Sheffield Hallam University

A day of shaky hands

A day of shaky hands, of a dry spit mouth. To share an affinity with the Hermit life style, sheltering from the beautiful non-descript afternoon, I’ll remain in my cave of white walls and wooden floors, hung, suspended waiting for the break of a sun-setting dawn. The calm after the storm has finally arrived. The quiet and solitude that has been longed for is temporarily placated. A brief moment in a deaf world of soft yellow lighting and some flaking squiggles on the wall. Where dwells a constant will to remain alive and in the party, lives an impulse, to flee, from myself and here. That feeling was not to be submitted too: that is not the will of a Saturday night.

Sipping sake through painted giant card faces. The reactionary text, a reason to shut the door and cross the road.

One walk, half a duck, two cups of tea and a found chair later I arrive back to be given hugs, screams. And kisses once I feel like shit. Again. I take another drink more.

My friends are laughing, I think someone is definitely crying. That one’s just fallen over and now the explanation will go on for five minutes. It’s ok, I do it to her too, but not tonight, not today. I have somewhere to play.

I find a space and squeeze through, learning my French as I go, to the wall where I sit and stare through a window at the place I just left. I miss my friend I left for you all. I don’t have a place anymore. It moved and didn’t leave me an address.

Walking through the door I call out for a pigeon and find a reflection I don’t want to see. A confused memory an image of something I don’t remember and ignore.

Two drinks, Four kisses, One cleared room and now, a leaking pipe, an alarm and water in my eye. Running and shouting and alarms repeating, it’s action, it’s a purpose and I like this sense it makes my numb head feel.

Wiggling, walking a lovely sunrise, to a place that is my own superior cave. Family awaits and an excuse begins. Another itinerary read, another life described. I look through her eyes and forget my own name. My smoke is more interesting, my smoke is my friend, my smoke gets into everything and goes everywhere to alienate and protect. To induce my long awaited sleep.

For an hour.

Then awoken for breakfast in a coma. Ginger and mushrooms and silently defending myself to those bearded eyes who thinks they’re better than Monica. Excuses made and back to bed, to plan the next time I’ll eat and see you.

Bribing you to the oven for the last time, we sit in silence, with hairy dogs in glasses, a 2D church and holding hands. Not really thinking and waiting. Waiting to wake up and meet my shaky hand, dry mouth and a desire to be alone. Encased in a clouded cave of; white walls, wooden floors, soft yellow lighting and some flaking squiggles on the wall.

Annette Messager the messengers

4march-25 may 2009 Southbank Centre, London

Magica,

With it’s forced, magnified, intricate perversion. Of the ‘look but can’t touch’

at the tomb of those lovingly knitted jumpers & suitcases of 1000 photographs.

Cheeky, take another look at all the treasures, all the memories, all the images you relate to,

Senses baffled and stripped

By the giants of jerky, awkward movements

Phallic and flaccid, hacked, stitched and creeping towards me.

A child warning. Grotesque and un-quitting.

Lying on the floor now trying to see the ‘feel but can’t look’. Bending and peering, twisting and turning a journey of intricate visions of the fantasies of real life- to the larger than life.

Fantastical imaginations- feel the breeze of the vanishing door to the sea of red

Mutilated, hanging, filling in the sky.

Unbound by the appearance, rejection of mis-spent adolescents to moving parts internal intestines using sections to explain the whole. Eyes widening in Awe of what you see.

Gustav Metzger: Decades 1959-2009

29 September- 8 November

Serpentine Gallery

A distorting between A) the hidden Facade.

History of violations entwined with the guilt that you in turn have told us we need to feel.

Guilt for a feeling not remembered, not live but worn as a badge

Fragmented, Magnified sections

Grandiose and lazy- awkward for the sake of awkward in the name of art-

Lost with a maze of 100year old oaks, monuments of changed decisions and the feeling I left/

Let you down on the tube.

I’ll make my own art if you tell me what notes to take- which statements to combobulate.

Ipods and fashions and fast food in order to get rich quicker die faster, live a little less hard, because nothing is as difficult as it used to B)

And you should be thankful for our open air cafe where your coffee is served cold. Sectioning of layers of the hidden, the deceived and the ill forgotten before their time.

This is a homage: to the lives given to the TV daze of the forgotten war hero, the political stance maker and the underground culture.

No fancy lights, just meditative calm, a reflection of thought procession, and a half broken car and my boyfriends £2 left at the door.

A stolen night in a hotel

A stolen night in a hotel, followed by a sleeping bag in the kitchen and divided worlds on faceless heads.

A fleece skirt of best friends and a present thrown through the door.

Nine toes and a gay brother, my dad arriving at a 13 dawn opened doors. Beers in hands and rolling out a day of caves and handstands in the rain.

Kisses at bustops followed by punchy sex in bars,squares, sloppers and tight lycra leg warmers.

One worm, a bag of nuts and a bed on a sea of rock.

Stains on school skirts, hockey sticks and a sweaty musical treat leads me to driving drunk songs through cattle grid gates.

Lives divided and re-kindled to repeat the same situations, of flashing lights, solo walks and shirts knotted on his breast dad’s funeral.

Muffins and Barn sugared cookies.

A circle split with icicles. Fall through a tree and hit the cafe to ignore your phone and arrive home too late.

A stolen night in a hotel, a passed out dog with a head full of water and a gas man over the fence.

Two silent worlds holding each other in a dream of obsessive love. The shelter of my light, the saviour of smoke. Driving to the swell of faces pushed into sweaty shoulders and holidays in frozen swing pools.

An athlete, a bar, a mess, the end at the start of a new city made of concrete attics. A DJ who thought he was cool until I saw him with long hair and a sore.

Eclipse of the same story, three boys and one name still the same. To the illusion of love, forgetting, irreplaceably erasing something that should never have ended. A regret.

An escape to a world of sand and needles, of punching walls, cruise ships with braces stranded in the sand bank and a wife I married in Vegas.

Lunging and joking and a little note on my paint brush. A dear friend eating okra with a grey fish from wok. A memory of a friend and jokes that simply aren’t funny anymore.

Two. Many tears, conversations in smoke filled rooms and a friend next door.

A rock club and a pole dancing bar- two girls and a bump on an island of snow in a sugar-pink house coated shell. To a disappointment and a hope.

A stolen night in a hotel room, that bed time night cap on the fire escape outside your rented window door.