Nach mbeidh an fharraige a shealbhú ar mo bhád páipéir.

•May 26, 2014 • Leave a Comment


i bhfolach i garlands na feamainne.


Nach mbeidh an fharraige a shealbhú ar mo bhád páipéir.








we are all invisible men.


A human account of man.


we are all crazy creatures.


we can glimpse but not adopt.



The authentic vision of man. The madness of mad men. Our alienation goes to the root.

Idioms of union.
We are bemused crazy creatures.


We are born into a world where alienation awaits us.



Even facts become fictions.


We demand evidence.


The others behaviour is quite unknown. The true field of inter experience.


To watch the courses of the stars.


Evidence. Falling into the sea.






The experience of the other.


To be like a rock, that the waves crashing over.


To give up without complaint.


Forget everything else.


Each of us lives only now.


There cannot be time, only now.


Forget everything else.


The now. This brief instant.


Nothing but change.


The sky knows longing.







To be like a rock that the waves keep crashing over.

It stands unmoved and the raging of the sea falls still around it.


The world is nothing but change. Our life is only perception.




Perhaps this is failure and perhaps this is the dream.


Let us be driven back into the ocean.


Without Melody.


Without order and simply seeking form.


Each of us lives only now.


A conversation with a tree root at dawn.

•May 25, 2014 • Leave a Comment

A conversation with a tree root at dawn.




Perhaps if I were to lie here long enough

It might be possible to undertstand what the sensation of the earth might be like.


Perhaps if I hide here long enough

The speed of the world will soften


Perhaps if I try to conceal myself here for long enough

The skies will change.


A fleeting instant, I don’t think you know those?


The power of reason, you have seen too much to know all its inevitability.


Fails. Falls. Faulters.


Why did they cut you down?


The power of understanding?


Leaves. Leaf. The damp. The sodden. Washed up in dew.


Stillness comes in waves. Do you miss your branches as limbs?


I wish I did not have this language.


The dawn chases the night, grabbing its tail and holding it to account. I can hear you laughing. All of this is repetition, you know that originality does not exist.


The responsive and the responsible mind, and your mind.


To determine the weight of labour.


The doing and being, The spectator of passivity and action.


The habit of unconscious consciousness, refining the process of participation in the spheres about one.


To create or to enter a space where one can begin to understand human nature.


What if you have never seen a circle? How then would you know of beginning and endings? The potential for the infinite could then still exist.


Who is the lady with the sea weed in her hair? What of this matters?


I wish I could understand you.


Flashes of images, silence of reason, determination of spirit, modes of display, a personal strategy for engagement, we will not define empowerment for fear it will bring tears to your markings.



Buttermilk and beetroot soup.


You were there.


Perhaps you are not.


The little bird sits on my shoulder and tells me to pretend that tears are raindrops.


Only two things are certain, that everything comes to pass and everything changes.




Washed up in dew.

•May 24, 2014 • Leave a Comment

Washed up in dew.

Leaves. Leaf. The damp. The sodden. Washed up in dew.

The doing and being, The spectator of passivity and action.

•May 24, 2014 • Leave a Comment

The doing and being, The spectator of passivity and action.

Stillness comes in waves.

Le creideamh.

•May 24, 2014 • Leave a Comment

ar nádúr
ar súil
ar ghrá
ar íonachta
ar buíochas.
Le creideamh.

Beatrice Jarvis
Inis Mór. Márta 2014

auf Nostalgie

•May 24, 2014 • Leave a Comment

Reflections on explorations of the city as studio.
We are living in an age where the ground is shifting and the foundations are shaking. I canont answer for other times and places. Perhaps it has always been true.
Not a dancer but a wrestler, waiting poised, and dug in for sudden assaults.
We slowly going forwards to the end. and each idea that easily arises suggests the next idea. The pleasure of the familiar can guide us through any landscape, including the landscape of language.

Reflections and annotations.
With thanks to EGFK – European Society for Research and Art / Europäische Gesellschaft für Forschung und Kunst and Benjamin Bailey.

Níl ort ach anseo.

•May 24, 2014 • Leave a Comment

Níl a fhios agam cad.
Níl a fhios agam cén áit.
Níl a fhios agam conas a.
Níl ort ach anseo.
B’fhéidir imeacht.

{ beatrice jarvis }

I know not what.
I know not where.
I know not how.
Simply here.
Perhaps to depart.

Ba mhaith liom cabhrú leat trasna an bhóthair.

•May 24, 2014 • Leave a Comment

agus má chloiseann tú dom éisteacht leat mo thost.
Ní bheidh mé glaoch ar an bíosún.
Scaip do sciatháin iarr sé.
Ní féidir liom a shealbhú do lámh.
Ach liom a shamhlú cad a d’fhéadfadh sé gur mhaith leat.
Ba mhaith liom cabhrú leat trasna an bhóthair.
( Beatrice Jarvis)
and if you hear me you hear my silence.
I will not call the buffalo.
Spread your wings he asked.
I cannot hold your hand.
Yet I imagine what it might feel like.
I want to help you cross the road.

non cantus

•May 24, 2014 • Leave a Comment

the story of the search for the perfect language.
a story of dreams and failures.
no melody . . … ……… .. .. .. .. …… . . . … . . … . . … . . …… . . . . . . . . . . . ….. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. ..
without melody, why have melody at all.
Do not be afraid. Do not be terrified.
Alienated from the present.

What is the black horse chewing?
Only memory. A bit of memory.
The day is breaking, but my room is composed of a long night.

silence of reason

•May 24, 2014 • Leave a Comment

silence of reason

silence of reason