27. June 2021

I feel the bright sun and the cold, hard wall.
The silky green hangs from my body, my body with gravity.
Cracks in my skin leak the past,
veins rise from my flesh, enter the space beyond my edge,
new blood flows from my middle-aged body.

Such a clean corner,
between floor and wall, between glass, wood and concrete.
Smudged with my cells, coated in time.
I breathe in and out with the plants.
The leaves cast their stencil of night, framing the movement of the earth.
Moving me, moving us, carried on its orbit.
And what of this orbiting being, between wall, window and light?
Cycling, recycling...
Becoming
Disappearing to (ree)merge... 

“You may not believe in magic but something very strange is happening at this very moment. Your head has dissolved into thin air and I can see the rhododendrons through your stomach. It’s not that you are dead or anything dramatic like that, it is simply that you are fading away and I can’t even remember your name.”
– Leonora Carrington, The Hearing Trumpet

...in the most insignificant flaws: stains, smudges and blemishes - the whole sky is revealed. 
The floor is flawed, my pelvic floor, sky.

The wind, oh. The window.
Oh, the wind through the window. 

Slow transformations in the weather of this room. 
Weather of this house.
Weather of my home, weather of my body.
Weathering things.
Weather-ling.
Dangling. 

01.-08. July 2021

Light of the low sun 
Cats just being
Observing
Embodying their being-ness.
Playful,
restful,
pleasurable.
Inhabiting a habitat.
Becoming Cat
The Fabric of Being.

9. July 2021

What is contained in this clump of dust in this room? 

The floor is cold and hard against my skin, my skull.
I close my eyes and let in the distant sounds of birds, traffic, dogs barking. I could be anywhere… already. Nowhere.
The embrace of cold water, moving, floating here on my living floor, out at sea.

“Using the Ceiling” ('Using the Sky' - Deborah Hay). 
The place of dance in my room.
Poetics of space and perception.
Words arise between my body and the living room.
The whole living world of this room. 

Ceiling
see-ling
hear-ling, here-ling, there-ling
where-ling, whir-ling
feel-ing
be-ling
taste-ling
thoguht-ling
dark-ling
corner-ling
shadow-ling
light-ling
death-ling

All the dust that has ever been and ever will be.

“Where did I lose you, my crumpled fantasies?”  -- Gaston Bachelard, The Poetics of Space, p.77

12. July 2021

Celing, see-ling cont.

Sea-ling: A tiny piece of ocean floating above my body (not solid, but slow-moving).
Concrete ocean, imperceptible to my naked eye, weathering in the same atmosphere we breathe together.
Light dancing between us.
Room Moon Landing
Slivers of plant-shaped night
cast by the living things
dangling between wall and sunlight

“Retreat and expansion, simplicity and magnificence.”  -- Bachelard, p.85