A Visit


‘You cannot take the spirit, or lock it up or try to wound it with hate or mistrust, or rules or misery; it will break out when you are looking the other way. Or even when you are not...’


Like the mandarins on a tree,

like the bus on the road

fixed as the passing season

travelling through your mind,

a beautiful place to be.

Like the bird building it’s nest,

Like the cemetery

closed to all who die, like I

passing through this time.

There are no trains anymore,

there are only the destitute, the poor

watching television, universally bored.

I wish behind every tree a smile,

behind every face a road to take

for you and me.

There is no better place to be.

And as the road bends so do I,

getting accustomed to the drive.

‘Over the last three decades I have watched the population of these charismatic creatures plummet by 90%. They may soon join the dodo and disappear forever.’

A Falkland's naturalist commenting on the falling penguin population. 
A final note.
I looked at the clothes; some would do. But, I would need boots to walk. And,
a heart that doesn’t leak, where
when saying goodbye...no.
I can’t even write that part.
You see, when you write about your childhood, it takes you back - and who the fuck wants to go back there?
We live surrounded by abusers, and bullies, by people who hurt five times a day, or you don’t know what you’re going to get, so you stay well clear, until it’s time for bed, metaphorically speaking.
-But then who the fuck would want to go to bed with someone like that? 
Road to Rome, pen on bed sheet,  223 cm x 169, 2016

Hotel de la Paix.
If I have lost everything (as I feel I have),                                                                                                       
then what exactly have you gained?                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                     If I have forgiven most things (not all)
then what have you remembered?
I bet they are not the same (so maybe there is comfort in that).
And if I have questioned everything, that today ceases to have weight,
then where do you think our understanding lies – or where do the things one shares collide?
It’s as if we inhabit two worlds;
it’s as if your eyes look at something and say white,
yet when I look I say no, I see nothing, except my reflection,
which bears the responsibility, minus the darkness, minus the image, blinded, even,
(for no one tells you being without sight is just black, do they?).
watercolour on drafting film, 122 x 130 cm

Dumb as a dog
You can take a feeling and turn it into poison; like a ship turning in some harbour it shouldn't have gone into in the first place you realise you’re trapped. What did you once imagine as a child, about beauty, adventure and warmth? Where did it take you? What did you really feel? Or do you even know?  We are glad to hold onto these things, regardless of whether (to others) it seems reckless: for I know that it hurts these self righteous types and their indifference, because everyone sees it, and says.
Some would swap it tomorrow to get those feelings back, which I wonder about and smile, because I am the one who got away. Material quests, property or ‘relationships’  that go no further than passing comments on the day that drive me nuts as I make my excuses to leave I know, that when you blink in front of your own reflection the heart sill beats; these events and experiences that shaped you unrecognisable but not to me. And still you try to capture the image, in hope that you will find refuge or at least a second, of what you once felt.  Pity to be like a sad dog who doesn’t want to even walk anymore death will welcome you, for it ends your story and mine were it that I would be so stupid to live my life on a lead, our eyes pleading to be let free whilst they say oh but one is happy when really she is not... 
'A community is infinitely more brutalised by the habitual employment of punishment than it is by the occasional occurrence of crime.'
Oscar Wilde  

I think its fair to say that we failed. As artists we raised the awareness levels - affairs of the 'sacred heart'; but it was in vain. The 'hardening of the heart' as Leonard Cohen spoke of. At least it comforted some, as they plummeted to their own sweet resignation, that the only thing we can do is to learn to let go. Looking at the arts now it's so full of commerce, and sure, it always was. But across the board, music for example, you would be hard pushed to find people now, artists, that contribute much more than a haircut at best. They're pretty much all gone and its no coincidence. When I look back at some of the things I wrote here as well, it makes me fucking cringe. I really can't believe I said half the things I did. Today do I really care, about what one should represent? No, actually I don't. Because deep down it's still about power and privilege. And, if you don't have either then prepare yourself for the fight. Of course you won't get many to join you, because they think their ideas of freedom are more important than anyone elses, the right now the left and more subversive than the liberals are truly liberal and tolerant. Decency and integrity have been replaced by a pious conformity more fascist than a bunch of Italians wearing suits in the 20's. At least they had style, you could say...

 “When someone shows you who they are believe them; the first time.”
  Maya Angelou