Clay 1
Wet clay is body and soul.
Wet clay is ready.
Wet clay wants to be formed.
plastic...malleable...attentive
Wet clay is soul-child.
Wet clay is what was never allowed to be.
Wet clay is what might still become.
Wet clay makes me feel like God or Michelangelo, full of the possible.
But not full of hope.
Wet clay is ready.
Wet clay wants to be formed.
plastic...malleable...attentive
Wet clay is soul-child.
Wet clay is what was never allowed to be.
Wet clay is what might still become.
Wet clay makes me feel like God or Michelangelo, full of the possible.
But not full of hope.
Clay 2
Now, placed, wet clay is form, in situ. A shape on a wall.
In situ, wet clay is form and focus.
Wet clay is becoming something
Becoming more than shape...a figure...
And wet clay is before something (the seaground/skyground/horizonground/blueground/background).
Clay clearly wants to represent.
In situ, wet clay is form and focus.
Wet clay is becoming something
Becoming more than shape...a figure...
And wet clay is before something (the seaground/skyground/horizonground/blueground/background).
Clay clearly wants to represent.
It insists on representing.
The thinning in this wet clay is the equivalent of a slight opening.
It is indicative.
It is suggestive.
It suggests a waist, a wrist, an isthmus
Or a neck.
The simple act of narrowing suggests a human figure and my old receptors startle a little, as they register another being out of the corner of my eye.
I have made a clay shape and my receptors see a possible human friend/foe/foodsource...
Wet clay can startle me with its insistence on representing.
The thinning in this wet clay is the equivalent of a slight opening.
It is indicative.
It is suggestive.
It suggests a waist, a wrist, an isthmus
Or a neck.
The simple act of narrowing suggests a human figure and my old receptors startle a little, as they register another being out of the corner of my eye.
I have made a clay shape and my receptors see a possible human friend/foe/foodsource...
Wet clay can startle me with its insistence on representing.
My wet clay.shape is an old Greek (warrior/philosopher.mother/king/slave) gazing out to sea.
My clay.shape is a resolution of thumb prints.
My clay.shape is always potential.
Always could be something else.
My clay.shape is a resolution of thumb prints.
My clay.shape is always potential.
Always could be something else.
Clay 3
I have been saving up for such a day as this.
These are the contents of my pebble piggy bank.
My underbed hoardings.
My collection.
Holey stones brought home to become a necklace.
Or something.
Stones that maybe once were wet clay and now are fully formed, then punctured, offering themselves for service in a world without tungsten drill bits.
These are the contents of my pebble piggy bank.
My underbed hoardings.
My collection.
Holey stones brought home to become a necklace.
Or something.
Stones that maybe once were wet clay and now are fully formed, then punctured, offering themselves for service in a world without tungsten drill bits.
Now repaying my gathering with interest... openings... perspectives... receptives... even a cowscope.
Clay 4
So...
In fact not necklace pearls but stoneblooms, pebbleblossom.
Stensten blomster
These rockflower moments were anticipated.
But I do not mean them to represent hope.
I do not believe that flowers blossom after armageddon.... after the first nuclear power station goes down.
I do not have hope.
Hope may, however, be representing itself.
Do not offer hope in my name, wood betony...
In fact not necklace pearls but stoneblooms, pebbleblossom.
Stensten blomster
These rockflower moments were anticipated.
But I do not mean them to represent hope.
I do not believe that flowers blossom after armageddon.... after the first nuclear power station goes down.
I do not have hope.
Hope may, however, be representing itself.
Do not offer hope in my name, wood betony...
Picked, the ragwort is no longer pest. And yet the fly is indifferent to the ragwort's newly dead status.
Ragwort still serving its fly.purpose.
Ragwort still serving its fly.purpose.
Clay 5
But, oh my, how they pretty up together.
Aligned, they seem to become a selection, a gallery, an arrangement.
A pose.
Display.
An unexpected Miss World.
Aligned, they seem to become a selection, a gallery, an arrangement.
A pose.
Display.
An unexpected Miss World.
Single, they seem to be specimens chosen for their art, speaking for their species.
While, together, they form a parliament of clayed blooms speaking, speaking in the wind.
Do they know their time is up?
That they have only the sap in their stems to sustain them,
for one last beauty parade?
Do they know their time is up?
That they have only the sap in their stems to sustain them,
for one last beauty parade?
As that ancient Greek is whittled away into an angry old punk.
An unexpected, unanticipated witness:
An unexpected, unanticipated witness:
And a slight opening offers up the familiar blue horizon,
Blue the new decay
Blue the world's dreaded blue screen
Virus blue
Impossible blue
Blank blue
Already dead blue.
Does beautiful blue know its time is up?
Blue the new decay
Blue the world's dreaded blue screen
Virus blue
Impossible blue
Blank blue
Already dead blue.
Does beautiful blue know its time is up?