Reáchtáil an lámh ar Tonn

•October 16, 2014 • Leave a Comment

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
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.
He strares in to the black.
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.








staidéir i flóra

•October 15, 2014 • Leave a Comment


the language of flowers

there can be so stillness . 

and when then does the stone turn to water?


walk on and on. 

through and through. 

the cow laughs at the waters edge.

How does the grass sing? 

The crow narrates the ocean.


What time is it?

The rock laughs.

Herald the owls.

night potion, a parrot and a tea cup.

smashed vases and broken flowers.

he loves me. he loves me not

the forget me not dies. 

There is no language which can be spoken to describe this feeling. 



Labhras silíní  Laurel, Cherry  Prunus laurocerasus
Laíon na trá  Sea Beet  Beta vulgaris ssp. maritima
Leadán úcaire  Teasel, Wild  Dipsacus fullonum
Leadán úcaire beag   Teasel, Small  Dipsacus pilosus
Leaithín  Avens, Mountain  Dryas octopetala
Leith uisce  Butterwort, Large-flowered  Pinguicula grandiflora
Leith uisce beag  Butterwort, Pale  Pinguicula lusitanica
Leitís bhalla  Lettuce, Wall  Mycelis muralis
Lile Fhíonáin  Lily, Kerry  Simethis mattiazzii
Líon beag  Flax, Pale  Linum bienne
Lochall  Brooklime  Veronica beccabunga
Luachair dhearg  Flowering-rush  Butomus umbellatus
Luibh bhléine  Aster, Sea  Aster tripolium
Luibh na bhfear gonta  Bedstraw, Heath  Galium saxatile
Luibh na seacht ngábh  Wall-rue  Asplenium ruta-muraria
Lus an bhainne  Milkwort, Common  Polygala vulgaris
Lus an bhalla  Wallflower  Erysimum cheiri
Lus an dá phingin  Creeping-jenny  Lysimachia nummularia
Lus an easpaig  Ground-elder  Aegopodium podagraria
Lus an Ghaill  Sea-purslane  Atriplex portulacoides
Lus an ghiolla  Lousewort  Pedicularis sylvatica
Lus an óir  Mustard, Hedge  Sisymbrium officinale
Lus an sparáin  Shepherd’s-purse  Capsella bursa-pastoris
Lus an treacha  Speedwell, Thyme-leaved  Veronica serpyllifolia
Lus an tsagairt  Cow-wheat, Common  Melampyrum pratense
Lus an tsailte  Sea-milkwort  Glaux maritima
Lus an uille  Burnet, Salad  Sanguisorba minor
Lus Bealtaine  Mayweed Sea  Tripleurospermum maritimum
Lus beatha  Betony  Betonica officinalis
Lus braonach  Dropwort  Filipendula vulgaris
Lus buí Bealtaine  Marsh-marigold  Caltha palustris
Lus buí na ndreancaidí  Fleabane, Common  Pulicaria dysenterica
Lus Cholm Cille  Pimpernel, Yellow  Lysimachia nemorum
Lus corráin  Sneezewort  Achillea ptarmica
Lus cré  Speedwell, Heath  Veronica officinalis
Lus cré balla  Speedwell, Wall  Veronica arvensis
Lus cre coille  Speedwell, Wood  Veronica montana
Lus cré corraigh  Speedwell, Marsh  Veronica scutellata
Lus cré eidhneach  Speedwell, Ivy-leaved  Veronica hederifolia
Lus cré garraí  Field-speedwell, Common  Veronica persica
Lus cré léana  Field-speedwell, Green  Veronica agrestis
Lus cré réileán  Speedwell, Slender  Veronica filiformis
Lus cré talún  Speedwell, Germander  Veronica chamaedrys
Lus croí  Pansy, Field  Viola arvensis
Lus cúran min   Hawk’s-beard, Smooth  Crepis capillaris
Lus deartán  Feverfew  Tanacetum parthenium
Lus garbh na ndreancaidí  Fleabane, Bilbao  Conyza floribunda
Lus gloine buan  Glasswort, Perennial  Sarcocornia perennis
Lus gorm na ndreancaidí  Fleabane, Blue  Erigeron acer
Lus liath aille  Sea-lavender, Rock  Limonium binervosum
Lus liath na Boirne  Sea-lavender, Western  Limonium recurvum ssp. pseudotranswallianum
Lus liath na mara  Sea-lavender, Lax-flowered  Limonium humile
Lus mhic rí  Thyme, Basil  Clinopodium acinos
Lus míonla buí  Forget-me-not, Changing  Myosotis discolor
Lus míonla goirt  Forget-me-not, Field  Myosotis arvensis
Lus moileas  Woodruff  Galium odoratum
Lus mór  Foxglove  Digitalis purpurea
Lus na bhfaithní  Spurge, Sun  Euphorbia helioscopia
Lus na gaoithe  Anemone, Wood  Anemone nemorosa
Lus na gealaí  Honesty  Lunaria annua
Lus na gloine  Glassworts  Salicornia agg.
Lus na haincise  Squinancywort  Asperula cynanchica
Lus na hiothlann  Pineappleweed  Matricaria discoidea
Lus na holla  Pirri-pirri-bur  Acaena novae-zelandiae
Lus na Maighdine Muire  St John’s-wort, Perforate Hypericum perforatum
Lus na mban sí  Flax, Fairy  Linum catharticum
Lus na meall Muire  Mallow Common  Malva sylvestris
Lus na móinte  Bog-rosemary  Andromeda polifolia
Lus na ndeor  Mind-your-own-business  Soleirolia soleirolii
Lus na pingine  Pennywort Marsh  Hydrocotyle vulgaris
Lus na pléisce  Balsam, Indian  Impatiens glandulifera
Lus na seilge  Spleenwort, Maidenhair  Asplenium trichomanes
Lus na teanga  Adder’s Tongue  Ophioglossum vulgatum
Lus na tine  Willowherb, Rosebay  Chamerion angustifolium
Lus na Tríonóide  Willowherb, Great  Epilobium hirsutum
Lus nathrach  Viper’s-bugloss  Echium vulgare
Lus síoda  Ragged-Robin  Silene flos-cuculi
Lus súgach   Asparagus, Wild  Asparagus prostratus
Lus taghla  Orchid, Fragrant  Gymnadenia conopsea
Lus taghla na móna  Orchid, Heath Fragrant  Gymnadenia borealis
Lusrán grándubh  Alexanders  Smyrnium olusatrum
Dont carry all the rocks in your pockets.
The fish eats a waves and spits it out.
the rain comes
the mist alludes some secrecy 
the cows walk on.
the scene is left cold. 
 and oh and oh.
he sings as we walk .
the stick, the horse, the carrot.
 lament lament 
the summer waves.
 How the ferns will turn gold to rot.
How the thistle will loose its thorns. 
The language is fading with the sun.
lay your head down
the girl lays 
perhaps the rain will wash her away.
dont fight time
it will win
and there is no prize. 




taiscéalaíocht na Boirne. October 2014.
Le bhuíochas sin do Deirdre, Aonghus, and Seamus





muid féin ag titim chun píosaí

•October 8, 2014 • Leave a Comment

“when the sea cries who will listen” asks the seagull to the rock.

a fish listens in, bemused by the concern.

” I listen” he jauntily replies; ” I will always listen”

The seagull looks on at the sea as it howls and spits out trees.

The rocks wait for time to pass.

Time does pass.

The fish waits at the shore for the seagull.

The seagull does not appear.

A tree emerges beaten by the sea.

” Tell me a story” asks the fish, bold and impatient.

The tree sighs, a long sustained breath, looks longingly at the fish and in silence, crashes itself to the rock.

The fish looks on, a little jealous at their close union.

The rocks offer no comfort to the beaten tree, only a surface on which to rest until the sea comes dashing back to claim its prize.

the pulse that rose
and fell in its abyss,
the cracking of the blue cold,
the gradual wearing away of the star,
the soft unfolding of the wave


squandering snow with its foam,
the quiet power out there, sure
as a stone shrine in the depths,


replaced my world in which were growing
stubborn sorrow, gathering oblivion,
and my life changed suddenly:
as I became part of its pure movement.
( Neurda )


The sea watches me.

It does not speak


It will not speak.

Casting trees.


Holding trees.

The treasure of seaweed.


Falling, always falling, the gaze beyond.

” The world is nowhere, my love, if not within” ( Rilke)

They stand at the foot of the mountains.
And there she embraces him, weeping.

He climbs alone, on the mountains of primal grief.
And not once do his footsteps sound from his silent fate.


But if the endlessly dead woke a symbol in us,
see, they would point perhaps to the catkins,
hanging from bare hazels, or
they would intend the rain, falling on dark soil in Spring-time. –

And we, who think of ascending
joy, would feel the emotion,
that almost dismays us,
when a joyful thing falls. ( Rilke)

DSC01894 b

The seagull has watched the whole thing, the lady is wet now, sodden and cold and the tree floats on the waves. Maybe she cries a little. The sea gull cannot tell as the rain comes now. The lady or girl, or human retreats back into the caves and tries to become a fish so that she can join the tree.


the waves have been listening.

The rocks have been listening.

the waves depart, leaving a calm sea now.

The seagull shudders at such commotion.

The rocks wait, sometimes they contain to bare witness to so much sadness they weep as the sea, sometimes they bare witness to so much beauty they grow flowers.

The rocks will always wait.


( muid féin ag titim chun píosaí / Tá mé ach aoi ar an sail seo. is an ongoing conversation with the landscape of Devon. All images and film copyright to Beatrice Jarvis and may not be reproduced without permission.)

Tá mé ach aoi ar an saol seo

•September 28, 2014 • Leave a Comment


why do the hundred rivers rush towards the sea?

I am but a guest to this world.


When life begins we are tender and weak.
When life ends we are stiff and rigid.
All things, including the grass and the trees are soft and pliable in life.
dry and brittle in death.


A strong wind does not blow all morning.
a cloudburst does not last all day.


I am but a guest in this world
while others rush about and get things done
I accept what is offered
Oh, my mind is like a fool,
aloof to the clamour of life around me
Everyone seems so bright and alive
with the sharp distinctions of day
I appear dark and dull
I am drifting like an ocean
floating like high winds
Everyone is so rooted in this world
yet I have no place to rest my head.
Perhaps this is difference.

Quiet the restlessness of the mind.

Sharpen a blade too much and its edge will soon be lost.


Can you remain steadfast as the motherbird who sits in her nest?



Wait for the passing wind.


One step, two step, three step four.

DSC01803 b

You promised me one step more.


( cas pian I leigheas / Tá mé ach aoi ar an sail seo. is an ongoing conversation with the landscape of Devon. All images and film copyright to Beatrice Jarvis and may not be reproduced without permission.)




cas pian i leigheas | a hómós.

•September 23, 2014 • Leave a Comment


– Tred softly as you tred on my dreams.

but what does the horse chew?

– Memory.

A longing to wander tears my heart,

– Every path leads homeward.

That is home.

| Hold everything dear |




How does the wind listen, and the rain lament.

A quietness that holds memory as a fallen tree.

Another tree looks on, regarding the encounter.

” dont play with dead things’ a thrush chirps.

The tree which lays now next to the earth smiles;

‘When a tree is cut down and reveals its naked death-wound to the sun, one can read its whole history in the luminous, inscribed disk of its trunk: in the rings of its years, its scars, all the struggle, all the suffering, all the sickness, all the happiness and prosperity stand truly written, the narrow years and the luxurious years, the attacks withstood, the storms endured’ ( Hesse) 

Red red earth and broken sky

The rock and bones.

Steady in the quest for a moment of silence.




The wind howled, not a lament, but an exhaustion.

The sun asked; ‘why do you hurt so?’ 

The wind paused and sighed. ‘ Though I may journey from place to place, as force, as obstruction, as change, carrying seeds, birds and gulls, changing seas and forms, in my core all I wish for is to settle and to travel no more and to simply stop here and be here and that to be all ‘ 

The sun hid a moment and looked to the cloud for some words to counsel the winds, but by the time the sun had returned the wind had departed leaving no trace other than scattered ferns.




“Perhaps we need not ask”

The tree and the leaves sighed to one another as the day began to hide.

“She will learn”

The tree said very slowly

” Turn pain into medicine” 

The leaves sighed for they had left a long before the tree had finished his sentence, but the roots quaked and the earth turned, holding close the words.



DSC01694 b


” Who is she calling too?’

The moss has settled now to watch the scene.

The fern became agitated.

‘ Why should you always ask. These lands leave each to their own quest.’

A horse bounds on.


A longing to wander tears my heart when I hear trees rustling in the wind at evening. If one listens to them silently for a long time, this longing reveals its kernel, its meaning. It is not so much a matter of escaping from one’s suffering, though it may seem to be so. It is a longing for home, for a memory of the mother, for new metaphors for life. It leads home. Every path leads homeward, every step is birth, every step is death. ( Hesse)


( cas pian I leigheas is an ongoing conversation with the landscape of Devon. All images and film copyright to Beatrice Jarvis and may not be reproduced without permission.)

cosa succede quando si dimentica la riflessione

•August 20, 2014 • Leave a Comment

cosa succede quando si dimentica la riflessione.



La memoria è un’amante crudele.
La sua pelle è morbida, ma le sue parole mordere e duro.

Quanto ho tempo di ricordare il mio riflesso. ha preso prigioniero e detiene la chiave.



Lei mi tiene così vicino e poi mi butta in un lago di ghiaccio freddo dove mi siedo.






Quanto ho tempo di ricordare il mio riflesso. ha preso prigioniero e detiene la chiave.



Terrò la tua mano.
la tua mano scivola
e io cadere.


Io contare fino a dieci

e dimenticare tutto

e ricordare solo

uno tendrill gara.


Queste immagini ora si sentono stranieri.

il passato è un paese straniero.

il passato è un amante assente.

il passato è il sapore amaro della perdita.

il passato è un relitto che userò la colla a mettere insieme solo per distruggere ancora e ancora.

il passato è un paese straniero.


si prega di avvicinarsi chiese.

voglio guardarti.

(Per cancellare e dimenticare)

Si prega di venire più vicino in modo che io possa ricordare dove è sei.

Ma lei corse.

corse finora che le scarpe rotto. il suo cuore si spezzò.

non ci può essere ritorno.

non ci può essere ritorno.

– –

there can be no return.

( she clicked her gold heels)

fragmentorum plenos sustulistis

•July 3, 2014 • Leave a Comment


•June 30, 2014 • Leave a Comment

1. a piece broken off or detached: fragments of rock.
2. an incomplete piece; portion: fragments of a novel.
3. a scrap; morsel; bit
4. to break or cause to break into fragments
[C15: from Latin fragmentum, from frangere to break]

Autosave-File vom d-lab2/3 der AgfaPhoto GmbH

Sometimes memory is a game

selective enchantment.

Lost in sea of boiled asphalt.

Chasing dreams I wish I had written down.

Promises I wish I had written down.

Other peoples footsteps.

I have to draw in my own shadow.

Autosave-File vom d-lab2/3 der AgfaPhoto GmbH

Autosave-File vom d-lab2/3 der AgfaPhoto GmbH

Realities I passed in brief duet

Now feel more like home than worn out shoes.

The egg timer will not stop

as I will not sleep to turn it over,

so you can dream and I will let time give us a room.

Let us take time and sit with it.

To sail a sea that has not been crossed yet.

Autosave-File vom d-lab2/3 der AgfaPhoto GmbH

Autosave-File vom d-lab2/3 der AgfaPhoto GmbH

“Lets run to Hollywood. and count pigeons.

Or we could sit.

And you could tell me a story.”

The lady has lost her teeth again.

So she just smiles and nods at me.

“Seems like lately that things are changin”

He won’t finish his sentences and keeps eating kippers

Autosave-File vom d-lab2/3 der AgfaPhoto GmbH

“But Beatrice, one day you have to sit still”

The egg timer is blue.

The sky blue.

My socks blue.

At least there is some synergy.

“What becomes of broken hearted?”

A new jar of kippers and its day break again.

The lady puts on her boxing gloves and the parrot grins.

Autosave-File vom d-lab2/3 der AgfaPhoto GmbH

Where we were, where we are. These things have no meaning now.

To find an exhaustion.
We dance again in silence.

Blood. Sweat. Tears.

” Thats all you need” she said handing me a map on a napkin to a bakery.


Autosave-File vom d-lab2/3 der AgfaPhoto GmbH

” Your in Hollywood now”

i wish I could remember what it smelt like.

Spaces of faded grandeur, that perhaps never existed.

Chasing my own tale ( tail)

The book is soaked in water.

I can read my words.

Can we forget feelings in the same way?

To submerge my head in water?

Autosave-File vom d-lab2/3 der AgfaPhoto GmbH

I want to be a fish

To live under the under sea.

to stay hidden in seaweed all day.

to count the sea birds which fly overhead.

And say nothing.

To know nothing of this world and its absurdity.

” Perhaps you would help me cross the road? ”

Autosave-File vom d-lab2/3 der AgfaPhoto GmbH

” Perhaps you would help me cross the road? ”

in simplicitate

•June 25, 2014 • Leave a Comment

because sometimes we forget:
to breathe in itself is quite a miracle.


This complicated series of cells and passages we call the body.

it hold us.


sometimes when it is quiet i like to dance fiercely.

and get so exhausted i fall over.

and then i get up again.

and i start again.

I have gone back to ballet and minimalism for a brief affair.

Discipline. Rigour. restraint. abundance.

DSC09784 ballet

Such classicism confuses me at points.

Learning another’s language.

“There is more wisdom in your body than in your deepest philosophy.”

Yet how do we learn it?

How do we repeat it?

How can we teach it?


“The body is a great intelligence, a multiplicity with one sense, a war and a peace, a herd and a herdsman.”

Yet how hard it is to gather, form, calibrate, when speaking another language.


sometimes i give up

and listen to the rise of fall and breath.


then i go back what makes sense.


and i leave the studio and walk and run.



“And those who were seen dancing were thought to be insane by those who could not hear the music.”

DSC06853 b

“We should consider every day lost on which we have not danced at least once. And we should call every truth false which was not accompanied by at least one laugh.”

Other peoples voices. Other peoples vocabularies.

What then is left to say?

back to the beginning

because sometimes i fall over and forget to count the grass stalks.

•June 16, 2014 • Leave a Comment

” landscape is a way of seeing that has its own history ”

DSC09536 b

I suppose sometimes to be only in the body

one can escape the mind.

when there are moments when nothing quite seems to make sense.
landscape and power.

landscape is an exhausted. ( form)
landscape is ( not ) an exhausted medium

no longer a mode of artistic expression. perhaps fallen.

routine. testing. practice. exhaustion.


can we see landscape not a form of art but as a medium?
a medium of exchange
between human and natural
The other and the self.

Landscape as a social hieroglyph
Landscape as perhaps our own commonality

yet I have no idea what you feel when the soil is between your fingers.


we are surrounded by things we have not made.

landscape as ideology

landscape as method of power

landscape as escape from humanity

i want to count the grass stalks and not say one word.


stressing the disjuncture between spectacle and their subjects
one cannot own ‘ place ‘
The affect is not yet clear.

System. abstraction/ order.


and then.



perhaps i run
to run away
perhaps i dance
to dance away

perhaps one should count each blade of grass
I like to talk to sheep.
I like to watch clouds.

I like not knowing where i will end up
but to keep going

i like exhausting myself.

even in dreams there has to be a quietness, the hearing nature is still alert.

“the waking have one world in common, sleepers have each a private world of his own.”

i like to hide behind trees
when no one will ever come

and imagine its hide and seek.


this could be a conversation.

but we have sealed our mouths.

leave only footsteps.

.. to perhaps nothing at all.


because sometimes i fall over and forget to count the grass stalks.