meaning in the poetic

It is poetics that can sometimes impart meaning...meaning that cannot be gleaned from more "unpoetic" writings. Came up with this thought whilst discussing translations of the bible with an anglo-catholic parish priest via Twitter. So these internet time wastes/side tracks are not such time wastes after all...

Dw i’n crwydro’r byd yn chwilio am nghrud

This was turned into a perfomance piece shown at Beyond text: making Unmaking at The Centre for creative collaboration, Kings Cross, London. I wove and sitting back to back with me was a man reading the text I was weaving but in a unmade remade state (it included the text shown below that is folded into the cradle. We weave our complicated lives. Behind the smile can be layers of grief, anger, loneliness. Vice versa that grumpy faced person might secretly enjoy life. Perhaps if a person goes through therapy they can unload some of the stuff. But also it is this stuff that makes us, forms us. Do we hold it or are we held by it? I print out my words onto old paper, paper that might be from my childhood, could be as old as, even older than, me. (The modern printer doesn’t like it.) It is torn lengthways and woven onto a warp of string…I have so many balls of string. These two and a half fragile pages become something else, a form, a cupped shape. I knot the warp threads then turn it inside out. Where the paper has been pressed against the card loom it is smoother. I present something smoother to the eye. I can hold it in my hand, something that can contain, something that contains in itself. Text textiles Weave leave weft left leave behind what is left? shown but hidden public but private domestic inside is a record of two strips, justified. A record of all the strips shuffled, of whole words, is made....this can be read out should I perform the making. With great care it might be possible to unweave it and make something of the written text. But then the container would be lost. The idea to create the “cradle” and the text to use for it came simultaneously. I wanted thin paper for practical reasons but also realised that I had the old typewriter paper and that it probably at least matched me for age, it was relevant. Fine paper, the sort of paper that was used for a duplicate on a typewriter, a trace a ghosting. A life time of weaving my tale, a tangle of warp that could take some more weft.
a longer piece of writing about this work will follow......eventually also see here
I have previously used the theme of wandering the world searching for my "nest" .
Dedicated to Rheinallt H Rowlands R.I.P.

road trip planned

found on an old map of Cornwall
performance writing?

5 non standard pages - not presented #2

Blodeuwedd was made from flowers and turned into an owl as punishment. Some say she needs to be flowers again, I say she needs to be both owl and flowers.

For more information click here

reconcile /,ri:k¥n,sail/ v.tr 1 Make friendly again after estrangement. 2 (usu. in refl. or passive; foll. by to) make acquiescent or contentedly submissive to (something disagreeable or unwelcome) (was reconciled to failure). 3 settle (a quarrel etc.). 4 a harmonize; make compatible. b show the the compatibility of by argument or in practice (cannot reconcile your views with the facts) reconcilement the bringing to agreement things at variance

5 non standard pages - not presented #1

above: in the bag, the pages inside (spac[e] not showing clearly)
below: inside



for a text of over 1000 words about this piece please click here

manifesto

mynd y tu hwnt y'r pwynt yma

relax and assume the position (Devo)

the word is y gair
the rabbit is y chwningen

I choose celibacy (before it chooses me). Or at least meet it half way if/as I am a little late in my choosing

no gendering is accurate

purity does not exist (unless you want to talk chemistry
mud exists.
comic sans exists but maybe it shouldn't
heirachies , except on the page, should not exist

skin does not reveal inner beauty

egg moons are the best moon, whether they are waxing or waning

don't worry, when words confound resort to the body.

The words that speak up from the mangled bodies of human beings. This is the fallout that covers everything on earth now....Fact is the train don’t come on time for nobody except those who should walk all the way to hell on their own backs. (Kenneth Patchen)

go beyond the point here. I am itinerant.

They also serve who only stand and wait (Milton)

Are all your selves in agreement? (cLOUDDEAD)

MA in the reading room (Arnolfini, Bristol)

A sculptural book of found words and a card of explaination/theory.

Text:
A Thousand Plateaus, Deleuze & Guattari
Found in the room (D&G were found in room too)

recycled paper & envelope. card: 300g/m2 canson montval