ecologies of practice, place and body
Slow, immanent, seeping permeation of relation with place and each other (whisper, ripple, shimmer, rumble); nourished by deep listening and field work.
[I confide in your texture]
Soundcloud
Vimeo
ecologies of practice, place and body
Slow, immanent, seeping permeation of relation with place and each other (whisper, ripple, shimmer, rumble); nourished by deep listening and field work.
[I confide in your texture]
Soundcloud
Vimeo
How tall and slender you have grown... Reaching with all your might toward the sun –
away from that hypertrophic memory of trauma. I wonder if it hurt when they did that to you. Did you cry, and bleed, and mourn that thickening trunk that I am sure was once beautiful and strong?
Now all that composes you is that singular limb – no more bipedal – but grasping at the heavens anyway, with all your seductive fragility.
That limb; that cycloptic arm – she too is covered in snaked gashes. I can see that your desire has been to reach outwards, to encircle the earth with your embrace – but they have forced you into perpendicular growth, away from the vessel, toward the phallic, they wish to make a sky scraping cock out of you.
But you reject this, as you do. Flowering and blooming and giving birth. I see this in the empty vessels that litter your frail solo limb, vessels that were once titillated and teased before pollination, vessels that once perfumed the air with a scent dizzyingly saccharine.
I cannot escape your wounds; I wonder if you mourn that primordial limb that they took from you. An infanticide of highest debasement – to take away that trunk had been thickening since your inception. I can still see remnants of her ferocity at the bulging of your roots where they lick the soil. I am sure those roots grasp deeper and wider into earths belly than I can comprehend... What does it feel like to hold our parent in that way? To grasp her and drink from that vital decay of her breast? – I have always wished to be an agent of subterranean power, to exist beneath that barrier and be held in that muddy decaying benevolent embrace.
Does it feel as joyous as I have always imagined?
Does it feel safe, and warm, and all knowing
as I have always imagined?
Has it given you answers to the questions I have spent my life pondering?
What I am trying to say; is does it feel like home?
Does being so eternally enmeshed with the infinite life source give you wisdom I cannot comprehend? Perhaps your wounds and castrated limbs never bothered you, because the eternal mother held you through all your grief.
I never had a mother like that.
I am sorry I fixate on your scars, when you are so infinitely remarkable.
I only ask
because my limbs are covered in hypertrophic imprints of trauma too; wounds
that were the result of men trying to metamorphise me into a sky scraping phallus,
much as they did you.
I never wanted to be perpendicular to the earth, I wanted to become her. I wonder if you feel the same? I wonder if you give little thought to any of this at all, or if earths embrace qualms any anxiety.
I am so envious of you.
What does the soil taste like?
Is it ecstatic?
erotic?
orgasmic?
erotic?
affirming?
I am so envious of you. I wish I were you. I love you.
I love you.