Thursday, March 16, 2006
Tupilaq
I have been sewing sails like a demented ancient mariner. E.H. and Mr. and Mrs. K have very kindly let me use their large, air-conditioned and well-lit attic. I have been installed there for the past 3 days. E.H. has a penchant for bad Singh jokes which she regales to me when she comes home from work. She says me listening is my rent. I can dig it.
My mind limps along while the hands work endlessly - pinning, cutting, sewing, pinning, cutting, sewing.
As I work a couple of lines come to mind. They don't advance more than 2 lines a day... maybe they'll slowly piece together to become a song of somesort:
Green is caught at the corner of my eye
And the corner of my eye is caught in you
-
Outside the buildings are melting
They are shedding their skin
-
Various disturbing dream images:
A dark and dusty room that is a zoo. There is a glass aquarium, with a monster inside. It is a tupilaq, or a nightmare skeleton. The head of a shaggy white wolf and the body of a cat or goat. The head is far too big for its body. It swims around with barely enough room to move. I am outraged that it should be kept so confined and vow to write a firmly-worded letter to the zoo to complain.
A twirling dancer dressed in layers and layers of beige and cream tulle. The dancer is not me.
A grey horizon with a dark belly of cloud overhead. Driving with my back turned to you. Towards nowhere. I am weeping.
A bus ride which ends in a carpark on Charlotte St, the street I used to live on. I am the only passenger. Home is very close by but I have to unload a washing machine, a pot plant and a roll of green mesh. The pot plant keeps sliding off and I'll never make it up the street to the front door. The bus driver stands by talking in rural Australian twang, offering advice but never lifting a finger to help. I am incensened with frustration and anger. I will kill him, if only I could lift the damn washing machine.
And so on and so forth.
Despite one's unwashed appearance it can be quite fun to work like this - the mind seems to slip into another gear. ¶ 1:03 PM
My mind limps along while the hands work endlessly - pinning, cutting, sewing, pinning, cutting, sewing.
As I work a couple of lines come to mind. They don't advance more than 2 lines a day... maybe they'll slowly piece together to become a song of somesort:
Green is caught at the corner of my eye
And the corner of my eye is caught in you
-
Outside the buildings are melting
They are shedding their skin
-
Various disturbing dream images:
A dark and dusty room that is a zoo. There is a glass aquarium, with a monster inside. It is a tupilaq, or a nightmare skeleton. The head of a shaggy white wolf and the body of a cat or goat. The head is far too big for its body. It swims around with barely enough room to move. I am outraged that it should be kept so confined and vow to write a firmly-worded letter to the zoo to complain.
A twirling dancer dressed in layers and layers of beige and cream tulle. The dancer is not me.
A grey horizon with a dark belly of cloud overhead. Driving with my back turned to you. Towards nowhere. I am weeping.
A bus ride which ends in a carpark on Charlotte St, the street I used to live on. I am the only passenger. Home is very close by but I have to unload a washing machine, a pot plant and a roll of green mesh. The pot plant keeps sliding off and I'll never make it up the street to the front door. The bus driver stands by talking in rural Australian twang, offering advice but never lifting a finger to help. I am incensened with frustration and anger. I will kill him, if only I could lift the damn washing machine.
And so on and so forth.
Despite one's unwashed appearance it can be quite fun to work like this - the mind seems to slip into another gear. ¶ 1:03 PM
