13th December 2018
I travel in the backseat of a dream. Shadows loom in space and time. This sleeping night, this world without man.
The peaceful darkness where I wander meeting personalities who could be real. Who talk and unravel in a developing film, who show me pictures cut out of other peoples dreams. Who show me the roads I came from and the roads I’m on. This is better, they say. Has it a basis in reality, we will see, you and me, in a dream.
I travel in the backseat of a dream, so clear, so close, so near that I can feel. I want to know, and I wonder, as the dream rolls out its quiz of conundrums.
The man in a battle, with war all around can dream of angels, while the wealthy man in a great tower can dream of walking down a dark and dangerous corridor.
A dream can last for years. A problem that you cannot get into focus. A barricade of broken things that stops you dreaming of great worlds.
Is the visitor in your dream a real visitor with another life outside of your own, are they all real people, those that people your dreams, who unravel the schemes of the nuaghty world.
I travel in the backseat of a dream. A limousine, or a bus. Teach me the wheel of life, teach me the gears; that a ticket has a price. Is this my dream now, has the insurance paid off and what of this cough . . . . .
or that man with a gun, or that blazing sun.
The moon is crossing with a bright jesters face with skin like a frightened chicken.
Waxy trees of egg shell hanging hooks slide through the hall of blood and feathers.
The first man made arrow hits the slaughterhouse, a third of the earth shakes.
Moon Crossing was a place outside of town, magical and unreal. Two young lovers set out to see it; they walked between trees and followed the abandoned railway track.
Then above the skyline they saw it, in a coat of silver light, the moon, crossing over into the afterlife, with a smile like that of a jester.
The first man made arrow was a throwing stick maybe until it flew across time and landed at your feet, a sign, do not pick it up it will surely turn into a venomous snake.
Drifting about hither and thither, an autumn leaf in the wind. I admire the autumn colours of the forest; I must follow the fluttering autumn leaf. When the moon is the priest of the twilight then we shall be one; my autumn leaf and I.
Early in the morning I walk through the industrial estate past the shrieking gates of the slaughterhouse .
The conveyor belt didn’t stop, hit the big red button again. The slaughterhouse is like a black star, and everything not nailed down is sucked into machinery and dies.
Moon Crossing, you’ll see it from where you are, above the silver fields. The jester has gone; the moon has a new feminine face. Watch her cross over the fields perspiring with light. You feed your gaze on her illustrious shine. You listen, will she speak? You feel as bright as the moon, she should acknowledge you as you watch her cross over but then, she is gone from sight.
I wanted to do a series of paintings about London’s old cinemas facades. But I couldn’t get them of my back it was, sign this, sign that; go here, go there, and you do your three hours a day job search, arrive on time for your signing, or else.
“Oh, but I’m an artist”.
“Are you really?
And I’m the Duke of Wellington”.
I did one painting. It took me over a year. I kept running out of paint and brushes and I didn’t have the time or the money to get them. I had to get work. The only work available was washing dishes.
So I did this one painting of Hackney Empire.
It feels like I painted it wearing a ball and chain.
God created a sun to make light
around the sun he created a zone where liquid water can exist
the distance of the zone is 93 million miles from the sun
and this is the habitable zone
where the water does not totally evaporate
and where the water does not totally turn to ice
in that orbit where water exists the earth is fixed
and the earth is a planet where life can exist because of water.
and around the planet was the watery deep
and God divided the watery deep by an expanse
and the water below the expanse He called sea
and the water above the expanse He called heaven.
The book of Genesis is story telling at its most compelling. Perhaps in the gates of a town or camp people gathered to listen to the beginings of life passed on by word of mouth from one generation to the next.
It seems to say that the earth was coverd by the watery deep before any land emerged. And then this watery deep was divided by an expanse perhaps the air and so the sea and the heaven was formed. Heaven in those days must have been what could be seen with the eyes from the land.
It strikes me how well this fits well with scientific fact. With the habitable zone and the amazing facts of the earths place in orbit around the sun. I wanted to put these two things together in a kind of poem. I tried to put it into my own words but some of the style, the idiom of the book of Genesis has crept in. And of course truth to materials has to be maintained for integrity.
My old friend from far afield flew in today
She had been lost in the recent storm
That broke the branches and ripped the roofs
Of her own quiet green country village.
She flew in an a bluster of air
She glided and flapped and struggled
To stay alive in the gusting gale
That battered the country.
As the wind abated she landed
Her tiny feet grabbed hold of a weather vane
She ruffled her feathers and took a look around
In front of her stood a busy bagle shop.
She was hungry, she leapt down to the ground
Looking for crumbs and eyeing with her brown eye
The cream cheese bagles being consumed by the peckish people
Shoo they went, shoo said the proprieter.
She fluttered away but not far away
She circled and landed on a pram parked outside a brewery.
She saw the bustle of resturanteurs calling to passersby
And the appetising sundries in the windows of the delicatessants.
Coo-coo I went when I saw her
Cooly taking the crumbs from beneath the feet of tourists
She fluttered away without hearing me
Onto a roof above a craftsmans workshop.
I followed trying to get her attension
Below a car honking at the crowd came to a stop in Brick Lane
I have never had a discount for love; love is never at half price. If it dies, it dies whole; if it lives it lives whole. Love detests coupons; love detests a price. You can’t capture love with a penny or a pound and many before me have said the same thing.
If I could cram my whole life into this room and lock the door. It will disappear like a lift into the bowels of the earth; it will become the smallest atom passing through a black hole in space and back again, then it will jump into song. But if love is inside that atom, the atom will not be able to contain it, it will stretch and strain and squeak and scream but it will never hold love in. Love is not in the atom; love is elsewhere, in the memory of life. Love picks you up like you’re a three legged fly and says poor fly, and when love gets the order to march, love will give you back your legs.
Upon the night of Halloween the voices came again telling me that their way is the only way. Lies, I said, your tricks do not deceive me and then I awake. And there I was, in a room, and in that room is my whole life, and I must pay the re
The earth has been financed, every square inch of it. Everyone is in debt, the big debt is here. It puts a seal of debt on every human being. Stocks for guns are up, human beings are down*, so why not keep shooting them?
The financial world says of love, it’s no good, get a job. So you get a job and then the financial world sees you as a useful item, you are on their radar. Should you stay off radar? Would you be poorer? The poor can live happily – until they have to pay their taxes. I don’t mind dirt roads with holes in them so long as the sea is blue and the birds sing, but the mess of finance makes the sea and the air polluted and our wildlife numbers grows fewer.
It was a great experience to hear the blackbirds on that one summer Sunday, last century. I still remember walking down Burdett Road, listening to the blackbirds, they were singing in every tree I passed, and on both sides of the street. I ran the gauntlet of blackbirds, until I got to the traffic lights in Limehouse. They had maybe quarreled with each other, they had probably smoothed out the wrinkled cloth of their territories for the privilege of their own tree to sing in; nesting season was over and now it was their singing time. There was no war of extermination, there was no hierarchy. Each blackbird could sing with exuberance and love.
Then came big human political decisions and the world of blackbirds collapsed into the empty purse of mankind; their numbers collapsed as human debt rose; they collapsed because humanity has no love; except for money, and their greatest skill is war.
And each winter humanity has the privilege of helping them to survive; instead the reality is humanity – will do what it does best.
*Erica Jung, Fear of Flying, I think
The Colours of Life
There is a thick fat yellow that glows more warmly than gold
There is an unconscious dark blue so dense that it supports your weight as you walk
There is a deep dark blue-green that oozes like a swamp of essential life
If I could drown the world with these colours, all governments would cease and eyes would see
They hated him for suddenly growing up like a target spriging up on the firing range.
With the drowning mother falling into the whirling sea of rejection; with the bad tempered father having to face a self truth reflected in a sons eyes.
Mother had not foreseen this day of his growing up, but she became reconciled to loosing him and that one day he would run away and leave home. Her life seemed to hold no promise, no happiness. She’d found comfort in a loveless marriage in her only son even though they were never close. She was a doll in an unearthly joke shop. But her belief in the marriage vows and the way she honoured them was her glory.
Father hated him for his passive love; for his shiny reflective surface where his abuse came to nothing. At every opportunity he tested him out, searching for the violence that he felt in himself and that he fostered in him and he ended up punching at clouds. The son had built a defense of childlike love, not a wall of anger towards him.
But the son was angry none the less; he began to hate the world for what it had done to people like them – for how the echoes of war deafen with loud ringing bells down the generations of the poorest families. The branding that passes on down through the generations like an unlit fuse.