Since yesterday, I realise that the sadness I have been carrying around with me on my shoulders- feeling at once like a light gossamer shawl lifting my head to the rain and a heavy velvet cloak dragging my feet down into the mud-  is transforming into sorrow. This sorrow feels more distinct, more solid; a sense of words being etched into my soul rather than passing through me in tides of tears: an epitaph. A chrysalis, cocooning my sadness and distilling it into burnished wood; matter. Underneath, bright blue butterfly wings are very slowly forming, in gentle, constant motion. I need to give these wings time to come into being. But: they are there. I can feel them.

I feel a sense of relief in giving this transformation a name, a word.

I feel less passive in the process.

If Ai Weiwei’s favourite word is ‘act’, then I feel this is my ‘act’, for now. It feels in some ways like an act of resistance: resistance in the sense of fight.

July 19, 2017


Extract from Transcription of Organ Music, by Allen Ginsberg




I opened my door


The rambler vine climbed up the cottage post, the leaves in the night

still where the day had placed them, the animal heads of the flowers where

they had arisen

to think at the sun


Can I bring back my wounds? Will thought of transcription haze my mental open eye?


The kindly search for growth, the gracious desire to exist of the flowers, my near ecstasy at existing amongst them

The privilege to witness my existence- you too must seek the sun…


My books piled up before me for my use

waiting in space where I placed them, they haven’t disappeared, time’s left its remnants and qualities for me to use – my words piled up, my texts, my manuscripts, my loves.

I had a moment of clarity, saw the feeling in the heart of things, walked out into the garden crying.

Saw the red blossoms in the night light, sun’s gone, they had all grown, in a moment, and were waiting stopped in time for the day sun to come and give them…

Flowers which as in a dream at sunset I watered faithfully not knowing how much I loved them.

I am so lonely in my glory- except they too out there- I looked up- those red bush blossoms beckoning and peering in the window waiting in blind love, their leaves too have hope and are upturned top flat to the sky to receive – all creation open to receive- the flat earth itself.


The music descends, as does the tall bending stalk of the heavy blossom, because it has to, to stay alive, to continue to the last drop of joy.