Monday, 14 October 2013
Conscience buckled but had been tenuous for a while; the reason those mulberry scars wax and adhere, and get well sentiments were tritanopic exams. These things plastered in a Byzantine mind, somewhere among mosaics and pendentives: the aesthetic and the structural. The memory and the manifestation. The skin and the bones. The skin that buckled that took the belt.
The blue sketch blueprints and two-dimensionalize free-handed domes. Physiques are flattened, sculptures unsculpted and your nose and brow form a single line. Like the ridiculous borders of an empty parking lot, please chisel the veneer, add mediums and become an agent that leavens your sour dough.
Conscience buckled but became everything. The leaves of mulberry trees. The fibres of optic nerves. The stairs leading up to doors and reflections when those doors are glass.
Friday, 4 October 2013
Tuesday, 18 September 2012
This illustration was published with a poem in the second issue of Island Writer Magazine. The poem's name is History and the poet is Judith Castle.
Kids at school laughed, said he stank like squirrel stew
or mouse shit, like an old suitcase, man,
smell of the country he came from
maybe it was the sweater his grandmother knitted
in her old kitchen, garlic and wild leek, the rabbit
she caught, boiling in a pot on the peat hearth,
needles clicking smell into the wool
row after row.
He threw the sweater in a dumpster on the way home from school.
Bought a new one, red, white and blue
at the five and dime with paper-route money
but the kids still laughed. He thought
something inside his skin must reek through the pores
of his big hands, thin chest,
maybe his grandmother's life poured
out of his mouth with every breath his heart pumped,
a foreign smell, stink in his blood, her stories living
in him, old words knitted beneath new.
New words came to him in pieces
but when he strung them together, he smelled shame
for the place he'd come from, his grandmother's childhood
on the farm, her hands old at ten, look.
How the soil starved during the war, manchik, she said.
Acorns and thistles.
And how, when she fled, the child she carried on her back
lived almost to the border.
Your uncle, she cried. Before your father was born,
listen, manchik, weeping in her new kitchen
trying to reach him
trying to knit their worlds together.