April 5, 2014 by petrujviljoen
Photos of the items in the envelope. Envelope, package, baggage, luggage, postage. Other peoples, my own together in the same folder on my computer. As I think.
Every item a memory, some at a stretch. Some close to home. Others’ memories, lumped with my own. This is a collaboration, no? A process. Feeding off each other, playing with others’ energies. One can’t expect to remain unchanged.
Reminders of places, times. Who said memory has an address? Steinem guy.
There’s a stone on my kitchen table. Evoking response.
There’s a dagga leave in an envelope in the package together with a ‘made’ four leaf clover. Actually have a proper one. Shall I play obscure and not say which leaf is the proper one of which I have? Now they’ll never know if I minded – or not. What if she’s a prude? It’s what we call it here: dagga, or weed if you like, the sacred herb, or marijuana. Gimme a ‘skyf’ there, I say, bru! Don’t hog it, it’s meant to be shared. An act of faith, one never knows who you’re smoking with.
I remember the previous time I thought this was a sign. Signs, lights everywhere, periphery, fleeting, transient, what to take seriously what to let go, when to let go. discern. Screen. I need a woman’s curtain.
It always happens to me, always the one. That makes a mess. Fold now in the photo. Left the window open to smell better by and the wind, my cooling breeze blew it off the table and I didn’t see until it was too late but one can still see? Stuff is bound to happen. Copies by now on many people’s computers, from coast to inland to some other inscape found various addresses along the way, memory that stopped by for a while some of it comes to stay; triggering other memories and went on its way, again. Searching to see. Tracking numbers all along so it can be found, what happened to page 229. Does Gibbons right well? Shall I ever know? The source is secure? I’m sure. Guilt: it’s a terrible thing. Previous people accussed: you left a mark! What do you expect! Dammit! Sorry, see? Please don’t be cross with me? Or else I’ll be bound to flee? Guilt is boring and Gibbons is not a spelling mistake. Or maybe it was folded already, I don’t remember. Had it open once for the photo shoot. Oh well.
Clickety clack, railway track. Paradox of moving, quite fast while sitting still. Lapse of time, rhythmic transport a vehicle for thought, clasping, grasping, holding on to nothing, indulging the flow to let it go where it goes. Lights streaming by as thoughts move on. Clickety crack. Clichès abound, let me have a look oh god is the window closed? It’s cold in here. And the weeks keep on turning, mightily, heavy metal on metal. This ain’t heavy, she’s my sister. For this while. one collaboration feeds into another, wheels within wheels that keeps on circling, all over the world, tonight! United in creative activity, individually expressive … what happened to Sarah?
Tickets to ride someplace I’ll never know. Already clicked. Someone else paid the ferryman. The blackbird wants in.
Seagull in the sky plumbing, how sweet.
Tip, tap, dancing, thinking on the spot.
This is hardly profound.
Let the real work begin with what it is I have to work with. Ha! It’s a breeze!