KatieJane Garside

'out of a black cloud came a bird'

2009-01-28T14:09:00.002Z

this is an on the ground unedited 'as it happened' commentary of a plane crash at lukla airport in nepal nov 08

i am at lukla airport, a plane has crashed on landing as i am waiting to get a flight to kathmandu, pasang dawa called me outside from departures to tell me about a new hotel and transfers from the airport, i was talking to a german man when hundreds of people started running out and down the runway, a buddist nun to my left starts wailing, a friend put his arms around her, there seems to be one survivor who is now in departures, my english friend, a heart consultant is with him and an english medical student called michaela, i think the survivor is nepali or sherpa, maybe in pilots clothes, there is blood, i heard from a german translation that there was a fatal confusion between the plane taking off and one coming into land, it is a cloud covered misty morning, it seems the plane came in too low onto the very short steep runway, there was a fireball on impact, i hear some germans getting their sherpa guide to rebook their rooms in lukla, now rumours abound, there is the smell of burning fuel in the air, people are milling, some are crying, there is shock, the german man i was speaking to is staring out the window, i am very cold in my down jacket, another woman is crying, i need to speak to ‘light in dark places’, i must speak to my sister and my mother and father, i must get a message to them before the rumours do, i see three men walking across the runway, one military, two civilian carrying rifles, i left my little plastic pearl necklace i bought with ‘light in dark places’ with the prayer flags over the pass at zetra la, the heart consultant just ripped down a dividing wall to use as a makeshift stretcher for the survivor, there is a hospital here at lukla, but there is nothing in the hospital, its empty, this airport has no emergency procedure whatsoever, there is a bad smell, people are watching voyeuristically, i am writing voyeuristically…i am fixed to the page, i have stayed out of the way, there are so many people trying to help and seemingly some qualified medical people that were actually at the airport waiting to board the plane with me, i don’t believe i can be of use, i wonder if my notebooks would survive a plane crash, an american couple next to me at the himalaya lodge this morning were talking about the possibility of a plane crashing, their sherpa guide hushed them saying these things are not spoken of in this country, that to speak this way brings bad luck, children are running about excitedly, men are gathering at the windows, there is a glint of facination and excitement, a crime scene, i hope this doesn’t make the news at home or there will be panic, i must get word to them….i am selfishly thinking about my bag which is ready outside to board a plane, ‘silverback’ i havn’t told him i love him, would the letter back at the summit hotel in kathmandu get to him eventually if i had been in that plane?, a woman is shouting outside, a medic i think, i am very cold, i gave dawa sherpa my knife as i was running for the plane very early this morning, i was given a 5 min ‘get out’ as pasang dawa had managed to get me a plane ticket, a helicopter has just taken off perhaps with the survivor, somebody filmed it, i think about ringing ‘silverback’ and then i cry, i cry for me not them…i always cry for me, a few feet away people are burning in their seats, families, lovers, children devastated and changed forever, irretrievable…the reality: the plane i was supposed to be on crashed on landing….i need to tell him, i must tell him…one survivor…a german man asks if i am ok?, where do i come from? am i alone?...the place has cleared somewhat..i wonder about my baggage…ma and pa are up on the mountain making their way to high camp on mera peak…the pilot survives, the co pilot is dead in a blue bag on a trolley over there, his burnt feet are sticking out…i am sitting outside now with the heart consultant, an american is phoning home on his sherpa’s phone, we hear that it was a german party on the plane, yeti airlines, not my plane afterall, they say local people were stealing luggage and rucksacs from the crash sight as bodies burned in their seats (the value of a pair of walking boots would probably support a family here for a year), someone was spooning water from a stream with a washing up bowl to put out the fire, the passengers were killed by burning fuel…i have called ‘light in dark places’ and asked him to get a message to my sister, the phone cut off but i got the message through, i called ‘silverback’ and left a message on the answer machine, i called from himalaya lodge, someone was on the internet looking at pictures of the crash, my bags are back here now, i have been given room 104, dawa sherpa is erecting tents on the lodge lawn for a morgue…they seem to have been taken down now, the heart consultant and michaela did the best they could, the co pilot died on the runway, the heart consultant saw him alive but then he died, locals were telling him to massage the co pilots chest, bring him back to life but the heart consultant said he was very dead, pasang dawa is supposed to get sonam to sms pasang sherpa on the mountain and let ma and pa know whats happened and that i was not on the plane..don’t know if that’s happened but at least my sister knows, she will probably have the initiative to sms them on the satellite phone, a big military helicopter has just landed, a crowd of people are out on the lawn, the buddist nun is there too with her robe over her head, she is in mourning i would hazard, the german man who was about to catch the plane with me and share the transfer at kathmandu wonders what the german government will make of this, pasang dawa took me to a table and introduced me to his friends, suggested we eat together and then go for a walk to his mothers house down in a village below lukla, i did not feel like joining them, the buddist nun is in the party, i keep writing, the blue, green and red roofs of lukla, body bags, i am traumatized by hearing ‘silverback’s’ voice on the answer machine, stretchers are coming up the runway now to the military helicopter, an old crippled dog lies on the lawn, reminds me of venus’s dog, the daughter of pasang dawa’s brother works here, she came and asked me for 400 rupees for the two phone calls, she reminds me of janey madlani, i wonder if janey has sherpa blood, i am still freezing, i have put my thermals on now i have my bag back, the dead co pilot in the blue bag was lying next to my jagged globe bag with my ice axe and crampons unused, i am craving salt, perhaps whiskey, dawa sherpa is walking the lawn, a trauma medic who was also at the airport assisted as far as the first helicopter that took the pilot to hospital, he is sitting on the the lawn with his girlfriend witness to continuing events, a black crow pecks at the earth, two moths in my room, one half dead or half alive depending…i let them out the window, there are too many people crowded round the military helicopter as usual, there are always too many people, the black crows are circling above the prayer flags, more people are at the helicopter…what is wrong with these people?…years ago i gave my father a book called ‘himalaya dreaming’, i found it in a junk shop on archway road with ‘silverback’, same place i found my brown leather hat, there is a picture of pasang dawa on the back, very young maybe twelve or fourteen years old, smiling broadly in a yellow jumper, there is a thick fog now, i think the helicopter with the bodies is preparing to go, i am not in there, i wish ‘light in dark places’ was here, the crippled dog sniffs the air as the blades begin to turn, the crippled dog stands and hobbles a little closer, he breaks into an awkward trot, his tail is up, he is seeing them off, ‘silverback’s’ friend was supposed to be on the plane that crashed over locherbie, he missed his flight, the helicopter is off the ground, RAN 38, it moves away down the runway and into the clouds, the crowd begins to disperse, a crow lands in a tree, it is raining, the american couple at breakfast walk into the lodge looking very white, the old dog hobbles past the rooms i stayed in with ma and pa on our incoming journey, i remember that the heart consultant told someone with a camera at the scene to fuck off, i think he is in shock though stoic and english, i don’t want to see the crash scene again, i wonder how and when i will get out of here, there are no roads into lukla, it’s completely cut off cept for the airport, it’s a three day walk to a bus for an eight hour journey to kathmandu, i consider this, we are nothing, isn’t that right? just a scratch, we were supposed to come down from zetra la today, me and dawa sherpa, we made it back a day early, i think all communications here are done by satellite so it doesn’t make a difference if you call a landline or mobile, very erractic connection, i think the cloud cover is clearing, the weather here is in constant turmoil, lukla is nearly two miles above sea level, i am looking out the window, now i hear ‘the tyre didn’t work’ when the plane attempted to land, i see an australian man, an older man, earlier i saw him howling into a mobile phone, he was saying that he wished it was him that was dead instead of them, he’s not crying now, the buddist nun is back at the table with pasang dawa, i hope and pray that my mother and father are ok, perhaps i will walk to the internet shop, i lost the details of how to contact the satellite phone, i should email my sister and she can tell them to call her and she can explain, its unclear if pasang dawa has asked sonam to send an sms to pasang sherpa up the mountain, the heart consultant talked about getting a helicopter out of here, i would buy into that…me and my writing…i’m still fixed to the page…i wonder if it seems cold and remote to others, people are taking comfort in humour and one another..i have been looking for ‘heart stones’ up in the mountains, i have my whiskey, i am warmer, my feet are in a cold sweat, i had a dream many years ago, maybe twelve, that a plane crashed into the sea, i was trying to get people out of the fusilage but a firm disembodied hand stopped me saying i must not interfere with karmic law, the following day there was news of such a plane crash, at dawn this morning i woke with bonnie prince billy lyrics in my head ‘at the break of dawn, I’m ending all of it…’ i don’t like this song very much ‘so don’t say we had a ball…’, a flying phobic looks for threads and connections, the german man i was supposed to transfer with keeps looking in my direction, pasang dawa’s brother comes over and asks me for my plane ticket and boarding pass, he wants the cover it was supposedly issued in but i was never given one, he himself issued the ticket to me this morning, i was sitting in bed, curled up in my sleeping bag very early this morning doing the i ching when dawa sherpa banged on my door and tried to come in (as he has done in the lodges on other occasions when we were alone in the mountains together), he said to come very quickly, that i have a ticket for the plane, i have a bucket full of pee next to the bed and thank god (depending how you like to think) i didn’t have to put away my ‘impossible to put away’ thermorest, i had seriously overheated in the night at this lower altitude and thrown off most of my clothes, my face is nearly back to normal after becoming a very swollen and flattened with altitude (i looked like i had been in a boxing ring, eyes fat and closing) but i look knackered and didn’t sleep well, i have minutes to pack and load out, dawa sherpa is still at the door trying to get in the room, i am getting angry but keep it at bay by the means i always use, cold, remote, shielded, unreadable and unapproachable, i lock down inside, retract my feelers and harden my shell, the job is done and i soften as dawa sherpa the lama is actually kind to me despite his wayward hands, which though annoying are a lack of education and like all of us he is just operating with the tools he has been given…i am rushed downstairs and dawa sherpa disappears with my back breaking bag, i am given black tea and the urgency seems to abate, can’t remember much now but pasang dawa’s brother hands me a ticket maybe at the airport which is about a 100ft from the lodge, pasang dawa himself says something about a different hotel…i didn’t catch its name, transfers etc, the summit hotel is fully booked, pain in the arse as i have to go there to get my left luggage, my computer etc, i have been told i’m on the first flight out, when i meet the heart consultant at the airport our tickets are different colours, mine is yellow, maybe ‘silverback’ could walk across that lawn towards me…what would he do though?..don’t know..perhaps he wouldn’t be angry, he apologized to me when ‘pig’ died, as if the ‘real thing’ broke his cloud cover….is all this why i always see that lone red prayer flag on the mountainside in my blindspot?..the sound now of something about to fly, i wish it wouldn’t…can i overland home? ‘light in dark places’ would come with me..i don’t have to go to japan if i don’t want to, i have a map of India, ‘light in dark places’ gave it to me, another helicopter leaves, the one that brought the crash investigators, i need some foot warmers now, two girls have just arrived from the mountains, they look healthy and bemused but they have heard the news as they walked into lukla, they seem unburdened unlike the rest of us who will have it for the rest of our lives, it has happened and that cannot be changed…now i feel my shock and grief are no longer using ‘silverback’ as a filter, those 20 people burned alive as i was watching, i didn’t hear a thing, just the nun wailing as the horror made itself known..hundreds of people tipped and spilled, down the runway into the vortex of a terrible coming

my diary was not supposed to end like this

the american couple are beginning to argue, they are down the hall, they are shouting

there is a picture of me and dawa sherpa at the zetra la pass in the clouds with the prayer flags, it was taken by a beautiful blonde german man, it’s the only picture worth keeping other than the magical bull yak, the yaks were incredible that night at chutenga tea house, i had to go for a piss in the night and they had completely surrounded our tents, they were silent cept for a low moan and the near soundless knocking of a bell, a cloudless, moonless night sky, bewildering stars

for some reason the slip given to me by the woman who looks like janey madlani for the phone calls has fuel intake, plane weight etc on the back of it, i keep the slip (the plane exploded in such a devastating way because it was carrying so much fuel)

does this country act as a catalyst for ones deepest darkest fears?..or is this thought just my self obsessed solipsistic nature realised

i fly out of lukla the following morning on the 2nd flight out, we fly over the wreckage, i fly out with the wailing nun, it turns out the wailing nun is infact the singing nun, very famous in nepal and currently no.1 in the nepali charts, people want their picture taken with her at kathmandu airport

i was just talking to an australian called rob by the pool, he and his friends were all supposed to be on the flight that crashed, he said in hushed tones that the german party had pushed in front of them (they still actually have tickets for the plane that crashed), it was reported back home in australia that they had been on the flight…he says that they are all being quite philosophical about it, they are mostly paramedics and therefore somewhat trained or prepared to look these things in the eye…they would have been on that flight cept for the fatal eagerness of the other party

stitch

2008-06-27T21:04:00.006Z

there is a cross stitch and a blanket stitch, they are merely decoration, the stitch you need is with fishing gut, a purposeful intent to seal and contain these ideas and see that they make their way into the world, so many of your troubles are due to bad stitching, things coming away at the edges or fabric perished and unable to contain the load, this is important, get strong and see that there are no leaks, for when there are, the parasitic elements crowd around for the free feed, so here you have the answer, why do you never get paid while everybody seems to feed and grow fat from that that is not their own?, keep yourself protected from elements that seek to undo you, they look for all manner of ways to slip in around the back, weaken the fastenings so again you loose your power and in turn it is wasted by another, they gorge upon it but put it to no use, they just become fat in their sense of emptiness, they will never be filled but are wasting and using your precious resources, this is not yours to waste, it has been entrusted to you and it is your duty to see that it makes its way safely into manifestation, you are somewhat a 'dropped stitch' in the tapestry, you know how this can be fixed and fix it you must, meditate everyday to secure your moorings and make fit your skien that no other can cut you open and spill your crill, waterproofing of your etheric body

black butterfly - a letter to joe simpson

2007-08-20T12:44:00.000Z

a letter to joe simpson, mountaineer and writer of, among other things, his auto biographical account - 'touching the void'

20th august 2007

hello joe

i heard you on the radio and i thought i would let you know, i too have a black butterfly on my shoulder, just there, winking away in the blindspot

when death catches us up on her needle and thread to swing us out over the precipice, we are never able to be truely 'alive' again, at least not in the same way, by this i do not assume you to be a 'depressive' or malfunctioning, i've just found in my own experience that something like this fundamentally changes the excepted and apparently 'learned' understanding of a so called 'life', perhaps it nudges and flicks away at our dna, goes quantum with worm holes, i don't know

but with the waterproofing gone, the cold thumb of death pins her down and gashes her open with a nail, spilling the sodden meat for the gulls, a trembling fleck on the lip of a collosal wave, the tiny glinting eye of creation witnessing itself, forever suspended in that cusp moment, a meniscus, the tiniest fraction of a second looped and forever on replay, never reaching but prior to the inevitable, terrible fall

i lived on a boat as a child/teenager, with infinity above and six miles of water below, we encountered pirates, sharks and storms as we sunk deeply into the beauty and monotony of endless days at sea, and now as a so called 'adult', terrafirma folds away (collapses) beneath me and i cling to my string with the black butterfly fluttering just above my left shoulder, somewhere in the blindspot

perhaps i am talking gibberish, careless i take the risk because you struck a chord with me

i send you my love and wish you well in all things

yours in appreciation

katiejane garside

39 butterflies - darling, they've found the body

2007-08-12T19:36:00.000Z

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

the lift

2006-04-13T12:08:00.000Z

self preservation comes at such a price, sometimes, most times i want to be left clean alone, though its worth remembering the walls start jostling for position when alone is too alone, context is everything to be 'amongst', life was 'bad' back then, now you could never call it 'bad', it is stimulating, dangerous, challenging and the work is working, so i did escape, what can i say more than that really, 'do you want to fucking fight me?', welsh accent, well yes, better that than lying down for the long sleep, better than endless attempts at miraculous healing, here's the news: there is no illness, i just got trapped in a lift for a while, nothing more, when you can't open a door it is fucking frightening, fight and flee in enclosed spaces is messy and sometimes the door never opens, nobody turns the power back on and infact the building has collapsed in on the lift shaft and you are entombed, it does happen but it hasn't happened to me yet even though i have lived most of my life as if that were my perpetual state

not today though

hello

i think i'm awake

meniscus

2006-04-07T11:28:00.000Z

immensely corrupt and a journey through treacherous landslide, collapsing corpus and teeth, he makes me cry, i am humiliated, humiliated is not a state i like to be in

meniscus

dancing on a window ledge
15 stories high
i take it up upon myself
to learn me how to fly

i got a step on natures brim
and a head above the clouds
to take the leap
and dive right in
and learn me how to fly

the surface tension
snapping back
her walk-on-water eyes
consoled for mysteries deepest depths
would let me down to cry

would angels borrow me their wings
a surface tension lied
to tease me up against the brink
and learn me how to fly

but fear all made corruption be
her twisted wings denied
she could ever reach the stars
so i lay me down to die

buoyant in all storms

2006-03-29T13:05:00.000Z

elijah speaks (seems to have an american accent today) part.1:

wild horses got a devilish (nevillish ha!) instinct for homecoming, they know when they have been led astray and make their way back as if by birds and stars, you have this instinct in your heart knowing

the tide is turning and your beacon has been spotted in these long dark nights, 'blackspring' is aware as are you, we would always pull these hearts in reflection of one another

'elijah am i making this up? you know cos this is kind of what i want to hear

his vicinity is close and this is no collision in the dark, the compass sets her course and the light was spotted, its a homecoming out of the hands of your tiny will, quiet child and allow the mystery to unfold before you, thunderclouds and the electric atmosphere of the dark days make for reinvention and realisation, things turn over in broiling storms, things are bought up from the sea bed long buried and forgotten, a fissure, a crack and molten lava building new structure and horizon, this is very beautiful and you are most beloved

'a word for venus please'

there is a seed procurring, hasten not and be awake at dawn for the morning star is blinded with yesterdays news, clear and cast away, the birds have news, redirection and electric lines have entailed (enabled?) and re mapped the forest floor

a gentle hand stroking her face so beloved

elijah speaks part.2:

upstanding i can see your head above the clouds, the storms may rustle away in the basement but you have the longer foreseeing, calm and warm your face as the sun traverses her way across the snowy undoings and hear the song that is in your heart

'shall i go to ireland elijah?'

all doors open, the music is where you are

'fiachra?'

hearts pressed together resonate with a beautiful climate, the music is deep and heartfelt, cold kisses left at the door and enter the room, the walls speak and stroke your hair and the loveliest starburst that you could bring into being

what of neville?

a child and his box of tricks is tricky for sure and his vein is true when he hits the right mark, heartwarm your music, it is in you

'clear me out of the way, i would like to hear you '

announcements across the stars whispering to one another, there is a storm and your head is above the clouds, crisis management, you are not in need so calm the spirit

'please direct me'

tidy things away and then get on a plane

elijah speaks part.3

pack warm clothes for there is a freeze and you must remain warm, lampoon and request deliverence of all the beautiful cards in your heart, this is not a game of cards, we must place our hand face up on the table, only then can the mask drop the to floor behind us as we take our walk through this extraordinary life, there is a buoy adrift in the ocean, tumultous currents and adventures, coastal waters are treacherous only for those with bindings, we cannot be caught in the rapids, we are of a nature that corrects and rights imbalance so let go the mourings and allow the adventure, bouyant in all storms, the iceage will come and go and still we remain as a breath, as a witness to the extraordinary unfolding, cut the strings and float away, no kittens drowning in a bag

tend the wound and nurse the flame

2006-03-28T21:31:00.000Z

tend the wound and nurse the flame

blackspring
i can feel a pulse
i can see you

beloved

spiders web holds the dew as do you in your heart

2006-02-17T12:26:00.000Z

elijah speaks.1
chapter.1 (katiejane)

some mercurial defeat

i'm not so sure about my motives

background underground selfish clamourings

life is as life does

those that take rarely give

i am a taker, a seagull, a vulture

its all for me and poured into my tiny empty cavernous chest

feed me feed me in excelsusis

is there a line of contact for anything? shopping lines? washing lines? and checking surreptitiously for scraps under the table

this vein seems full of oil rich sticky black minerals today

can i reroute the brain?'

choose to think differently'?

can i do that or do i just step sideways and let the downpour fulfill her own prophecy?

she jump all over pinging and springing in ricochet like a flea circus

always returning to the same place

chapter.2 (elijah and katiejane)

stone turns eventually, kick back and shake away all that disables your true purpose, elijah is no shriven task master or fool, make your beautiful work for that is all and why would you question intent for the clouded and silver linings abound, your lovely veneer dust and clothing will make for cascade(ing) enormous discoveries and made when the servant takes herself around the back to do the tasking ascribed unto the logical outcome of such genetic, abuse is a cold blade and the knife falls away in the hot spring spas, cover, submerge and take the form

'can you hear me?'

of course, smiles and imagination is no distraction,

'shall i go to whales?'(wales),

do anything you want

'speak to me elijah'

amongst plans and scripture there is a golden rule and nothing can obscure this from you and your name has been forged from the prophet isaiah

'what can i do with the selfishness in my heart, with my crude and cold longing?'

lie down as a lamb

elijah speaks .2

clouded silver lining therein, enough to hold when the seas are threatening, you are aligned and affinity with this progress, you are so loved in the great procession of souls crossing over the ice fields, for we do know how cold it has been for you but this forges deep into your heart allowing for my intake of breathing through you and all this time you thought you should take your leave but you now know how all things make sense eventually

elijah speaks.3

elijah'what has happened to nev?'

(this is) beyond the context of this interview

rolling green hills, there is water, the river, drop everything, lie down as a lamb

sequential visitations, notice

coming the answer to questions that need answers, will shine in the truth from which they came, (do not?) leave any stone unturned, beneath rocks always a dazzling river, for the underground is a mine in the rainbow quarries, salutations sunrising from the depths of your heart and we ask you: worry about nothing for you are in beloved arms reaching from galaxy to starbursting moonshadow on the heart (is a temporary moment of reflection), morrow light a million ways spreading and cascading beyond and in crucial moment in tachet (tacit?) morrow, forebear and breeding, collect at the subatomic particles for our inventory, tomorrow you always strike for when this moment is the only one within your grasp complete and intertwining with beautiful moonbow so shadows unlock your heart and therein find your dwelling place

'fiachra, varya, why do i print those names elijah?'

animals in the zoo need feeding and extra love and attention, varya needs your love, she feels observed and you understand, i do not need to say anymore about that, where once she was wild and free now she is captured and this makes a soul to be as if in a cave, so we must open some doors wide for her where her spirit can adventure and kill (feed) and explore

'what of fiachra?'

(then always tomorrow and) the unwinding set in motion is in her becoming stages, hearts with holes cannot hold their true vibration, so much work will be done to mend our broken hearts though as you know so much loving on the shadow side of the moon this gestation and becoming

'please speak to me directly'

a message for this moment: cleaning is a directive from spirit, walk and be allowing of the restful sky to calm your breath and to quiet down the walls, whitewash clear and clean the graffiti etched onto you soul, a new page and a clear day for the writing and music spilling from your heart, allow me to speak blessed and beloved in all our configurations, spiders web holds the dew as do you in your heart

my dear black ships, the duality of dissolution

2006-02-15T13:48:00.000Z

my dear black ships, most of my work doesn't represent the conception i have of myself either, maybe this is the way it is for most of us doing this work or maybe it isn't, i'm not privy to know that but i enjoyed all your comments and as ever they got me to thinking

on a good day the queenadreena persona is a 'kali' poster pasted over a shopfront window therein a frightened, deserted child is grappling in the dark with too much knowledge, corruption, witness, experience and survivalism, she is not severed from love but has suffered in human hands and she has known what it is to deal a bad hand too, she has a street savvy and her body has been her currency, this for her a simple transaction and an inevitability for what else in her situation would she do?, she is very aware of the heart beating in her and even the love of god though she would not use those words, with her 'things tend to come out all wrong' if at all as these days, there is not much of herself left in the casket, she went to live upstairs with angels and stars and leave the conflicts beneath her rustling away in some distant place for her own safety (that's probably the coldness and sadness you see), this removal of self has created problems but she seems to be able to cope with them better these days, by living 'amongst' rather than in a kneejerk preferred isolation means she is adhered or stitched onto the firmament rather than adrift with dissolution, the other music i sent you is more about angels, stars and dissolution (dissolution for better or worse, i know the duality too well being the absolute absorption into the infinite or the terrible existentialist[wrong word i know]severing which put me in hospital a while)

on a bad day its all desperate vacuous noise and i can't be bothered with her or it, genica-pussywillow has been a wonderful companion in bringing me into form, she was so sick but so sweet and responded to me in a way that made my heart weep and life was witnessed in its heartbreaking fragility and beauty, she seems strong some days and is eating, i don't know how long she will be with us, i am so sad my dear black ships for the departure of your beloved, my heart truely goes out to you, we are just so lucky to have known or know these wonderful creatures, companionship is all and the delights and sorrows of our shared journeys, what else is there

as ever thankyou for caring and listening to me and for getting the cogs turning, and i do appreciate your 'concern', self destruction is not pretty, i hope none of this offends (the p.s. inparticular, i'm just trying to illustrate cause and effect and the struggle to not put more crap out into the world without repressing and suffocating the instinctual, essential self)

i would love to come visit and see dungeoness in daylight as i've only walked the beach at night, hope you're settling in and bless you all
much love from katiejane xxx

p.s. this is a quote from angela carter that rang so many bells for me at around 23 and probably played a strong hand in all this
...the reluctant prostitute...who never wished to sell the body she regarded as an inalienable possession.....will be murdered by a sexual maniac, a man whom repression has turned into a monstrous scourge of whores....she pays the price of expressing an unrepressed sexuality in a society which distorts sexuality....this is the true femme fatale...she lives her life in such a way her freedom reveals to others their own lack of liberty. So her sexuality is destructive, not in itself but in its effect...the significance of the femme fatale lies not in her gender but in her freedom

peeling blue paint and the red and black snake

2006-02-12T11:53:00.000Z

anti static, london buses, a collective of intent to go somewhere, something, somehow, the red button, the undo button, my instinct to cut and paste over all knowing and to what end?, what will really be done in the enclosure?, got sunlight on water clinging to rocks a red rag and what else? can you ever see the 360 degrees in five dimensions?

cross fire indulgence, peter change gear, yellow black zebra crossing big sailors knot, unmatched limbs, blindspot shopping list turnstile, the cow jumped over the moon, penzance poet living on a boat tingling affirmation, nev red and black snake, backfoot a loveless house, kimcatchaside radio nothingirish boy sweetly but in kindness an aversion for me, kindness weakness, blotter, butterfly burning up in a dim candle light casting a winging black shadows, i stretch as if drugged in his arms (who's arms?), so careful these days, i lost myself in the mix, red and black snake

i'm locked out
there is a mote, i cannot cross
a loveless house
there are abandoned cars, burned out scooters shopping trolley debrie
there is a quarry with tippedovercars on the cliffs
there is a shout back clapping and resounding
sweeping me back inside
a gash of a voice sweeping through me again and again
drawn down on the inbreath with the weight of lead pushing on the head and shoulders
there is a tiny red kite way too small
we are lost at sea
with the light on my watch as our only witness
the blue light from the first digital watch given me by ma and pa
i board a plane kicking and screaming in my fathers arms
age nine or ten i guess
digital watch blue light
and a gash storm of tears
condensation freezing cold sweat in rubber
a tumble down oblivion ingrown
to fall asleep in the drugged and fuck place
to be taken away
being alone is not good for me anymore
i become so frightened
tiny red flag on the mountainside
waving not drowning, drowing not waving
drowningtowavingtodrowningdrowning
wavingdrown

red and black snake

there is a door and sand, we are underground in sandy tunnel, a door far away, what is the other side of the door?, peeling bluepaint, ease up and walk with your own rhythm, yeah we can hear the drums some way away but i feel them moving into my body, first to the red base of the spine, holding sucking memory and form, pooling and building gathering essemblance, a key is swinging before me like a pendulum hypnotising and sending the eyes into the back of the skull, so the dance is rounding in the belly and pushing firmly inevitably into the heart and the red and black serpent is on the move uncoiling into my spine, i feel her into my fingers and tongue flicking at the back of the eyes and cheeks and spilling out through the eyelashes as the vacuum haemorrhages on the exhale to flood the 'sunken ship quarry' with the tiny red kite

blindeye

2006-02-04T00:46:00.001Z

precipice court summons, a boy with wild hair reads me his poetry

suspended in glue, keep the variables at bay, my common place is everyday domestic violence, its what i know and i know what to expect, it keeps the variables at bay otherwise i might have to board a ship or a plane, buy a ticket and risk some fantastic adventure, i would risk death so its better to eke it out in my slow death where the variables are kept at bay

low self esteem dogged

i thought i saw a ghost of a footprint but genica-pussywillow was nowhere to be seen, i wonder the circumference of the horizon, i have a high point rocky outcrop but not even a sign of a vulture, there is a high sun

i am swimming backwards against a current, i carry his indictment as bricks and rocks stuffed into my waterlogged clothes, fluids lapping away at my nostrils and pooling at the back of my skull

what shape would you take by dint of certain pleasure, imagine gingham and an apron a fifties forced americana smile, i am confused by complexitudes, trepanning deems only logical and why would i subject you to this terrible outpouring? and i do mean terrible

wake up katiejane

blind eye
was here one time
vacant and unuse of space
no vacuum in response
to your leaving
just the tension gone on the
in breath
best not to look
as her stretch is overstretchedand
lying limp somewhere
diminishing desert lines
Nasca lines
she had a wing
but i didn't pull on the string
i would not reel her in
and the fish died
at the end of a line
with a hook through her lip and eye

pregnant, question mark

2006-02-02T11:10:00.000Z

pregnant, question mark

no, the system is splanging cogs and springs all over the place while i reflect on the cardboard cutout version of katiejane edgeing her way down the street slightly ahead of me, i find that i am camera shy and wish for a time of squatting down by the river, pushing said child into the world and washing the traces back into the river, but thats not the way for katiejane, its cameras and a fallopian count, seems the uterus tips back as if over the edge of a cliff, who am i to say which what where and why?, customer services, 'what do you want dear?' if only i could begin, circumference and dimensions, body count resplendant, increasing emptyness and symmetry drawn around the room with a tape measure, i wake with the image of green algae in a bucket increasing til the green is impenetrable with her cross fertilisation and inbreed, freud would laugh at my crude speculations, i got not a poet just a wannabe child kicking on the back with a cockroach legs in the air, UCL tottenham court road

there was fiachra, neville, henry, peter and me, we were pushing and pulling, turning over, there was a black and red snake tattooed on nevilles shoulder

angels and the black earth, get me the fuck out of here, 'work is all'

genica-pussywillow sits back on her heals and spits, the sun is coming up but she is careless and picking her fingernails, she will not be stirred by the magnificence of that that has robbed her, the leaking red gold ink spills into the sky, washes down her hair and skin then soaks into the desert sand as blood, there is a white fox, temporarilly pinking up and some scorpians, her black cat and some vultures just in case

turning over

2006-01-30T21:14:00.000Z

this is turning over, folding and folding again til some nuclear fission and then the lights go out
back soon