The past is a rogue horse. It stands grazing harmlessly until I am so familiar with it lurking in my background that I hardly see it, until something spooks it and away it goes.
It rips through my present with heart thumping and erratic speed, flailing hooves tearing rifts in my careful togetherness. And I cannot watch it go, but must follow. And match.
We trash countless blind alleys while I attempt to nudge this snorting black nightmare closer to something solid and dependable like a wall. And the walls disappear leaking us into further unforgotten realms in a maze of blindness, déjà-vu, multiplying, each fresh nightmare waiting in the wings like the wild goose eager and ready to take its turn leading the horde; eager like the wolf, to close in with the pack.
And countless horses crowd every nook and cranny of now with indestructible past; in a mindless trample of panic, the stampede opens its maw to consume me.
My now, my tomorrow cease to exist as I pull in every morsel of energy it takes to avoid destruction.
I have learned no better way than, one by one, to outrun them.
Found no solution to the waking in physical pain, brain-dulled empty, and emotionally shot to pieces.
Day two knowing that tomorrow I can start to find someone who might be me.
I don't get there easiliy, I hate to admit how much hard work it takes. I recognise me in the words of strangers. Creative people whose web-presence might warm me like blossom in the snow. Wise and inspirational people just a click away.
Just knowing this resource exists feels empowering. Knowing, working and believing...
Believing there will be trees, and sunshine, birdsong and stars, eyes, words, and a horse grazing harmlessly in fields of wild grasses.
Making resolutions is something I
do not do, never do, and yet I made
this one, only to fail and failure to
explode haunts the helpless state that sees my
inner child new-born and needing only
the close warmth of a heartbeat, the haven
of arms that cradle and protect, the still
moment unjudged, unquestioned, accepted
in given love, the unconditional
hope that will be our food for this lifetime.
Posted by Gini, 26 January 2013
Last modified by Colin Hambrook, 27 January 2013
So that was Christmas. It'll soon be time to go back in the box. Mum, Dad, me - we get stuffed into an old Crock box with, I dunno, about 20 others. It's a nice box and she thinks we stay there 350 odd days of the year, yeah well...
She thinks she made most of us, put together from wool and felt, bits and bobs, stuff you can see and touch, but like most good ideas we don't confine ourselves to the expected; or even the good.
We come out every year to watch over the end and the beginning; we come on the darkest day with a green tree that slowly dies in a blaze of spectacular glory. We watch the lights and fire that encourage a new year into existence and we wait quietly to be packed away - hoping somehow we made a difference.
But are we merely echoes of children's fairy tales? Do we represent anything other than fading, whispy memories of a time before science ruled the world?
We're in evidence, visible, for this annual window into goodness and hope, a window that seems to be shrinking, closing in fear and cynicism as the world of people grows more complex, more unfathomable with each stride of progress, each intervention born out of curiosity and the desire for complete control.
Are the values we represent still meaningful? Is it still possible to cherish things not comprehended? Things that cannot be dissected, analysed, improved, or made a profit from?
Are Nisser merely inanimate, sentimental relics, or do we carry any kind of hope for the future?
Perhaps this time she'll take a good look at what exactly she's packing away for the best part of the year; Mum, Dad and me, we just want to bring a little balance: a sense of fun and a little bit of mischief to the world of Homo Sapiens Obduratus.
Maybe this year she'll notice that the Crock box is actually empty most of time...
Posted by Gini, 29 December 2012
Last modified by Gini, 29 December 2012
Fleeing corridors of dark paperwork, out into a sandy grey void, I am tossed in the silence of confused noise, into a maelstrom of tumbling toupees, wigs, and teeth torn from their roots.
The conjuring of the wind exceeds all expectation; toothless heroes of confused origin live and die in its breath. The dirty old man snogs scantily clad fantasies with mouthfuls of sandblasted chips. Cold whistles into motionless bones, and the void consumes fleeting distractions. The lost are torn apart. Wild mocks the words of cluttered mouths.
Tantrum stalks empty promise as stone roses churn in their grave, aching to rise and rehabilitate futile, soulless waves whose sound races to oblivion. The tethered Muse vomits neglect; while power presumes to be torn asunder, eternity and the myth wait: raised are their dripping oars.
Fire falls like a rain-curtain between me and the sea-edge of my nightmare; and one flame for every year of the lord wades into the black lap of the empty bay.
I want to enjoy
these moments of art.
that would speak to me
if I were not so
obsessed with detail.
If I didn't crave
some kind of perfection.
If I didn't need
Arts to be more,
and to be better.
Busy coping with the stress of getting there; the stress of feeling trapped and exposed on a viewing platform; the stress of chilled-to-the-bone induced pain and the frustration of Battle for the Winds apparent lack of professional polish,; the actual live performance of Breathe almost passed me by. But Battle for the Winds came back to haunt my sleep after revisiting Weymouth for 'Creating the Spectacle!' and discovering it's virtual return to grey normality - already.
I hope eventually to appreciate Breathe, with it's brilliant costumes and wild characters, through Diverse City's filmed documentation being presented as part of the London 2012 Festival,
30 August - 9 September
Posted by Gini, 31 August 2012
Last modified by Colin Hambrook, 31 August 2012
My computer died, hence the long pause in online accessibility. And I’ve been recovering from an accident and all that stress has resulted in a personal “crash”.
Re-booting has been hard and slow I’ve been working with scrambled eggs; luckily they are reverting back to “little grey cells” because I was beginning to get a little scared.
I’m getting to grips with different technology but totally, temporarily, cut off from the digital projects I have been working on.
This might be good; I shall come back to it all, refreshed after a time out.
And I have a new project to focus on. The View from Here is an exhibition at Salisbury Arts Centre, with work by Martin Bruch, Juan delGado, Aidan Moesby, and me.
I’m “Sitting in Residence” and I see from the invitation to the preview that it says “an intervention” – cool, I’ve not done that before.
I hope to discover people who will talk about their journey to access this exhibition and to make poetry, add texts to the exhibition space and blog.
Posted by Gini, 8 November 2011
Last modified by Gini, 8 November 2011