There is a certain circularity to these things. They bite you in the ass just as you’re wrestling the tail into the ground, so to speak. I recently had opportunity to be asked if I were a Muslim. Perhaps a little background would be helpful. I frequently comment and post in a left-wing feminist online group on Facebook – at times weekly, at times a dozen or more times a week, depending on the topics that come up and, often, how far afield the discussion has strayed into territories that touch on my areas of expertise and show no signs of understanding that feel like they need a little direction to help along without everyone getting confused. That, of course, is where this began.
it’s when the #rain stops falling that we have to worry, not when it begins. as it #rains, green leafs spring from the earth and raise their bodies skyward to feed #mouths wide open to catch the drops, even by way of taps and pipes. the #rain gives color to the death that would become those who fear its floods more blatantly than could any medicine created by the hand of humans intervening. simple #raindrops fill our minds and our flesh and give life where life was not. when it stops, though. that’s when we must worry. when there is no more #rain; if it comes not, there shall be drought. there shall be heat. there shall be open #mouths awaiting droplets and leaves and they shall be dry and empty of all but feet. the earth is a moist and sultry flesh upon which we are but miniature hairs, preparing to fall. its skin grows warmer, more brittle with age and is burned in the sunlight, drying it and allowing the hair to fall from its no longer smooth surface. nothing turns back time, only slows the process but #perhaps that is enough for skin to recover and #rains to return to replenish the droplets, the leaves, fill the #mouths and satisfy the moist awakenings of the goddess within the land. #perhaps we will be witnesses to the awakening. #perhaps it will be too late. #perhaps it already is.
sometimes you have to #wonder about the #rain. it was one of those times today. i #wondered about the #rain as i lay there on the grass. we always think of #rain in england as a cold, miserable experience, wind blowing it under umbrellas as we gather together outside tube stations and under bus stops. but this is not that #rain. how can the same #water falling from the same #clouds be so different in here? there is no wall, no border. we are still in england. nothing has changed. everything is different. it is warm, a bath that doesn’t #simply surround but floats in the breathless air and sticks to what can only be called #clouds of breath that can’t be seen but can be felt as the swirl around us. i am certain that i will be soaked just as thoroughly by this #rain as i would by the #water that breaks umbrellas and earns the curses of commuters but there is no frustration, no annoyance here. i feel enjoyment in a way that #water in the #sky should never in my mind be capable of creating.
jumping from her chair as she heard the grating sound of metal upon metal, angela reached the window of her cottage on the south downs in time to see a vision that had only appeared possible as a theory in her mind, not something to happen in real life. there was perhaps one #train a day this far out from civilization, two at the most but never running at even similar times. the collision between two, one obviously a passenger #train and the other a flaming mess of burning liquid, was something that she could not understand, believing her eyes or not. running through the door into the snow hanging limp in the air, she called out to her sister without even thinking that she had left for the weekend and could certainly not hear her from her hostel in amsterdam. angela pounded one step after another in the direction of the flames, #fire pouring high into the darkening sky. how could this have happened? there is not another cottage for #miles. by the time anyone else sees the #smoke or expects the #trains to arrive, it will be too late for the passengers.
there are those who would say that it is childish. i agree wholeheartedly but i’m not sure why that is such a problem. sure i might be twenty but who says i can’t do things that don’t require vast amounts of worldly experience or high school graduation? #painting is #perhaps the most respected of the fine #arts. blatantly professional, viewed with such talent, provided the #painting is done with oil, #canvas, and exactly no numbers over which to place the #brush. graffiti has become an #art to be reckoned with even if the vast majority of so-called #artists are simply tagging things with their name and making buildings desperately require cleaning instead of #painting something striking or beautiful or contemplative or even creative that could give #art to a city desperately in need of it, as all cities everywhere are. still, if one says something negative about spray#paint in polite #artistic company (does such a thing exist somewhere?), there would most certainly be cross words and the speaker would most likely be covered in said spray#paint relatively quickly. or whenever he next sleeps. #perhaps both.
#birth happened. that’s all i can say about it reliably. i know nothing else. it wasn’t until almost ten minutes later that i realized that i wasn’t in a hospital. it was either the pain or the joy. i hope it was the joy. it was the pain. i was told once that nothing hurts more than a paper cut. if i could invite the person who shared that insight with me to give #birth to a four-pound #child surrounded by the comfort of a newly-vacated first-class lounger on a #transatlantic redeye, without the benefit of either doctor or medication, i would do so. i shall leave it at that, however. the remaining two hours of the #flight into frankfurt were as uneventful as one can imagine the first two hours of life would be, surrounded by a crowd of apathetic strangers in a flying cigar, pressurized to the point of crushing the bones in a newly-formed skull. simply put, it was loud. quiet in comparison but mindlessly vibrant in the moment.
so, in a #world before #smart, there was this #swan who gave birth and #completely didn’t #notice. in that same #world, there was a #duck, curiously enough, giving birth in the same lake at the same time. can you #imagine the noise that was to be heard that morning with the honking and quacking and the father birds trying desperately not to get seen edging away in search of television sets and motoring magazines? i assure you, there were feathers to be seen flying and water churned to near boiling #point. that being said, six ##ducklings and seven #signets entered the #world that day, almost as wet and sticky as the day they were conceived. this, of course, being a #world before #smart, is a #world without counting. we shall ignore those numbers in exactly the same manner as their mothers.
Sometimes we start new projects and never seem to finish them. I am perhaps more guilty of that than most but I believe that it would be a terrible waste not to try. The new project that I am beginning is a different approach to the English language. We live with a language that is hopelessly out of date while it becomes the undying standard in world communication. Words are used more for their hidden meanings than for their defined ones and often mean nothing at all. What this project will pursue is new definitions of words that are completely incorrect but will make you think, dear reader. That is, after all, the point both of language and of reading, is it not? I shall do this in installments and when enough have been collected here, they shall be moved to a book. If it is popular enough, it may be a printed volume but, for now, I only expect it to be a digital book. Many of my works have been out of print long enough that that is all that remains of them, realistically, anyway and I do almost all of my reading on a tablet. Welcome to the twentyfirst century. #projectundefined #wordsmakeyouthink
echoes of selves.
[ or ]
history through eyes of glass.
a thousand words or more.
the politics of a photography of absence.