visual poems / stills from next @verythingness film.
New @verythingness film/poem/music work in progress.
Rainy Night 19/10/15 04:46
I close my laptop, roll over, and look at my phone.
It’s 04:46.
Maybe I should try and sleep.
I get out of bed and go into the bathroom, slide open the mirrored cabinet, fumble around for toothpaste, then brush my teeth slowly.
I regard my tired, crumpled face as I brush.
My left eye is heavily bloodshot.
It’s the insomnia.
The mirror is slightly splattered, but I resist the urge to clean it.
I‘m trying not to get distracted from powering down my brain.
You know, to get sleepy.
I let the tap run for a long time and fetch a glass, filling it with cold water, and turning out the bathroom light.
For hours now, I have been slowly “winding down” the lights, turning another one off, now and then, somewhere in the flat.
First the high, bright bulb in the tiny hall area, that shines into the kitchen in a cold way that I don’t like.
Then the industrial-style standing lamp, angled to the ground, that casts a halo of white light into the corner of the bedroom.
Then that little bendy white IKEA clip-on light, taped to the underside of the cupboards above the cooker.
The bedroom is lit by the last one — a small salt-rock bedside light that emits a soft pink glow.
It was here when I moved in, but it’s my favourite.
I lie down, pull the duvet up, and start to focus on my breathing.
It starts raining outside.
I listen to the trickling and splashing.
In, out, in and out, in, and out.
Somewhere in the distance, a bog barks six times.
One two, one two, one two.
A car hisses past, the sound muted and quiet.
The fridge shudders into life in the kitchen, buzzing for a while.
Nothing is happening / everything is happening.
It’s that special time of night, between deepest dark and earliest morning, when few people are awake.
People all over town are under their covers, sleeping deeply.
I can almost feel them dreaming.
Almost hear the minds singing to themselves.
Cool air comes in through the half-open window, wafting over my face and collarbones.
I breathe in the stillness.
The rain continues.
I feel a sense of calm coming over me.
And then, finally, I am gone.
“hi what’s happening? everything keeps changing people coming and going”
New #everythingness film in progress
http://facebook.com/verythingness
here is a short film about being in the world
http://facebook.com/verythingness