Performing Arts

I was on a tour, of film studios, or space simulation sets, or fairy grottos.

We had been split into two groups, two, quite old, and pretty much useless women, were showing our group around.

We finished the first half and were going across the courtyard to another building when the tour guide asked if all was going ok; we were told the boss might talk to us in the next place.

The entrance to his room was locked and guarded; instead we had a choice of some steep stone steps, or to enter a big empty room, which didn't seem to go anywhere, although we could hear the other group.

I was wearing the outlandish clothing of my teenage years, really big bell-bottom trousers, which totally covered my shoes, and a big trench-coat, which came down to my ankles, also I wore a wizards pointed hat.

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Shaped Words

There were shapes, like rounded rectangles, they contained words. They were placed sequentially, and when one moved the rest moved; their position vis a vis the others couldn't be changed without separating the words, without starting afresh with new words. It was like an editor with little or no control over the work; once the tablets had been laid down then there they stayed. The apparent flexibility was infinitesimally inflexible; the care then had to be in laying the words down, absolutely correctly, in the first place.

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Forced Words

I was trying to dictate words, but the words would not come out, the words would not be spoken, they were stuck inside my head, inside my thought processing mechanisms; it was a real struggle to push the words out, and when eventually they were released they came along half a sentence at a time.

The last three to six words glowed, shone in many different colours; these were neon words, words so very special that hardship had to be endured, and care taken, when taking them from the cerebral cortex, out and onto the parchment.

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Albums

Many images, too many images
Appropriation
Never mind the quality
Feel the width
Measure the file size

Lost in storage
Stored away two or three times
Backup; special effects, cropped
For greater effect
Saved again, then copied

I will choose one
Just one
I will choose a thousand
Just one thousand
To be laid side by side

And what of the ones left
Betwixt camera and computer
From hard drive to memory
Stick, to walking stick; so few
Photographs of my mother

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Sun On Thigh

I felt the warmth of the
Winter sun on my thigh
It felt pretty good I can
Tell you

I was writing a story
About the beginning
Of a love affair
It is part make believe
And part memoir
So there was more
Than the warm sun
To make me feel good

Yet I noticed
As cloud cover came over
That my mood deteriorated
And with it my story
Light turned to dark
In both fact, and in fiction
Yet it will still be there
Forever

But yes, I did feel pretty good
When the winter sun
Shone
And warmed my thigh

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