Monthly Archives: June 2018

.red cross.

red cross

a simple sign that says kindness helps

and needs volunteers

so i do one day a week alone upstairs

if possible

the power of such a thing is endless

as i sift and sort the black bags and

cardboard box i think of you

a leather bag with purse: pink plastic comb

still grubby with your hair intact.

lace handkerchiefs, letters i leave unread.

dead people’s handbags, dead folks

clothes. mothballs they say are hard

to come by, i know different, smell them now.

washing hands is regular. compulsive.

odours cling. thoughts sing that kindness

comes easy.

sounds, chatter from the store below rise and when thoughts subside

i listen here and there, customers clients and staff.

the box contains your little things, the company of pretty

your joy of small items

dust coats the air, motes of your living days. a drink is

welcome. move on.

another bag is baby clothes, joyful thoughts of children growing.

showing them to colleagues we smile together, steaming in

the upper room

warm the days now, summer the nights are hotter. murmuring continues below.

you hear things if you listen.

she said

we should help people in this country

first, not those abroad .

bloody immigrants

yet these are the numbers the scared and dying

the

established volunteer talking loudly to her young customer

asking about the washing,

yes i

hang it in the garden, in sun and breeze

to dry fresh.

staff replied that is what peasants do.

gippos, you know their sort.

i stopped the sorting.

saddened

report it

fight, flight or write of it?

i touched a little coat gently

said goodbye to that upper room left quietly

it is hard to do nothing, not react

my issue

their sign says kindness helps

red cross

a red cross

.the prize.

the prize came as unexpected

a big building enough to house

the poor, the homeless the dis

possessed. it was tea and

i felt sick

i will rather give the money away

the added value of the food. ritz.

crackers. that bread can cost so much

spread with regular stuff cut thin

the waiter smiled ; i noted his shoes

an honest worker like me

alongside they enjoyed the moment

without the anxiety of my chest where

reparation fails. this is the promise

the outcome of a difficult day

.exercise.

afternoon tea at 4pm posh

first prize. three x five

all persons: third person

1.

the restaurant

three minus five or six

2. the tea

three minus five or six

waiter

3. describing the folk next to me

4. too many expectations, the room offering anxieties

5. food came

6. how high can this be, a ceiling at ten feet four

#speechless

.date stamp.

they say he fell & cut his head

in the bathroom

when she arrived there was a number

written on the plaster

on his forehead

the date he fell

.herrison.

notes

Hospital Name: Herrison Hospital
Previous Names: Dorset (New) County Asylum, Charminster Asylum, Dorset County Mental Hospital
Location: Herrison Road, Charminster, Dorset
Principal Architect: Henry Edward Kendall Junior. George Thomas Hine
Layout: Corridor Plan
Status: Converted to housing
Opened: 1863
Closed: 10th January 1992

:: more notes ::

:: histories ::

there are no internal photographs

there are no photographs with people

only cars

and windows

.bus trip.

herrison

is near monkey jump

dorchester

i pointed it out on the coach

i don’t go there no more

see notes

.Hawfinches in Surrey.

Hawfinches are shy birds, rarely seen. That is what the books say.

Notes in books are black and white, with coloured pictures, often

photographs.

They come to the gate with walking boots, notebooks and sun hats

in the summer. If they come tall find it hard to negotiate the lower

branches.

A country garden.

Roger found things difficult, a sensitive soul standing six feet four. Some

were cut on his advice.

The first negotiation.

The grass banks slip while wet ; safety training kicks in.

Royal Mail. Country Garden.

Those watchers climb the back stone steps to watch the birds. In groups they come

with binoculars.

Ask to see the skull; the big beak.

Second negotiation; two of many.

By my gate it fell.

The hawfinch.

.hen blas.

the work comes different, place to place. Hen Blas is a new situation for me; the new studio.

some things take time, layers form, marks come and go.

new geography has dictated the nature of the paint covering those from years past

i have written that these were painted in 2018, yet may i say started in 1999 in another place, another life.

i can no longer remember all that lays beneath yet know that some of that will always show through

i have submitted them as unfinished, finished for now. the work is ongoing, the adventure with paint and its expression of land and soundscape
22070827_1475961352519543_6323826378235969536_n

.sound 11.

1.

sound one

sound two

i stand near a figure by water; in water

leaded grey seamed as soldered. we stand together, there is no gender, no one mentions it no more

here

they did in the tate

modern

gigantic genitalia

liking autumn, our fall & liking travelling

i visit winchester today near an old home no longer home. i fear to return there nightmares reccuring

the flat, the trap

the madness

those days i escaped to the sea, gently floating for hours becoming spongy avoiding the need to return until dark, when turning the key opening the door found chaos screaming

dreaming

in this crypt i find

all is quiet par the dripping in a quickening rhythm ; a storm outside .

water seeps in drips from my clothes pools the floor

feel the rain pour through me scouring pain and it is better this way

i look across; it is taller than me by a foot with head bowed

stands before me silent

i stand before it silent

two of us

just two of us

some may say one of us

dripping settles

i do not know you

i do not know anyone really

only think i do

you cannot know me

secrets never told not to be told

here

now

ever

enough to be here in this place of quiet

water rises to its knees while i move higher

wait

a while to think remember you and you and you

all those that left

everyday some one dies. we do not know them all

i have found solitude and like it; have achieved my solo flight a quiet life

hear a noise in the distance turn and walk away

it looks down into its hands

gormley

sound two

sound eleven

three hundred and more