This is actually a photo from when Lene came down last weekend. A little lost, we broke onto private land to try to get home. I don’t like this container one bit.
Today the Percussionists arrived. A lovely bunch.
c/w: suggestion of violence, gore.
Research today. Into migrants. The 71 migrants abandoned in the truck by the motorway in Austria in 2015. I managed to find some names, some histories, some journeys. And the drivers. And the journalist. The politicians, how they leveraged the situation. If you type names into google there are pictures I didn’t want to see. It makes me feel bad. Is it perverse, masochistic? Why am I doing this. Isn’t it strange to be looking into something so horrific? Alternatively, I could ask why aren’t we all doing this. This violence is our violence. No – whilst there are corners of the internet dedicated to gratuitous depictions of violence and gore they do not interest me. I want to be aware and have my work be as best informed as possible. The articulation and exploration of these thoughts warrants more time than I currently have.
untitled (Hilltop #4)
Something like ‘the unobserved life is not worth living.’
I wake up feeling sick, cold, alone.
It’s raining and I feel weak in my chest. I turn on the electric radiator and go back to sleep.
How come some people cry more than others.
Are they paying more attention.
Are they closer to their feelings.
What is a constructive response to ‘you are too sensitive’.
Something happened recently.
When we say, It doesn’t bear thinking about,
do we mean, nothing good can come of this.
Some people are all nervous system.
A degree of repression can be healthy.
You only have to live for so long before some encounter will be too much to bear. You think drugs are dangerous? Think about death for two minutes.
Our repressions betray us with ingenuity.
In the way we hold ourselves, for example, which has a bearing on our bones.
You said, some people are depressed and some are suicidal, and the two are not mutually inclusive.
And then there are the unattached.
Trauma and memory are braided.
I can tell you three traumatic events in my life.
That I did not survive. Something left.
Sometimes I could sleep…
(who?)
…for so long I’d forget.
I’m almost proud of not being attached to living. Paradoxically, I worship life.
You can build a house on sand, actually, if you move fast enough.
There are enormous holes where horror used to be.
Where there used to be horror, there is just a shade of pale blue.
I have scratched you out.
With great fun.
I think it was you I scratched out.