Just for a short while, the memory lingers. Enduring imprints, from the here and now.
The final version of small movie containing a poem by Rob Walker called Transcending Silence and the art installation by ‘Dance’ by Myra Wildmist. The whole tied together by shadows, a misty mountain in Japan, second world war. A the burned in patterns on the skin of a Japanese woman. I would say: enjoy.
two weeks ago in japan i sat on that Mountain
the bald young monk explaining zazen meditation
the release from past and future
and the silence of engyoji temple
teaching me the here/now
and here and now we sit in The Vales
a silence broken
by the eternal happiness of hi-5
on a blaring tv
which is everlasting
you my balding father
hair stolen not by time but radiation
you sit on the bed in your tracksuit pants
bulging with the incontinence nappy
below your buddha belly
your corporeal form shapeless as a toddler’s
i ask if you need anything
all your physical needs met
in this daily malignant shallowness
the blastoma has excised your past
and your future is inoperable
you don’t remember who came yesterday
or what you ate for breakfast
you have achieved a kind of benign transcendence
only those around you
feel the eternal depths of sorrow
are in the perpetual
Here and Now.
When it was young it grew rapidly into a tall tree with a wide trunk, thick bark and so many luscious dark-green leaves that our whole family could sit in its shade when the sun was at it’s most merciless during the heat of the summers day.
I imagined the tree.
When it started to loose the first leaf nobody noticed, because there were so many green ones and that one red-yellow leaf that floated to the ground at dusk, went unseen and was perhaps trod upon by one of our daughters during a game of tag or when flying a kite.
I imagined the tree.
When I was in my long dark green gown with my red-brown hair being tugged by the wind, during the first storm of our fall and a cloud of red and yellow leaves – all so sudden dead – was released and carried away just before the rain arrived.
I imagined that tree..
When it was old and gnarled and the limbs were like fingers on a hand grasping upwards as the frozen image of the hand of a drowning swimmer reaching out in desperation or a skeletal hand pushing through the soil of a graveyard. The last of the leaves had long gone.
I imagine our tree.
When, the next year, after the snow has melted, trees would blossom again and cloak themselves in their emerald versatility, but ours will be like a bird that lost it’s feathers and shows only the withered frame of a creature that would never fly again. With each incident and each conflict another feather would be plucked from it’s body until that moment came that we both did not care about that stab in the heart when yet another moment in life made us drift apart further.
The steel guides me
to the next station,
And outside the window,
quiet cornfields rush past.
A low sun shines
on green field-hands.
Their plastic shapes
sharp in the light.
Towards my destination,
dark rain fails.
Layers of grey and white,
float in from the sea.
It is suddenly fall
and i see this painting.
And I dream in your of your hand in mine.
And behind those clouds,
the skis blue, so vividly blue