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Month: December 2017

Saltworks Diary Extracts: PART (01)

Saltworks Diary Extracts: PART (01)

The Saltworks diaries (extracts until we’re up to date)

 As of today:

April 1 2009: If there was a breeze, i felt it – encasing and enclosing body in something very wrap – face out to the incoming. The incoming naked to the morning and the silver silky idea of water. Or who wrote the agenda for this? And I could be one of the flock, darting here and there after direction. Searching into the weather and the flight of birds after smiles or slivers of promise.
Meanwhile breeze is shhhoooshing through the pines. Clouds turning sky to grey and thunder clapping a guts of encouragement to the day. I’ve been awake for hours now. Probably won’t sleep again today.

April 2 2009:  In the half light of the what for-
The sending up question – baiting less than reason – concept tactile – verbs falling like rain – instances catching – discordance with the columns – respect for the hole in the middle – idea about teaching – making pictures/making manifest – tumbling up as all can see – hold on I think I’ve seen it – no bus rides to the next stop – I’ve got heart but not thump – no slices in jest – paying less to butter thick – uncles and aunts pasty faces.(what crazy was paved in all manner of yes nods that say, damned right the path I build with trust as wind whistles to herald the spring. Trains in the night, buzz of the faulty lightbulb and yellow haze of the last moments before I say, let there be dark. And there will be)

April 3 2009: Notes regarding day (11)(14 days in solitude)-
It’ll be a cave
It’ll be a cuppa tea too
It’ll be the need to buy more tea
It’ll be the girl behind the counter
It’ll be the discovery of a cave on the way home
It’ll be the choice of crawling back into the womb or leaving it all behind

—– Something dancing thin on the sweet morning air – just a tingle was enough.

April 4 2009: No let up – combing thoughts.
raking the plot
stamping the clay and comes
the placement – enter something tangible
waffle waffle same ol’ same ol’
say waves that break on shore
millions and millions of bubbles of years but
only once am I here to hear it
standing knee deep in the soup
and this little sea of mind.
(or the polished version)
Said fly – grains of sand in their sift sting-free-fall-eyes full of it. Doubt-flight-might-tizz I.
Growth – sipping tea
Chewing rubbery cakes of time – opeing and closing.Breathing just enough to keep.
Follow through
Cutting it off. Just off. OFF

April 5 2009: elaborating for the birds and all becoming sing song –
For more glorious days in sing sing sing—
— I quote things I heard others say and so much so that I thought them to be my own
— where’s the motivation and the compassion and the mindfullness and the return home
— return home
— home again
— honey I’m home.
— back here in the place I know. LIKE REALLY KNOW
— sing sing sing (paining as an exercise didn’t I tell you? and tiny voices behind the fence have tendency to echo down my street. just down my street. We sit stretched into the last part of the day and talk about life without song and the way birds see – and fly enough to become above. Voices follow still. Street. Brackets of space marking space. Hum of color changes.— clouds do this and that and all the while we water plants. Eat salty snacks.  Drink dark beer and wait for the inevitable

April 13 2009: (the sojourn to Barcelona)

Picking up the money or boring deep into the ABC of tangent flying into the heart of.
~taking and being (the bait)
~brush strokes (up and down)
~you say yes I say yes
~day moves like a wheel (go ‘round)
~coming to get you (life behind your smile)
~I’m old, I’m ancient (don’t only know)
~hearing the cats go solid (in and out)
~don’t own and don’t owe (late for work)

(such Antoni Gaudi hands grapple symphonic as they build mosiac ideas of I told you so, just told you so –“my hands are spires forming fountains of green organic arrows missing, and yet missing the mark”)

the blue blue green green day day up in his head beaming crumbs of super super or side by side and rumbles of the depth of this is enough to move him yes and groove him yes or too the beads of sweat carving patterns of pain, patterns of sane on this crusty ploughed up field of forhead.

and dreams, coz you got nothing on him friend of the way, oh friend of the play –  revving up their block and tackle engines he obviously prepares to make a statement – I’m leaving town, tired of being the clown, time to become  the lonesome cowboy such a long way from home –  (is he a critic? Is he an observer? Is he a doer of the deed?) and in saying this he be in the process of doing this and grow grow he take a look see at self and/ and/ and/ so begins to dig up such fine and light a turd in the desert depths (honour the space from which all things arise)”I can… I can acknowledge the wonder of all I create… as if it was not even my own works.

twinkle twinkle the stars nightly puke their guts into the antimatter of self same, self same garden of Eden, shadows shimmer, cracks in the pavement, twiddle my diddle, long live the queen – and some such early morning rise up to the sound of pen on paper. (rampant my career unfolds)

brothers and sons holding meetings around the ol’ chopping block and here his intuition grew and he polished his pain and went forth into the serrated edge of life and death and give and take and sing sing sing and scraping the final blood and guts and egg off his face he say that such a day could doth come, hath doth come and he hit out at the air and reeled to the tune of jiggity jigg jiggity jigg.(I came with my poison into this world of bastards and whores and skallywags)

God save the missed targets!

April 15 2009: Entering by door, says cloud of nothing hangs as smell. Unknowing, the stench of self wavers in the wind —
Bodies hanging to dry. More or less. Shells just shells. Inclined to fill their purpose. Purpose their fill. Rise up though just enough to forget.
Moon on the rise (yes we know)
Night closing in (yes, we’ve heard it)
Shaping the infinite (yes, already done)
Breeze as if the joke of past autumn makes a song of it. Bodies on the line. Just bodies on the line

April 22 2009: More Barcelona sundry —
Packets the teaming hoards of folk. Clipping Clopping high heals down the Ramplas. Fixed in the cement oh family.Gritting the huddle we’ve been known to concoct.(eyes I meet surge smooth despite gawky attempts to be unreachable)
The age of cold here in the cube is more slivers of someday.
Some rays of sun manage to break the pattern though.
Meanwhile from my bed in the crypt I delve into drawings and plans of the project they’ll be working on two centuries after I’m gone.
My bed is – bent at a right angle so that I can never lie down – matrass of straw that tells of spring mornings when I was part of the fold

April 25 2009:  First idea regarding [The Hypostasis Of The Archons] —
My Nag Hammadi fell down from the shelf again. Long time since [The Thunder: Perfect Mind]

And heck the stab a whiskey shot kicks glow and thump into a wet chilled afternoon being sucked into the pages. So… a scetch of what I could expect.

  • Movement on account of the reality
  • Authority (original sin) I’m the one who fucked it up.
  • The boss judges (and we put him in his place)
  • The growth of lifes family
  • Building the body of man (a deep study of constructs)
  • Putting life into the body of man (and so on)
Copyright © Graeme Perrin 2020