Born skinny, jaundiced and premature, unprepared for my journey
towards the abyss, I remember sleeping on my stomach like
a starfish with legs bent. In my dreams I could fly; the world's
I've played/worked with sand, soil, wood
and stones since I was five. I embrace this scuzzy ball; my
temporary home and surrogate mother. In due course I'll fall
backwards into space, still not ready, a trail of thoughts,
incomplete projects, perceived failures and minor triumphs,
fluff and dust stripped away, a shooting star in reverse.
I have memories to die for, but not just
For years I made scenery for a living. Now I'm working in
it. In due course I'll be an atomised part of it. Landscape
is not a gentle pleasure. It is what we were, what we are,
and what we will become, the sum of our existence, beautiful,
brutal, rewarding, compelling, unavoidable, and a predicament.
Eat and be eaten, mothers milk, the perfect
wave, birdsong, a break in the clouds, the roof blowing off,
the plop and gurgle of another trout, the unimaginable bone
pulverising power of the sea, the job of an artist to make
drama of crisis.
Sine Wave AKA Sticky Thing
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