26.12.2015
My affective state on entering this crisis:
Crippling anxiety, exhaustion & delirious energy, paralysing shame, unreachable abstract feelings. Academic expressions like ‘logic of obsolescence’ rise, and I fantasise that the ruling philosophy of money has evacuated satisfaction and comprehension from my heart. It’s a concept attacking, I am being beaten by an idea.
ON THE PLANE
Hector & Gaby are asleep on each other. A person in red Ray Bans is sleeping on me. Hector has a blue scalp. Someone beside them is knitting and eating mince pies from an old-fashioned home tin. I am writing a poem and feel enormous, like a piece of dust on the carpet floor. Privileged dust, knows air travel. Subhuti’s Mind in Harmony is closed on my lap, I’m intending on reading the part called ‘Penetration as Appreciative Understanding’.
What is it to question the worth of your suffering? You feel it… but you don’t… you always have an eye on the way out because its your fault & you are undeserving. Judgement arrives as a small saviour lighting the exit point so you keep calling upon it until you reach the shelter of a category, the seemingly simplest but most loaded of verdicts; an ice clear residue of all the dis-guarded findings born of your own desperate resentment and dying understanding. A category has presented itself, one with which you can identify and suddenly the problem is open wide and you secretly smile while cage bars settle quietly around your respiratory organs & your breathing deepens into your lungs, shuddering past your heart. Control showed you a way out but it was blacker than the darkest night.
I say, this suffering is a privileged worthlessness - and take that.
Hey, white westerner what do you know of worth?
***
POEM: DRAGNET
DRAGNET
GN
GN
A TRUCK ON ITS KNEES
BURN THAT BARRICADE FOR MORE RUBBER
AND TRANSGRESS
CIVILISATION OF SKIN
NOT MINE, WE LEFT ALREADY
BYE! ;) WAVE :| > :| WAVE :/
DRAGNET
TEA ON THE DECK, GOD
HIGH 5
DEXTEROUS BODY
ON THE SURFACE OF THE CLOUDS
TWO FURROWED LANDSCAPES
TRANSGRESS! UP HERE IT IS PERFECTLY POSSIBLE
REASONABLE PENETRATION
A SHARED LANDSCAPE
YOU CAN SEE FROM UP HERE
DIVE IN TO THAT SHORELESS SEA
NO ID
ID ON ITS KNEES
DRAGNET
BODY
BODY
BODY
BODY
BODY
BODY
MEET THE RAW GRAIN
OF THIS FIBROUS INSTITUTION
DOWN THERE
THERE
DRAGNET
GOTHIC ARCHITECTURE ON ITS KNEES
TEA ON THE SQUARE
SOME LEFTOVER PAVEMENT
COLONISE
ACQUISITIVE
GN!
BODY.
LETTER: DEAR DAVID
THOUGHTFUL LEADER
WHO TAKES ON THE RESPONSBILTY OF MOTHER
THEN REFUSES MY RELATIONSHIP.
DAVID I WANT A RELATIONSHIP WITH YOU
OUTSIDE ALLOCATED TIME AND DEADLY FANTASY.
WILL YOU COME ROUND TO MY HOUSE AND WATCH YOURSELF ON TV WITH ME?
READ ME A BEDTIME STORY ABOUT DETERMINISM AND TREASON.
IN MY DREAMS I AM ACTUALLY IN THE TELLY BOX, I’M WRAPPED IN REASON,
I’VE GOT BLONDE HAIR, GREEDY SKIN, FLUSHED WITH APATHY, CONCERNED AND CUTE.
I’M HAPPY,
I’M TREATED LIKE A STAR,
INDIFFERENT, UNREACHABLE,
I’VE GOT ALL THE ANSWERS.
SOME SAY DAVID TRICKED ME AND PUT ME INSIDE THE TELLY SO HE COULD USE MY FLAT ON THE WEEKENDS.
I REMEMBER HE LIKED HOW ANALOG THE CENTRAL HEATING WAS AND KEPT TALKING ABOUT HOW FUNNY IT FELT TO HAVE COLD FEET.
- - - - - - - - - - ->
Penetration as Appreciative Absorption
Subhuti says “To be skilled in ethics is to not practice ethically unskilful absorption”
S K IL L
DRA G NET
- - - - - -- >
- - - - - - - - -- - - - >>>
27.12.2015 08:00
ATHENS
Hector is teaching me the Greek alphabet.
- - --> Monastiraki station is Yellow - -> Ommonia station is
pale orange - -> Victoria station is under-the-sea green
- - - - >
26.12.2015 21:00
VICTORIA PARK SQUARE
Sitting on a bench.
People sitting on benches.
1 or 2 per long bench.
Some sleeping in the corner with babies.
I pick up a single black fingerless glove from the middle of the road.
Person in black, yellow scarf, red beret, 2 small suitcases, sat on a bench.
Day old moon falling behind the rooftop grates.
- - - - - - >
26.12.15 22:00
EXARCHEIA SQUARE
Sitting around a fire, some burning books, chair legs.
A tall person, trainers, jeans, track top, thin face, sinking face, cross-eyed, wise, bow-leg, approaching the gang by the fire furtively.
The person rolls their eyes
“We’ve got 70% unemployment, thanks for coming but things have been desperate for us long before the refugee crisis”
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EVENING
From my bedroom window I can see a lit monument on a high peak
Orange trees in the street
Small cities in the sky
Balconies talking to each other.
MORNING
Sun blasts orange over the hill.
--- - - - - - > > > > > > > >
28.12.15
LESVOS
Affective state: I bought myself some flowers from the market - some sage and a few small white flowers that looked like little daffodils, the combined smell didn’t really work. I had to pretend I was an other - someone I loved. I put all my faith in the transience of the flower, life as insubstantial as myself, as empty, as unsatisfactory.
- - >
Someone with spiky blonde hair speeding down from Moria camp on a scooter, quiff beaten by the wind, eyes squinted, dragging hard on a cigarette pinced in one hand.
– –>
A small red 80’s Nissan pick-up filled with red tomatoes.
– – >
A tree growing in town, shaped roughly like a x-mas tree,
decorated with giant shiny red buoys.
- - - - - -
Earlier that day
PIKPA CAMP, LESVOS
Volunteers meeting circle: I look around thinking of who I can sleep with. They need this intimacy, I think. Beware of attachment.
Handsome volunteer, studying String Theory at Stamford, I’m not impressed but their my type; institutionalised naïve, sensitive fucked up, obsessive ruthless. Green eyes.
- - ->
On the port HOTEL LESVION & HOTEL SAPPHO fly the Greek flag. A bus rumbles behind. A fisherman hammers a rusty ship. I press the pressure points of my face pretending my face is another’s. A group of Syrian students my age walk past carrying UNHCR sleeping bags.
< - - - - - - -
27.12.15
The sun has risen towards the end of the ferry ride. The person has fallen asleep with their face looking out the window. They open their eyes and the sea is ice, the sun, pale orange, obliterates the horizon.
- - - _o_
Arriving, the sun rose once more over the Aegean sea, nearing Turkey, lands they’d never seen.
- - - ->
Their eyes met the sun with dead melancholy, emptied of variations, registered a glare, fortunate nuisance. The scene lit by this exceptional morning, affect unchanged, same instantaneous sadness.
- - - ->
The instant sun erased the time it takes to remember who
or where you are upon waking, leaving no romance for any
conscious or unconscious state of dreaming.
- - - >
Wham! - The new sun hits your eyes, hits the sky - all at once nothings changed.
< - - -
What does it feel like for the Syrian students to be
here. What daze are they in under the sun, the reflection
makes a fog across the water. Watery port. Young person
in a pink headscarf last seen in their hometown smoking
on the steps of the library. Young person in pink
headscarf looks exasperated by a companion while walking
the port east towards Moria.
---> )(
--->
Vacuum. Attention! GN. Seize. < - - - -
05:00
Greek person opposite me on the ferry, their face is like a
Cycladic sculpture, long nose, same depth all the way from her
eyebrows, eyes deep set, small mouth, speaks animatedly from
her wrists all through the night, coolly, face unflinching.
- - - >
14:00
Person exhausted from anxiety falls asleep for 30 minutes on the bench. Wakes up to find traveller next to them reading in Spanish.
----->
SEIZE Attention!
Person walks past stationary shop, takes 25 minutes choosing
coloured papers and notebooks, regaining control.
-------->
Attention!
Attention!
--->
Person meditates on the steps of the cathedral, finds pleasure
in sound of breathing.
Regaining control.
----->
SEIZE. ATTENTION
----->
AAAAASSSAAAAAZZZZZZEEEEEAAAAASSSSSSSSEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE.
.
.
.hjlklhjlkbjk
bjkn,o;....
. . .
.SEIZE.
ATT.
CONTROL.
- - - >
A group of Syrians
- 4 taller, 2 shorter, 2
children are fighting over
a small bag. One guy has
grabbed it from another
and everyone istrying to
make him give it back,
it looks like a family
dispute. The fight is petty
and quickly resolved. They
keep walking. Their skin
looks exhausted. They
carry emergency blankets.
Coffee and
ice cream
in Sugar
House
The Cyclade from the boat walks past, still talking. They are shorter & much older than they looked on the boat.
- - ->
Everyone chain-smokes on this island - it suits their leathery faces.
- - - - - - - - - ->
Back at the Hotel Orfeas - I look in the mirror for a long time.
Check my look for a long time.
Check my skin
Think about my new boots
Think that when I go home, I’ll get a new look.
AFGHANNY HILL, MORIA
A person is wearing purple, pink and white wool patched dress like a 60’s painting wrapped round their body, long stretchy wool dress with flared arms lightly hugging their hips. Light blue & green striped headscarf, tan leather shoulder bag worn across their chest, baby resting in one arm. Friend beside them in a long brown suede afghan coat & dark green headscarf standing cocked, bored, talking with their chins.
Elderly person with a thick dark brow, tall, wide body & shock of white hair beneath black scarf, looks at the person penetratingly, tilts their head and calmly asks
“Where are we sleeping tonight?”
- - - - - - - - ->
28.12.15
MORIA 22:00
FAMILY COMPOUND
Person sits at the gate.
PICTURE IT -> G|u|a|r|d|s : 2 x 15 yr. old sisters from Harrow.
Dress: jeans, jumper, headscarf, high-vis. jackets. Sat laughing
eating stale ready salted Lays, drinking Fanta. Sat chatting
drinking Fanta in front of 2 x large fake white flowers they wove
into the fence.
5ft thick cement floor, 10x10ft. heavy duty gate, 15ft. fences, extra 3ft. giant curled barbwire.
P I C T U R E I T
G|u|a|r|d|s : 2 x 15 yr. old sisters from Harrow.
Dress: jeans, jumper, headscarf, high-vis. jackets.
- - - - -
The queue snakes down the boundary of the fence, down the gravelly hill, bundles of dusty faces, embracing bodies.
- - - - - -
3 Syrians: 1 x shorter, older. 2 x thin. 1 x strong. 3 straight long noses. 3 x pairs of high cheekbones. 1 x pink knitted hat perched elegantly on head of tall strong person. 3 x easy dispositions. 2 x floor length cheap dark green raincoats. 1 x white & red afghan scarf. 3 x experienced faces. Brows. Mouths. Standing high, attractive middling emotion in eyes, disinterested intelligent stride, modest gratitude, chatting.
- - - - - - - -
- - - - - - - - >
MORIA, QUEUE FOR FAMILY COMPOUND:
Pink, purple dress, afghan coat, baby, brow & family are in a
queue that leads to a gated military compound. Father lifts
crying baby from his shoulders at the request of the teen.
Person asks teen “Are you OK?”
Teen doesn’t reply, I know it’s because they will cry if they speak.
Pink, purple dress, afghan coat, baby, brow & family are worn, their faces are newly covered in dust.
< << --------------------------
Sandra at Pikpa recounts this story
Person walks up
“Excuse me please, I need coat”
“This one?”
“No”
“This one?”
“No”
“This one?
“No”
“I’m so sorry I have no more”
They say ‘OK’, smile and walk away.
- - - - - - - - ->
Sandra asks Gaby to sew new buttons onto a long black overcoat:
“This coat just looked so amazing on this one man, please can you give it new buttons for me, it would be really great if he could have it.”
- - - - - --- >
BEACH CAMP 22:00
Man sheltering behind No Border Kitchen tent, heavy winds, dark. Big man, under big hood. Boris from Berlin. Blowing palm tree, dark green tent, Boris from Berlin, moonlight, beating winds.
People queuing. Moon still on the wane. Huge Boris, 1 head taller, hat, scarf, hood, moon, Boris, big. Giant ladle, 500 portions. Boris laid unclothed in tent. Water pouring into vat, unstick the rice.
< - - - - - - - -
Two strip lights
A palm tree
Barbed wire
White hair
Straight posture
- - - - - - - - ->
I just want to hurt another volunteer, just do, just gently. I imagine I’ve got myself a scooter, tight backstreets, she struts in new boots in the middle of the street, struts pleasingly, looks melancholy. I’ll just clip her, clip her ankles, maybe knock her over, maybe reverse and tap my wheel into her head, just lightly, why not, just a little bit, knock that bitch down for a second.
I turn the corner, the soft view of the port in the morning haze makes me shudder. I want to vomit.
I turn the corner, the view of the island across the water - houses rest in the suns reflection, tucked in between sky, more water.
The view punches me in the stomach as I turn the corner, I turn the corner, I want to vomit, the view and I shudder.
Clipped.
I’ve apologised too many times
for where I can sit, stand, shit, sleep.
The view never apologised for its allure.
The sea, from you I heard no apology for frostbite, for slicing
my fuck in between my thighs.
Beauty… you.
You, for raping my brothers, for snatching their loyalty.
SHUT THE BORDERS
S|H|U|T|T|H|E|B|O|R|D|E|R|S
I | M | P | R | I | S |
O | N | M | E | C | O |
U | N | T | R | Y
Why did you let me go Daddy, they make feel like I’m foaming with feril hope. Why didn’t you imprison me Daddy, imprison my slender body. Do you still love me Daddy, a stray.
If you imprisoned me Daddy with hands and feet we’d trample neatly and with our breath form slender pyramids of limbs shapely like honest gold.
DEAR EUROPE,
I AM NOT YOUR PETULANT CHILD. WHY DO YOU MAKE ME FEEL LIKE A FOOL, LIKE A FATED DOUGH EYED IDIOT CHILD. CHILD. CHILD. FOR SEEKING SOMETHING OTHER THAN MURDER AND RAPE. EUROPE YOU WANT ME TO SLEEP ON A FOAM BED OF MY MOTHERS SPITTLE, AMONG THE RUBBLE OF MY OWN SCRATCHED KENNEL. BECAUSE I WON’T STAY HOME AND WALK ON TWO BROKEN FEET TO THE TARGETED LOCAL COMMITTEE MEETING AND OFFER MY GOOD HAND FOR RE-BUILDING. BUT NEITHER EUROPE WILL I EAT YOUR CONSTIPATED PASTA. JUST TO BE REMINDED THERE’S NOWHERE TO SHIT BUT THE SEA OR MY TROUSERS. YOUR CAFES WONT SERVE ME YOUR DRUGS. YOU KILLED ME IN ORDER TO RESSUCITATE DEAD LABOUR, TURNED ALL YOUR WORKERS INTO SPIES. I WILL NOT ACCEPT YOUR MOTHER SYMPATHY. I WILL CHAIN TO MY DAY OLD BROTHER AND WE WILL SINK TOGETHER IN THICK SHAME, IMPENETRABLE SHAME, MY NEW LOVER, THE ONE THAT’S CLAMPED ITSELF OVER MY FOREIGN HEAD LIKE A BELL JAR.
EUROPE BEFORE I GO, I HEADBUTT THE BIRDS, THE CLEMENTINES, THE STILL SEA.
- - - - - - - - -
Huda from Bolton and 2 sisters from Harrow volunteering over the holidays with their family. Barbed wire fences laced with fake roses and tinsel. Laughing girls, eating stale crisps, talking about drinking Fanta and boycotting for Palestine.
- - - - - - - -- -
28.12.2015
MORIA 19:00
Slim boy maybe 20 wrapped in a grey emergency blanket stood
among a pile of cut up foam sheets. I study them and step over
then turn around to look at him, he smiles.
“How are you?”
His beautiful thin face, big brown eyes, new moustache. We
smiled. He said “OK”. I said “same”.
“You’re so beautiful”
“So are you”
Bye.
Bye.
- - - - - - -
Sorry not poss-
ible tonight t-
wo families ju-
st arrived kid-
s hypothermic
Sorry not poss-
ible tonight f-
amily of 7 arr-
iving all have -
frostbite
Ai WeiWei an-
d Susan Saran-
don are on a -
plane
Faise-
l
Temperature dr- opped below fr- eezing today
Se-
a
31.1.15
SEX AS CRISIS WHEN BODY IN CRISIS IS IN A CRISIS
Strong woman needs
strong woman
gets woman
in crisis
to be allowed to be
by a woman
to be allowed to be
in crisis
by a strong woman
in need
of a strong woman
crisis woman comes
but crisis woman needs
a man
thinks only of
man daddy
man daddy country
strong woman in need
invites man daddy country in
mind with
crisis woman
in all crisis
crisis woman comes
crisis woman shrinks to child
in arms of strong woman
man daddy country in both minds
strong woman in need
calls on crisis to be
a child in her arms to be
a child in her arms with all
men and daddies in crisis
with all men and daddies in
crisis mind
crisis woman comes
29.12.15
Report: Flooding in Missouri, Illinois - 49 Dead. on telly.
09:24.
Wake up
weep
about something else
GOLDEN SUN CAR RENTAL
c o r n e r
o religio
r posters
n pendant
e framing
r iconocl
r e n r o c
religious o
iconograp r
candelabr n
mary moth e
framed ba r
Lets talk about the tapestry of this 80’s style office, about the olive wood framed iconography designed to soothe and remind that in the 80’s lots of people died too, about the 80’s in all the concomitant gadgets. Where was this trauma in the 80’s. Or is it leftover? Where do the feelings go? Where are all the feelings from the 80’s now? What about the 149 bodies full of feelings left to the sea this morning? Office space architecture, 2 desks populated with things, corners of religious posters, maps, ships, clocks, pictures of cars, calendar, fax machine, 80’s halogen heater, old carina till, 2-seater leather lilac round sofa with pink leather car seat backs, small faded wash purple flowery armchair, tool room, small television.
corners
religious posters
maps
ships
clocks
pictures of cars
calendars
fax machine
80’s halogen heater
old carina till
2-seater leather lilac round sofa with pink leather car seat backs
large faded purple flowery armchair
tool room
small television
red waterproof jacket
yellow fleece hood
curly hair
pale ripped jeans gashes over thighs show darker pair of jeans underneath
r hung
e pend
n cand
r mary
o rose
c o r n e r
hang r
Mary e
pend n
baby r
post o
r e n r o c
Sotele beckoned me into a parking space but was stood in the middle of it so I had to park the car in the road. “Look! Look, what I have to do!” he waddles over to his car and brings out a generator with croc leads and a battered black briefcase with gold buckles. He picks them both up elbows out wide and waddles back across the road to his office, he awkwardly lifts the briefcase up over a fern plant sitting in the corner of the doorway to get to the doorbell and buzzes it with his arm, makes an exaggerated bend down to pick up the generator and pushes the door open with his leg. He waddles down the corridor, bursts into his office, sits down at his desk, starts arranging papers.
“Can I photograph you?” I ask
he looks up beaming
snap
frowns, looks back down.
I was returning the car, accompanied by some new volunteers. Eileen the Irish trauma therapist, Mark the German ex social worker trying to build a dragon sculpture in the camp and Hilda the German educational therapist. Eileen and Hilda had decided to build a safe space in Moria camp for meditation, rest and healing. They were writing the proposal for it this afternoon. They were mostly silent in the office, observing. I had warned them of Sotele’s eccentricity so the scene was unfolding as a play. I watched like it was a repeat. Sotele had already occurred, I was taking them back in time to observe and participate. I was the narrator of the past and the present, recounting with a certain pride. We were packing up to leave, he was cheery, saying good-bye, when he reached forward and grabbed my arms
“what have you done, what have you done!?”
He means ‘what have you been doing since you arrived’
“149 people yesterday!
…you know this?!
…149 die yesterday”
his head wouldn’t stop nodding, his smile wouldn’t leave his face, pain was trapped behind his eyebrows, shone through his exposed teeth.
n.b. the trauma in this incident has no location, no root, no boundaries, it is dismembered, as conceptual as the body can possibly know. The trauma of this incident is clogging the air that I consume as breath. Here - it’s in the long fingernails of the waitress, it’s left Sotele for dead, it was never anywhere to begin with, it’s in the air, its in my tears, which don’t exist, which spurt from my face in comic arches and join the determined sleet rain outside, tickling the pavement and its pounding feet.
3 boats
100 each
½ per boat died on landing
he was upset by the tactics
it was miscommunication
too many languages
wrong tactics
I see snow on the Turkish mountains
Snow is lightly falling here
A comic sight. Sotele throws his arm in the air to signal ‘snow’! Sotele is no longer a man, Sotele is no longer living, this is why he’s so compelling, Sotele is death, his body is not meetable, I smile deeply, I love deeply my new friend immortal comedy, his un-meetable charm.
I remember my dream from last night, my young life was playing as a home video in a roundel at the end of a vortex, the sheen was like that of a dream from a 90’s soap drama, heavenly light, my parents their younger selves meeting each other embracing, lying down to make love, my father throwing my sister up into the sky and catching her tight in his arms, my perfect parents playing with their babies on a home video played at the end of a roundel at the end of a vortex.
31.12.2015
Gaby and I meet in the evening, among the familiar silence has arrived immoveable despair. We put on our best clothes, I have a white cotton dress that hangs puffed over a polo neck and layers of long sleeve t-shirts, red velvet leggings, I hang my necklace over, wear big earrings, rags of fabric and a shiny lilac scrunchie in my hair, thick black mascara. She wears her white cotton tunic top over a fleece, long coat, white lace mantel and red lipstick, jeans and hiking boots.
We walk through the back streets of the town, stop in front of a reconstructed manger in a small shed, a lit up plastic Mary, wise men and baby, a lit up plastic cow and camel. We peer through the windows of closed trinket shops, walk towards the church hoping it will still be open. We come to another church, push the gates and a Latino cleaner says we had 5 minutes. Incense and candles burn everywhere, the orthodox church is stuffed, is a padded temple of distraction, each tassel and curtain absorbing any unwanted feelings, each tassel and curtain containing the unwanted feelings of everyone before, but you don’t feel this at the time. You feel nothing but the sweet confusing sleepiness of the scents. We walk to the front sat on pews in the front row either side of the aisle. I triy to pray but the walls painted with fake relief diamonds are too enticing and I dream of recreating them and don’t mind the 3 cleaners calling out to each other, slamming doors and rattling chains. I return to prayer and remain unmoved, enjoying the sound of Gaby’s gentle crying. Then Sotele arrives and black lines fall rapidly down my stone face.
We are asked to leave and the cleaners padlock the huge gates behind us, we cross the road and Gaby asks me if we can sit on the bench for a while, we sit and she tells me her readings of the vignettes that decorated the walls behind the altar where the story of the bible was drawn in gold around the frieze. She says she inserted into them scenes of todays Greece; the priest reaching to the Saint asking “Do you know where the life jackets are”. I want to reach over and wipe her black tears into wider streams across her cheeks. We can go now if you like she says eventually and we get up.
- - - - - - ->
22:50
ON THE ROCKS: PORT OF LESVOS/MYTILENE
Fires line the coast of Turkey
Winds attack the port of Lesvos
The Statue of Liberty marked with the dates (1912 – 1922) faces towards Turkey. The green marble woman stands defiantly with her bare breast, her leaf crown and flame streaked with bird shit. A mangled tent and sleeping bag sit beside me, 149 people died here yesterday. A tactical problem getting them off the boat. Some jumped off too early, tipped the boat, suction took half of them down.
The bear in the stars. I only see the bear when I’m in the world. It has nothing to do with home - though it provokes a familiar feeling.
The island is almost all clear tonight, they didn’t need our baked potatoes anywhere: 200 potatoes, 2 bags of charcoal, 10 rolls of aluminium foil, 2 jumbo paper rolls, firelighters, giant tub of margarine, 10 bottles of salt, 10 bottles of oil, clog the entrance to our 4 x 2 m hotel room.
We get dressed up to go to church, to go for a walk. I put two ribbons in my ponytail that hangs pulled to the left side of my head, one ribbon high, one half way down the hair. I wear earrings and my triangle necklace, a white nightdress over all my layers and a red beret.
- - - - ->
Clouds in the distance look like they could be illuminated snowy mountaintops but there is no land there, that light lighting them up on the quiet horizon is probably a police ship.
I don’t know about this water that pads the sloping stone harbour, I don’t know about the fires reflecting off the Turkish sea that look like blazing bodies dancing in clumps. I see someone banging the drum, drumming their feet on the ground, another dancing wildly beside them. More fires on the other side doing a passionate jig. Everyone clapping. What are they singing? How are they banging, bringing in the New Year. What are they feeling? They are burning, pretending that tomorrow won’t come.
I can’t write anymore, my fingers are too freezing.
Liberty waves to the flaming coast.
- - - >
01.01.2016
06:45
on the port 7 am
darts of light hammer the complicit waters
heaviest accomplice
hell of an alibi
fishing boats
camping tents
A military marching band comes over the hill bringing in the New Year. No one is there to see them.
Thousands of eyes open towards me on the coast of Turkey.
Green liberty woman streaked with bird shit in the morning.
Ran down the road to think nothing of the sun rising on the first day.
Recall only the sobs (cries) coming from me, from her, each time I woke in the middle of the night from the cold. Wont morning just come so I can run downstairs to the free breakfast in the reception where I remember feeling warm and there are hot drinks and tinned apricots, Scooby doo on the telly. I sobbed my way into 2016, rich, empty gulps of air. Neither of us said anything but this for days. I hurried down the road, my backpack rattling to catch the sun rising over the coast of Turkey on the first day.
For 2016 will be a loud one,
the loudest yet
we’ll see.
And in 9 months, the leaves will be falling - Autumn will be happening in the West again.
I knew after Sot told me about those people that I could not see the boats coming in. If you are destroyed you cannot be helpful and probably not anyway, I didn’t want to become a spectator. There is nothing curious about their comedy deaths knocking on the concrete of the arrival bay, destination reached. Rubber, boiling helium. Sot gesticulates all the tears out of his eyes, like the wind from his hands might change the tide. As he recounts the scene with his body he squints and blows from his soft thick putty face, blows his lips out big as a horn as he would have while the boat was tipping. He blows and blows and paddles his big leather hands together, pats them slowly together and blows hard in between, standing in his office bent towards me, saying words and patting his ripped jean thighs like in me he is seeing his own baby bouncing and clapping at the sky.
“A furrow is the temporal axis of work and evening repose is the field’s boundary-mark.”