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I remember little from the journey. At one point I woke and watched as the woman beside me took an orange from her bag and prepared it with great skill, pulling the thick bolt of pith from the top like a plug and then peeling the skin away in one perfect circling motion. Later the train turned through a series of dark valleys. My companion had left, and I examined the discarded coil she had left on her seat as walls of black rock and shapes just discernibly darker than the sky slid past outside the windows. Soon after that we passed through a great expanse in which there was nothing to distinguish the sky from the ground until buildings just as dark as the mountains began to appear, and here and there lights dotted on in the windows of the earliest risers.
When we arrived in the town it was early, still, and I walked out of the station just as the first inhabitants were issuing from the square inset doorways onto the broad street. They were men, for the most part, old, and stooped lightly, as if already exhausted by the weight of the day which had hardly begun. I stood with them, for a while, as the first light slanted down the long straight street, which, like some old pagan monument, appeared to run perfectly from east to west, so precisely was the sun suspended above the street and between the steep flat walls of the tenements. Before long they broke off, jumping onto bicycles and into the trams which screeched still in the middle of the street. Then I, too, dazzled by the harsh winter light which sheared off the wet walls of the tenements, turned down a narrow lane and made my way into the city.
The lane was so cold and dark that, after the blinding light of the broadway, it felt as if I were stepping into a tomb. And yet for a moment, as my vision adjusted to the dark, and before the blankness resolved itself again into the lane, littered along each side with mounds of abandoned furniture, and shrouded by a slight cover of snow, it seemed as though I had stepped into a miniature landscape all of its own, a landscape of hills and valleys, sheltered and hidden by the buildings from which the old broken tables, drawers and dressers had been expelled.
The lane let out onto a small square of townhouses, their enormous panelled doors and bright, lacquered window frames so immaculate and polished that they reflected in a sort of mosaic the gated garden at their centre. Here, finally, exhaustion came over me like an avalanche, and it was as much as I could do to reach the nearest bench and ease myself down onto it. Though this provided me little relief. My mouth was dry, and foul tasting, my clothes itched and stuck with sweat against my skin, and my legs shook alarmingly, as if the short walk from the station were a great exertion. My head began to swim, and soon I could feel my heart beating in my throat, and my lips turning numb as the edges of my vision flickered, and then blurred.
As I sat and tried to hold back the rushing sense of panic the sun burst into the square, and as the light slid down the houses their broad red walls seemed to give some warmth off into the air, and soon the sunlight, creeping over the rooftops, formed in a pool around the garden, and my mind began to ease. Standing up, and leaning against the railings, I felt my tangled thought begin to uncoil, as if they were spreading out to fill up that illuminated space, pushing between the wrought iron bars of the fencing, and spilling out onto the street.
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The snowstorm had blown itself out. After countless days of darkness, and a night spent in absolute bewilderment, the renewal of the landscape was a revelation. Although amidst the glaring whiteness I could see remnants of the world which had just been erased. A large dark boulder, its slick surface impervious to the snow which lay all around it, seemed suspended in air. And further on a rowan bush, its tight green branches and constellation of red berries sharp in the sunlit distance, appeared to levitate above a dark circle of grass, its shallow canopy having somehow held off the frost. Even the debris which the storm had thrown down from the hills lay about on the plateau as though placed there by some attentive hand, like artefacts on a light box ready for the inspection of some cotton-gloved caretaker. The black wet triangles of rock which appeared above the snow stood out like glassy flint arrowheads, the uprooted trees the fletched arrow shafts that followed their flight.
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Wedged under the door was a tattered old ledger. The first entry read:
The whole journey has been unendurable. We walked for miles in the dark up the dirty track only to find the building cold, dank, and drafty. What’s worse, the next day, and for many afterwards, the sun didn’t rise at all, and all we could think to do was stare out of the window and try to picture – from the dismal noise of the wind – what the world which it screamed through might look like.
After the few hopeful mornings that the sun did appear, the same snowflake fell all day.
Today the light was so faint that I could hardly tell if the sun had risen or not. I think now that it hadn’t, and that the strange pale light must have come to us from elsewhere. Perhaps reflected off the glassy surface of some distant planet.
We lose hope.
And under this, the ink so faded as to be almost invisible, a second entry:
This house is a world all unto itself, containing many wondrous secrets. I have lain all day today beside the narrow staircase, and listened to the strange noises that the building makes. Tomorrow I will inspect more closely the doorways and the windowcases, and the small square fireplace, which seems so graceful to me that I have not yet been able to bring myself, as know I must, to disturb its serenity by burning the logs that wait in stacks beside the stove. I know I must, because the cold of this place is beginning to penetrate quite deeply, I think, into my bones.
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GEORGE -
And this is some writing I’ve just now been working on (still very much in progress) - thinking whether it could be recorded and projected as sound - layered and manipulated, projected as individual snippets that are appear over the course of the day?
It would be cool to see the other writing taking place - perhaps it could overlap?
All hosts
This wayyyyyyy, sure Sure, couldn’t forget
Hold us close, the smother
exchange, for our tenancy
your exchange reimbursed, so so
Hold us Close, Fall on us, cycle round and round we all need that dose Hold us close
Looking for a deep cut
Collapse, bubbling sodden. Outpoured an infestation, spillage our treads weave through where all the sun bathers are. eyes on that spot
Bloom, Bloom, Bloom
cuts were wild, body bowed
hmmmmmmmmm
Up on the shore, shrieking, without sight
Round it goes Steadying, Steady. Out spores, our flow
Hold us close, cycle round and round
for Leave Fallow
All Hosts. Please
Host us all
hmmmmmmmm
How do you do so?
This Whirlwind, This Whirlwind, This Whirlwind, This Whirlwind
bloom, let us find some room, With, outward, inward, through, With With
holding out reach Rays Rays Rays
stormed and Leave Fallow
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george -
These are the works I was working on and showed you late 2017. I’d like to focus on sound though, however the silicon work and the digesting grass/materal and lights could be incorporated
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jessie- here are a few aluminium paintings i am working on - these are not to big (a3-a5) il upload some more im doing now
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