3,2,1 you'rebackintheroom

hey folks

sincere thanks and apologies to those who've been stopping by to see if i'm in and finding no one home. i'm still staying with jayne until my room gets a major industrial clean now the building work is done, but i'm back online and the installation at common grounds is complete. there are a couple of notices and stuff to go up later today and if i can get my mac to play nice with the MP3 player i bought for the job, the installation will be audio as well as visual by this evening too, but the 2 main pieces are complete as they'll ever be and hanging in situ. pics will follow later in week.

saturday night's first viewing by some close friends was really moving and overwhelming. chris, padraig and ricky performed poetry and music. i'll say more on the pieces and all that later, but for now, here's a poem Pádraig wrote last week for me and read on saturday night. kind of blew me away...

::

Pinkgreenandmagenta (for Cary)

She’s in layers of wool and other textures
Draped in scarves that don’t protect her
And caped in energetic feeling
She is knitting concepts
Seeing webs of meaning flow together
She’s electric pink
Mixed with creative green
She wears eclectic pink
Hemmed with fluid, flowing
Green seams
She’s majestic pink mixed with
Gay and groaning green dreams.

And she’s found a special dance
A special noise
A special small voice
And she stomps with stark abandon
Hand on heart
And not a leg to stand on
No, she stands on moving to and fro
Across a darkened room
Or round a floor
Or with a crowd
Or other times alone.
All her limbs are pulsing with some other kind of rhythm
All her hymns convulsed on some universal vision
All her feeling
All her anger
All her grief and fearing
Dancing now with all her pleasure
Earthed in memory, all her treasures.

And she wears magenta
Hidden mostly, but you steal a glance
When she is dancing to a slow song
Or her own song,
It has melded with the green and pink.
She sometimes sinks into this colour
Her own lifeblood, and it mothers something else inside her self,
Her own daughter, swimming in the waters of her own needing,
And she wears magenta, a stunning testimony to the journeys
that she’s only now articulating
It has taken years of aching waiting
for this long anticipated birthing
She’s unearthing tones that she has only ever known in groans.
She is in magenta, underneath her other colours.

She’s in layers of wool
And other textures
And she knows the things that will connect her
With the universal question
Of, “what is all this mess here?
Are we meant to guess here
What this Half-dark, half light place is?”
She’s at home in sacred stasis
And she knows the faces that she needs.
She’s in layers of wool
And other textures.

© Pádraig Twomey (2006)