39 butterflies - darling, they've found the body
personal possessions and the ghost therein scare me, the trail, the smell, johns old gold watch all hold a sadness for me that is too much, i turn away, i could say there is no real content in my life, just soap operas and plans of escape not acted upon
scott died, this ended an odessy of family, love and adventure, adult life never came to bare, there i am on a glassy ocean, six miles of water beneath and infinity above, i could never grasp a thing, the sowing machine allowed me to make threads and badly drawn maps out of thrown away things, she's a rusted relic of a bygone age, huffing and puffing steam out of her watchtower as we make our way across oceans, i make and remake and remake til there is no more thread left to hold together, 39 dead butterflies with their little arms folded over their chests, how do you measure and weigh a life?, a trail of dust, gossamer thin light through tissue paper clothes, bits of string, are we nothing without our memories? are we nothing without giving birth to our own children? my infantile (but growing old) body seems not for the making of a child
i wake sometimes in the night and i am falling, falling and falling, i see my ship pulling away over the horizon in silouette and there i am drowning and forgotten with my cat 'los christianos' and scotts cat 'princess', both cats drowned at sea, probably eaten by sharks, i allow myself to be a mermaid, it dignifies my nothingness and inconsquence, so i spill over in dreams and streams of an apparent consiousness and even dare to plant a prayer flag and call it art, my attempt at a fingerprint, the location of a body fallen into a ravine
scott died because i didn't drop the keys, if i had done something different, changed anything, the timeline would have set a different compass baring and that head-on collision been would have been averted, so you see by a terrible fraction of a second i killed scott
i leave a trail of threads and broken things (things that he would recognise) in the hope that someday he will find his way back to me
i went to the meridian hotel, i left a letter there for you stuck to a lamp post but you had already left for syria
scott died, this ended an odessy of family, love and adventure, adult life never came to bare, there i am on a glassy ocean, six miles of water beneath and infinity above, i could never grasp a thing, the sowing machine allowed me to make threads and badly drawn maps out of thrown away things, she's a rusted relic of a bygone age, huffing and puffing steam out of her watchtower as we make our way across oceans, i make and remake and remake til there is no more thread left to hold together, 39 dead butterflies with their little arms folded over their chests, how do you measure and weigh a life?, a trail of dust, gossamer thin light through tissue paper clothes, bits of string, are we nothing without our memories? are we nothing without giving birth to our own children? my infantile (but growing old) body seems not for the making of a child
i wake sometimes in the night and i am falling, falling and falling, i see my ship pulling away over the horizon in silouette and there i am drowning and forgotten with my cat 'los christianos' and scotts cat 'princess', both cats drowned at sea, probably eaten by sharks, i allow myself to be a mermaid, it dignifies my nothingness and inconsquence, so i spill over in dreams and streams of an apparent consiousness and even dare to plant a prayer flag and call it art, my attempt at a fingerprint, the location of a body fallen into a ravine
scott died because i didn't drop the keys, if i had done something different, changed anything, the timeline would have set a different compass baring and that head-on collision been would have been averted, so you see by a terrible fraction of a second i killed scott
i leave a trail of threads and broken things (things that he would recognise) in the hope that someday he will find his way back to me
i went to the meridian hotel, i left a letter there for you stuck to a lamp post but you had already left for syria
posted by KatieJane Garside at 7:36 PM
11 Comments:
Two souls, however fragile and fractured have it within them the power to create true purity, in the eyes of a new borne baby..only when influenced by the world does it fade.. is that the tragic role of the parent.. .. I too grow old..and understand…it seems a role unplanned…
I agree we are memories, but also importantly we are dreams and hopes too...even when lost in the ocean we do not try to remember our previous way…we navigate forward trusting in the stars…
It is nice to see your presence here once more
Katie,
It is my hope that you will write a book of either short stories or a novel. You are perhapes the most
cerebral artist in your media.
And please make it easily accessable to us here in the States.
All my best wishes
Erich
Your stories are absolutely perfect to leave one pondering in yet another seemingly endless night.
It's true, your art is deep and intriguing.
Keep writing, singing and producing everything you deem necessary!
Regards,
Zelator
scott died because you didn't drop the keys, scott died because i didn't throw out the milk, i'm sorry. you make me think, recently everything has been twisting tightly for me and i want you to know that sometimes i come on here and read your words and they wash through me, i don't always know what you mean but you cleanse me. i am hoping to come to your exhibition in birmingham soon, if i can sort out the trains.
my best wishes.
Doubtless I would blame myself, had I been in the same situation... but I see with the eyes of one who was not there. A contradiction, but somehow it makes sense, or can be made to make sense.
That you might have done something different wouldn't guarantee the outcome would be so. We live on paths upon paths upon paths, and the ripples merge with each other so utterly, that we have no way of knowing every consequence. Still, that doesn't stop us from trying.
I wish I could have lived on the sea, but I was a creature of the suburbs, mown lawns, the sordid truths of neighbours, and I shall make do.:)
I don't know what to say, i've lost my footing and tripped over the tree root..
Woodnymphxxx
for the second that was at a fraction, time stood still..
time took into their own hands what had happened with dear gravity..
no one but yourself will ever know the true meaning of that day, nor that second.
no one should ever know.
for the promise to cherish every second is true and forgiving.
for there be a day that shall come where that second may be blessed another day.
for none of wich we know where.
but for that day aswell as this.
forgiveness shall be in existance dancing like a ladybird on an alter of love.
you are an inspiration, and such a beautiful calm piece of fragile art.
Brigid is nearing
purety, light and inspiration, i wish you well
blessed be
love will always return, whether in this life, or another one.
for the past 5 years i have kicked against myself after the death of my dear leon. i blamed and punished myself, deep down knowing, if i was there, i could have stopped him.
theres not a day that goes by where he is not in my thoughts, and at night i look up to the sky and see the trail of stars he made.
maybe he just was not made for this cruel, yet beautiful (sometimes) world.
it takes away the best people, the most wonderful ones... and for that, i hate it.
so here i am, 5 years on and 20 years old...i still can't get go...i feel him with me a lot of the time...people assume it was his death that turned me into this manic depressive mess...they don't know i was doomed from the start.
despite what you may think about yourself... scott would be proud of the woman you have become... you bless and touch so many people each day...including myself.
seeing your exhibition and ruby throat at the woom is one of my most special memories... i remember hugging you and feeling like a fool, not knowing that to tell you first. i often wish we could have sat in a forest with a bottle of wine, and i could tell you everything...to you, i feel i could bare my soul...
have peace dear katiejane.
i think about this often, it seems like the ripples i make throwing pebbles into the calmest water... No matter where you throw the pebble the stream will always end at the sea, but with your pebble, you can make beautiful temporary patterns, like memories ... If you think of the person whom you miss so terribly as the water, you cannot change where they go or when they go but by being in their life you give them happiness and beautiful patterns, small diverions along the path but ultimately if they are meant for a place greater than this then that is where they will go...
If i seem a little confused i am, i try to tell myself if i had been with my father when he died i would have been able to muster up all the strength in my minute childs body to re-start his ever fragile heart, or at least to say i love you with all of mine.. that i miss your imagination, your stories..
Scott did not die because you didn't drop the keys, his compass was fixed as all of our compasses are,, when we are meant to go we go but the glowing light of our soul remains..just know that you would have made this life more special for him and you may in the next.
Sending you a world of hugs and very much love.
L xxx
This entry is beautiful.
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