booom slaang
October 2, 2007
A prow-mounted platform upon a barque, a gramophone on it’s own weight between the horizon and the rudder, a long and undulating sculpture put to work, worked upon by unceasing, accomodating currents that acknowledge the sea and acknowledge the sea.
When the lights come on, the tug at the helm insists that there is somewhere beyond sight that draws us on. The rudder is alert to the deficit at the conveyors origin, knows the whyfor of being sucked in and we feel the nuances, we brush the virulent air, we inhale beneath the colours, exhale beneath the sounds, we see the blooming fruit of celestial eructations harvested millenia before, and yet so low on the cloud swollen neck of a world so beautiful that myth is the only way we process a kiss that is never a kiss between power and insouciance at the close of a day, this and every day, that you could turn your own neck and touch them with the tip of your tongue and shiver at the coldness, something that looked like crystal marshmallows, it’s luminosity frozen, a petrified incandescence.
The strongest and saddest, straightforward, scintillating impulse to sing the heart winds from the tulip.
I have Vivaldi flute solos, trumpet aerial narrow escapes, duduk stubbornness.
I am on a river. I am placeless. I am with the stars at night, and when there is light, I have music.
There are more places, and different places, and unyielding destinations, for which you use tricky manoeuvres, under the sun.
