March 25, 2013 § Leave a comment
What good does it do to be invisible? What is worthwhile about the pursuit of invisibility, in this my body, a vessel for so much reflected disappointment and unattainable legitimate existence? What good is it to be visible.
Every inch of the space I inhabit gives way to expectations of what I must do, or ought to do, as a visible object. And what can I do to control myself as this object and image both desired and desiring of acknowledgement and refusal?
March 23, 2013 § Leave a comment
I used to think that Amnesiac was the best Radiohead album. Pyramid Song just takes me away. The piano introduction is paced in this way akin to a struggled walk up a sheer cliff face. The moments of securing a foot placement. That act of scraping and carving a place where security can be assured. His voice lends an air of self instituted isolation, the feeling that my struggle is for a greater good only I will experience. When the percussion starts, it starts to affect my breathing, internal power, fearless. Even with a feeling of being up against a wall, clinging to a precarious situation, It makes me feel like I can manoeuvre to a place of safety.
There There from Hail to the Thief. I meditate on the burden of having to think the same thing over and over. It feels like a hand snaking up my neck, fingers sliding over my nape, and wanting that person to take over the movement of my body. But I shake them off. I want to run, dive, crawl and press my body to the earth repeatedly. The song is about possibility. I love how it builds to the guitars, rolling, pushing you, slapping and snapping at your heals. faster, faster – run right into everything you were supposed to do.
It is dark. The sky is blue, a very dark blue. The moon is half full. The incident of light is enough to illuminate the shapes of the hills flanking the car. They are snow carved and the white proceeds in neon glory. It is against the white that you can perceive the black earth and rocks. They exist in relief, absence and are retracted. The sky has just enough colour left that the edge of the hill can be determined, a soft but stark line, rolling out the shape of this piece of earth thrust up. Everything In Its Right Place feels like this mountain, hill, earth. Cold, still able to be determined. Perfect if just for that rolling moment.
Is this love? Exit Music (For A Film) makes me remember an escape. One not remembered by me specifically, but recalled through the memories of others. I was there. Old enough to have memories, as I surely do of this house and time. There was a car. it had a window at the back of the boot that could be wound down. I usually think my memories of that place are real. But have I told them to myself? The expanse of land all around the house. I was a child then. That girl was me not yet grown and she is still standing there, watching the house recede. In someone else’s memory.
March 13, 2013 § Leave a comment
the river is swollen beneath the ice and her sound is an echo of intent.
February 14, 2013 § Leave a comment
I was on a plane recently. I sat at the window which is unusual as I usually choose the aisle. It was the afternoon and the light was blinding me. There were no clouds and it was warm and beautiful. I thought myself happy then.
I saw a house, filled with sand. Everything upside down, pushed hard against the sand, being consumed. The doors were stuck to, open just enough to see the piles drift towards the back wall. There must have been buried things. The dry dust. The crystals.
In my dream I made a snowball bigger and bigger, compressing the snow between my open hands, contracting it to a hard knot of ice. I pushed so hard the ice became styrofoam and then it crumbled in my hands.
January 21, 2013 § Leave a comment
His mouth is the open circle of a drowning man, swallowing air as if it were water, swimming still against the ground. I am the water dragging him to the seabed where the light doesn’t shine and where bodies no longer rise—they sink with the force of gravity.
When they find him drowned and lying in the grass I will cry for I know my part in it. Here even when I hear his words they move slowly through the liquid air that surrounds us thick and strong. I can see his death as if it had already happened.
Jesus, come and save me from the storm, from the storm from the flood, the flood waters that envelope us. Jesus I am a torrent of cold, cold water swimming faster through the creek beds, faster from the murky sky. I am constant agitated condensation sticking to the lining of your lungs making you choke and making you sick.
Your weight makes me a sinker.
January 20, 2013 § Leave a comment
We look at a forest and say:
Here is a forest for ships and masts,
Free to the tops of their shaggy burden,
To creak in the storm
In the furious forestless air
Osip Mandelshtam, Whoever Finds a Horseshoe, 1923
January 14, 2013 § 1 Comment
Everything feels cloudy. Feeling out of place. The cold, the relative intensity of the season. Facing a lot of mirrors, maybe learning more about my failings than strengths. The turn in the weather is making my bad ankle swell, ache. It is quiet here in the suburbs. Sleeping in a single bed, reminders of holidays spent in mildura and with my nana and papa. The rooms void of a person, so things like a lamp or wallpaper loom large. The closed in porch. The nightmares about robots in the walls. The side of the house with forgotten plant trestles and empty pots. The large water tower. Here it is a cul de sac. Everyone has lights. I feel very lonely.