she

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.

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the ugly duckling

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.

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pillows

#pillows are the most misunderstood of creatures. they are warm and cuddly and love nothing more than to be held. some believe that they are #simply tools created for resting but it is not the case. they are missing the whole point, the evolution of the pillow from its ancestor, the common sheep. there was a child many thousands of years ago who was given a #lamb for her birthday, to care for, to love, to hold. she took that #lamb everywhere with her but at night, she was cold and the #lamb gave her warmth as they cuddled next to each other. as she grew, the #lamb curiously stayed small, never grew into a full-sized sheep. that was good for her. she no longer needed the sheep’s warmth but the straw that she rested her #head upon every night was rough and uncomfortable. when she became ill and took to bed for weeks, her #lamb, while she was delusional with fever, crept under her #head, pushed the straw aside, and lay down, giving her a #soft place to rest her #head. her father came to feed the #lamb but the #lamb barely moved and drank only a little water for the time that she was sick, until she recovered. it was this #lamb that was the beginning. as the #lamb had #lambs of her own, she taught them that it is in the service of sore and tired #heads that the would be, not to be eaten or stolen away for coats. over hundreds of generations, the #lamb gave up noise, movement, eating, sleeping, all signs of life but one – thought. in fact, the #lamb’s descendants became so good at thought that they could take the thoughts from the #heads resting upon them. as their humans slept quietly, they stole the thoughts before they could become nightmares and replaced them with images of pleasant meadows and fleeting clouds in the summer afternoon’s haze. in time the #pillows have become so talented at this that they no longer have to think to perform the task, #simply need to be squeezed, held, pressed upon by a tired #head. #pillows are such misunderstood creatures, taken out of there element to be used in #soft fighting, to press against lovers’ faces when they are to be teased, to cover a body in the light after passion is replaced by exhaustion. please do not misunderstand your pillow. treat her well and she will reward you with happy dreams. treat her as a #soft weapon of entertainment and your #head will be filled with the nightmares that she #simply could not be bothered to eat in place of the food she no longer needs. sweet dreams.

beating in time

it was the best of times; it was the worst of times. time, in fact, stood still for her, peering longingly into the #water as it circled the drain. it was her custom to step out of the #bath and be dry by the time the #water had finally gurgled into the arcane pipework but she felt stunned to the point of inaction. time not only stood still but stopped her from standing at all. it was, after all, bedtime and darkness had fallen on the small cottage as #water poured hot and steaming from the antediluvian faucet, moistening porcelain and warming the cold room as bubbles and salts mixed with steam and caused apple blossoms to fill the december night as it would be in september. plunging up to her neck in the #water, splashing the #floor without even noticing, holding her breath and her head under the #water until it would appear to an observer that she was testing the limits of her lungs’ capacity to spontaneously cease respiration. she was typically calm. it was different this time. calm had not given way to mania, happiness, relief, or even their sad counterparts. this was shock. carla sat rigid watching the #clock on the wall #simply say seven minutes past eight, #morning or evening making no difference, realizing only after minutes’ contemplation that the #clock itself had no power to move and was stuck, much like carla herself. it was that #morning that gin had left her. left in the conclusive sense, that is, not in the leaving for work as they had done every day since their wedding. when carla awoke, gin was already dressed, sitting on the end of the bed, suitcase at her feet. she #simply said “i don’t need time. i don’t need to think. i know that it’s over. #please try to #survive without me. i won’t stop loving you but i cannot stay.”

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war stories

They tell me that war changes men, makes them wild. That’s only the weak ones, though. He was sad when it was unavoidable, happy when it was ended. A lifetime of harsh realities, defeated by laughter. Memories depart quickly but I always feel at home there. Continue Reading…

movement stories

People fall into your life. Not metaphysically, they really fall. The last bus to Fallowfield is curiously late. Only three minutes, but that’s enough to notice when it’s nigh on 0100. I’m mid-sentence when the phone in my hand is replaced by Lisa’s left arm. The crashing of the phone gets lost as I am tackled across the aisle, somewhat unintentionally, by a half-conscious girl. Continue Reading…

fire stories

Sunset sets me free from the flames that I can’t convince out of my hair. This place never changes. A year since my toes touched this stone but it feels like yesterday. A bright, incendiary ball is hovering over my sister’s head but this time I’m curiously unworried. It’s only the sun, though. Somehow this way it seems normal. Continue Reading…

echoes of selves

echoes of selves.

[ or ]

history through eyes of glass.

 

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clicking conception

clicking conception.

[ or ]

digital rebirth of the artist.

 

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the camera inside

the camera inside.

[ or ]

from tool to artist.

 

The Camera Inside.

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