Reáchtáil an lámh ar Tonn
Ag siúl Compás Aon gan.
Reáchtáil an lámh ar Tonn
Le bhuíochas sin Deirdre , Aonghus agus Seamus .
Rinneadh scannánú ar Inis Oírr , Deireadh Fómhair 2014
( Notes from Inis Oírr )
How to hold the gaze of a comerant?
The sound of a typewriter on a cold stone floor.
Fresh Eggs and egg shells.
Egg shells on a plate.
The solemn fish and the owl sit at the cold table.
The day breaks into pieces,
there is no bin man to collect the pieces here
so the chicken looks on
The pieces of broken day
are taken in his white porcelain hands
and thrown to the gulls
they eat with fury
no care for rampant fiends.
The dark comes now
humming to the sound of stones.
To allow time.
Time to heal
Time to think
time.
The clock is out the window
The cows are anxious
and there are no apples.
Laps around the island
wrapped in stale cotton wool
for what is lost can be gained.
To export seaweed
The wreck forms the main attraction.
There are no shops to send postcards.
A cup of tea with memories.
The jelly fish linger, eating wetsuits like turkish delight.
The practice of making a training.
How to exert the body without struggle?
“It is impossible to design silent armour for a ghost” ( Geilgud)
Where does the soul hide? I want to become a transcendal materialist and live on a rock I tell the seal, he laughs and falls back into the waves for another dance.
“ the possibility of transformation “ is endless, but the bones and skin do not become moss and rocks.
Everything is always beyond expansion?
the soft relation of transformation, a relational praxis, the lexicon of the phenomena beyond the veins and the flesh. the infinite lexicon?
There can be no silence.
I repeat as mantra as night sneaks about is veil and cloak.
A project of critical thought ( lies unwritten washed by waves)
How do we speak so many different languages and yet have the total inability to understand one another? The Owl laughs now.
Satre has stopped developing a method and leaves the book unfinished.
Run.
He strares in to the black.
Run.
Concrete, iron, steel and glass.
Moss, agate, quartz and hay.
My pillow is stuffed with fish.
My hair wilts seaweed.
” Where is the internet”
” We lay our hearts into this turf foundation”
” So what happened here”
The geopathology report has no conclusion and the rocks looks disappointed.
The Irish Men’s shed association have cancelled their feild trip
( who is watching, when and how)
” we watch with our ears and listen with our skin “
The process of rust
the skin.
” the management of visability”
” The word will not be dominant, but word, shape, gesture and form will all be of equal footing“
Plastic, polyester, rubble, ruin and dust.
The wooden boat which sinks and surfaces as driftwood for the fire which burns the books.
The seal and the owl have a conflict of intentions, outside of the hierarchy of crituque, the sound of thunder roars.
Perhaps film is something that curates relations. The formality of the text is lost to another list, the seal asks; ” who has the right to decide what reality is represented? “
The comerants giggle on their palace.
The rain comes.
How to stay warm?
How to use a map?
Collecting the ash of the last fire.
Can objects distract from a person?
to become a memory as a collection of objects, rather than embue the human spirit?
A person becomes a collection of words; the warm hand as ice, the word takes precedence, concealing the onset of the winter.
Moss, fern, mud and turf.
A journey only of leaving fragments.
Plunging into cold water to warm the heart ( or at least make it beat)
run run, he whispers, run run
and the donkey watches.
I read the Turkish Irish Herald and remain silent.
The commerants do not even look up to say goodbye.
Urban re:passages 