the mariner, on a monday,
took apart, her idea of what
her lover orion may have wanted.
his rotating belt, above her head,
one dot,
two, three dots.
shred, shed, overboard.
I come by eons later,
and find myself
this nebulous day
picking up her laundry,
rescued from the waves, by a bird
.. a thing found in the sky.
feb 6.12
took apart, her idea of what
her lover orion may have wanted.
his rotating belt, above her head,
one dot,
two, three dots.
shred, shed, overboard.
I come by eons later,
and find myself
this nebulous day
picking up her laundry,
rescued from the waves, by a bird
.. a thing found in the sky.
feb 6.12
the mariner's biography
the mariner is always at sea. her family comes to her and goes from her.
one sister indistinguishable from the next, sister after sister lapping by her side. at once fluid inside then out, human, then scaly; birds of sisters.
her brothers are in the air, manly air. puff. he moves her hair aside playfully. bravado in the sails they spur her on; gales of brothers.
her mother is inside her; circular and warm replenishing with the moon. mother after mother her birth and my birth our grandmothers birth no first no last constant; womb of mother.
her father is an ancient one. old before he knew her. her father is a mortal, son of Ahab. blinded at 40 he walked out into the sea. once there he opened the back of his mind to them all and so she was born.
some decades, discoverers, explorers intrepid, intrigued, on the wind, probe assumptive swallowing. she slowly becomes transparent, vanishing before their eyes, disappearing from their memory; they, merely left with those floating dream shadow, curious traces.
now, though not young, she appears youthful. no destination, hung with the current.
2014
On Site 2015
‘Welcome to the Stranger: Migrant people, places and spaces'
Caught in amongst the kelp, fragments of fabric wash up on the beach in Ballycastle every day.
Each piece of fabric is a part of something. It comes from somewhere, belonged to someone. As I work with these remnants ideas of peoples lives come to mind; questions form of how these raiments came to be floating, tangled up in the forests of kelp, travelling a distance to be brought ashore here on the waves. The movement of the fabric on the clothes line, making the energy of wind manifest, has a familiar quality. The movement of people to and from our shore is both ancient and present. Clotheslines are care and service and beautiful—they honour the wind; they honour work.
‘Welcome to the Stranger: Migrant people, places and spaces'
Caught in amongst the kelp, fragments of fabric wash up on the beach in Ballycastle every day.
Each piece of fabric is a part of something. It comes from somewhere, belonged to someone. As I work with these remnants ideas of peoples lives come to mind; questions form of how these raiments came to be floating, tangled up in the forests of kelp, travelling a distance to be brought ashore here on the waves. The movement of the fabric on the clothes line, making the energy of wind manifest, has a familiar quality. The movement of people to and from our shore is both ancient and present. Clotheslines are care and service and beautiful—they honour the wind; they honour work.
National Museum Of Ireland, Country life, in Turlough, Co. Mayo
September 2015
found material on a constructed clothes line, wooden pegs.
September 2015
found material on a constructed clothes line, wooden pegs.
