· ᚢᚦᚼᚱᚼᛒᚼᛒᛊᛒᚼ ·
So far something of a wash-out Summer, dawn to dusk rains, the garden a soggy sink of bog-lets. Muddy bootprints daily caking doormats. At least no fear of water scarcity this year. No need to save and recycle every drop. The groundwater level rising ever so slightly. The well holding steady measure.
▽ | #journal
I lay the important documents across the bed. An autopsy table inviting softness. Potential futures tagged and labelled.
Passport. Bank ID. Personal Number. National ID. EU Residence Permit.
Muscle. Marrow. Bone.
I self-diagnose. I am suffering from a disease of chronic disappearances. Lived in cracks.
Some part of me fights to stay aware of a life before Sofie's Mountain.
In journals I try to describe the feeling of two selves parting as sediment layers in a soil test do. The settling of indistinct dirt brown acquiring character. The gradations appearing first as bands of light, dark.
Coarse, fine.
Like tea leaves. Like geomancy.
All lived material with no metaphor or meaning.
Swelling timber beams squeeze out freshly hammered nails. Your jawbone dislocates in full flowered bloom. You cannot be everything (they need). You pop the unhinged joint into place with weary resignation. Returning to the drawing room where her lit fingers glow embers. The tips searing back to charred bone. The same tired parlour tricks year after year. (You cannot be) Everything they need.
Around you the house groans loud and spreads its gabled wings.
▽ | #relic
A century of forestry influence overwriting the region. A new machine efficiency exported across Northern Europe. Tree coverage increasing as scorpion harvesters skin the blighted scene. Historical patchwork of land-forms squeezed out by spruce barrens. Biodiversity shrinking back beneath the monoculture crop.
(Photocopies. The Gradual Mutation of The Territory, 2013).
† Addendum to: 2024-06-16
▽ | #memoradelia
Regions as layers for deep time storage /
Perform a regional invocation to draw something up from the localised past / Place your clay offerings among the hawthorn leaves on the slopes of the greenbelt / Bury your wooden effigies beneath loose Earth in a circle of small bones — the remains of a magpie or treecreeper /
From your backpack pull the jar of hair and iron nails, withered red berries / Desiccated leechwort bound with twine / Little pockets of skin folded and sown like leather /
With surgical precision open the veins etched across the territory and the spectra of history oozes through /
The land spits up thick liquid time / Spectral phosphors glow over marshland at night / Estuary, tributary, mudflat / Salt dry skin peels from bone /
This is anxiety about worn places /
Burning like static off pirate radio /
(Excerpt. The Gradual Mutation of The Territory, 2013).
▽ | #memoradelia
