Posts tagged vignette
Ruth

She reaches up for her mother’s hand, just there beside that soft square pocket with its darkened button. Outside she’s asked did you understand what was said and how do you feel, yes and fine, thanks.  In school she gazes upon the Pennines, England’s backbone in more ways than one, her teacher says, proud.  Climb to the top where the clouds sit low.  If that is heaven, she needs just to wait and she will come and they will play again.

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Its patient wait

An unknown dog sits in the distance. The ploughed field now with patchy gauze of green sobs its wait. Yes, often I walk this way in silent retreat and my habit today is no different. The shadowed path looms as usual. Yet you write such poetry, your words stroke me towards another kind of life, slowly and with purpose. It alters things.

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It happens quietly

It happens quietly without either noticing very much. It slips along the border between invisible form and signified moment and it grows and becomes them. He senses it and says this isn’t nothing and then on that loud stormy night she wakes thinking herself dead. He dreams abject emptiness until he hears himself breathing alongside her. Hovering between almost unbearable intimacy and almost aloneness those moments seep into being and the traces unsettle her decisions with something more.

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A beginning

What do people mean when they know their bodies, when they know their inner selves, their very being? Some insight like that would be handy.  She thinks about automatic writing, she has heard it draws deeply from the edges of the unconscious illuminating the darkness. The man sees only if you do not fold your table legs together in a fit of pique because it is cold and there are no mountains. Perhaps she channels some wisdom and perhaps just gobbledegook.

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Unsure where to start

Silent now for thirty-three months she stops awhile and thinks about life and what it might mean. Perhaps for the first time, and unsure where to start, she sets a goal and feels determined to succeed, creates a strategy and asks where it might lead, declares I can do this with confidence, energy, purpose. She makes lists of her fears, attempts to embrace being lonely, taking it too easy, losing and feuding it. She feels a fool, a fraud, afraid, after all.

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It began

It began with a stolen apple.  She supposed them abandoned, scattered as they were on the mouldy earth. It was darkish, perhaps dusk, when she saw the tree, when she was drawn to one wind fallen apple in particular. It seemed to sing to her, hummed its deep base note, as nothing had before or has since.  And although she knew that the tree, and therefore the apple, belonged to someone else, she took it, nonetheless.

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Recognition of this unknown

She hears an agapanthus breathing as it grows within the inmost place. Recognition of an unknown sound touches barely upon her fragility, re-tuning, re-organising his heartbeat.  And when time fades besides the swell, each unfolds its transformation. Longness flows in the presence of those lilies. She harvests the seeds and stores them until spring.

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kate southworthvignette
A pause

The field looks empty and the unused gate stands firm. He thinks how readily patience grows stagnant and things are benumbed. If it is ended, he knows not when and where.

He recognises an urge to clasp with ungentle haste, yet such fleeting mastery pales alongside the pull of his archaic desires.

With faith he waits as fresh water fills the vessel. At night’s darkness and alone, he tenderly washes his body, humbly accepting its beauty, its fragility. A pause oscillates between one bare moment and its other until she ebbs away beyond her unfolded possibilities.

With hope he waits as fresh life fills the vessel. He is changing, almost imperceptibly. He trembles on the border of a pause. He approaches it tentatively, almost with fear, perhaps with awe. With holy seriousness, then, he awaits its fragile invitation.

With modesty he offers a libation to the earth. And in this moment all is coming.

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kate southworthvignette
A Seduction in to Life

Each day it happens quietly: an aliveness emerging slowly in waves of unfamiliar movement. They hover between the rawest intimacy and the utmost calm, and in humming recognition of that which is unheard of they seep between its limits into each other. In an elongated duration, escaping time axis manipulation, the work unfolds. Two paintings emerge that are almost entirely connected to one another. They stand side by side within a provisional sanctum: a meeting place for the almost miraculous and the almost mundane. Things arise here. When mechanisms of capture make heavy with their claims, they slip away.  Sensing a new ground now they draw strength from the torrent of what is becoming. Here, the sedimentation of habits dissolves in a pause.  In early summer I stumble across this place, recognising afresh the deep smell of paint, encountering anew the fragility of becoming. The canvasses rest, just waiting.  In stillness they murmur. Slight conversations, sometimes just snatched words, thoughts, filter once more into the rectangles, into their skin. Their borders expand together in to life, in to this one life through which they are passing.

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kate southworthvignette
Premonition Time

At bedtime she is unsettled. A stagnant fear renders her rootless, and she slips almost unmoving, between things, awaiting release from her indecision.  She is unclear how to manage it, how to eliminate the connection and fold it away.  During premonition time she invokes a spell to sleep in a humble heap. Out she glides from all the lives she ever lives.  For a while she is unable to understand very much at all, yet it is resident within her.  She struggles to place the activity. Perhaps he is hidden away these past years, perhaps a figment of her painter’s mind. Something is happening, and she sees what it might always have been: a quiet sense of sureness and a silent determination to subdue the revelations.  She imagines its form, she wants to scroll through and feel what is hidden from view. 

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She is Code

Bathing herself in algorithms, she hopes to slide surreptitiously to the threshold of their borders, sensing their discrete boundaries, making fragile.  She wants to seep beneath their rational logic blurring them into a state of unreadability.  She slinks across the ground from left to right and back again, obscuring the text. She imagines herself spilling into each word and responding intuitively to its movements within a tempo of mutuality.  She is, after all, always in the process of becoming, a seasonal goddess; symbol of transformation itself. Yet, within this particular paradigm, she is unable to shake the materiality of the browser window. She acknowledges her limitations as any kind of symbol of non-binary transformation: she is code.  She yearns for inkiness, for a slow encounter with the sinewy fibres of a paper sheet.

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