The Act Of Thoughts
Listening to the radio I heard an expert say “its ok to talk to yourself“, we did it as kids, It helps repeat what parents want, “I must tidy up now“, or “keep smiling,” or “where’s my school bag, “satchel or backpack…, as we get older we are less likely to do it.
Nevertheless it looks like a lot of people are talking to themselves but its on mobiles hands free.
I am always turning to such people and saying “what?” “Are you talking to me?”
I get blank stares. I don’t belong in their private world but they share it within my ear space!
This month I will share some inner active thoughts as I venture around my own world.
However, as they are inner it might seem somewhat bizarre.
An invisible inner thought language spread outside in visible print.
When we think internally it’s like dreaming, we don’t need to join all the dots to know what is going on but try explaining a dream when you wake up!
It has to be edited or it’s just too illogical.
Joyce could get away with this sort of internal verbiage, more a gut reaction to emotion and place, better read and heard by ears then struggle with print alone.
I sit on the toilet seat, we all do, it’s a quiet meditative place.
My dad used to say when I was in and he was waiting as I did my business before school, “Take as long as you need, never rush it”
This allowance to take my time has allowed me a life of trouble free bowels. Always working efficiently.
I sit here thinking how many artists have made art on said production?
Now, for me, it’s a place of preparation, always before THE BIG EVENT.
I end up here to insure freedom of discomfort for the following x time but also as a sort of gathering of mantras and plans, a fixing of resolves, a time for shedding tears, a putting on of a “face,” brave or otherwise.
When I was a child we had two toilets; one inside, the other in “the wash house“, a sort of extension where it was shared by two cats. It had an old chain that had to be pulled firmly and an old Irish times on a wire to pull bits from, a wooden seat which in summer heated up from the window but in winter you stayed there briefly.
I am thinking of this as I sit here, I look out the window half open in the last of the summers heat, the big cordaline tree bristles its leaves overhead to my right.
I rescued that little plant 23 years ago, I did not think it would grow up to the loo window and talk to me in whispers like today.
Whisswoose wooossswoo.
Plop. plopplople.plip.plip
Job done….
We’re on the Dart heading to Culture night. He has decided to join me, he who always laughs at my art or turns the finger towards the skull and winds it?
Still he is being supportive, I want to chat but he has picked up the free rags on the seat of all Darts and is engrossed. I look out. We’re passing Booterstown, the wildlife sanctuary of marsh, a sad, soggy piece of land.
Years of development have left it as a lonely outpost of what once was a full coastline of ragged rocks marsh and sea.
I see in my head people picking up shells, going for swims and walking with children how many generations?
To my left I look seaward. There is a long wall that as teenager I would hop up on from Blackrock and jog all the way to Merrion needing only to hop onto the strand in two places where the streams came through to the beach. Sometimes, I’d change out of my school uniform and into some Jods and gallop some ponies from the stables along the beach right back to Seapoint, wheel around and let the ponies splash in the surf a bit and then gallop all the way back.
We get out. There is a large amount of people going to see Michael Bublay. It’s a cold night and I smile at the very summery gear of some, the spray tans must not be covered? Someone invent one with a sort of thermal protection?
We walk into the Gallery. My darling partner threatens if it’s “too long” he will leave, the match is on in that pub “over there!“
There is the usual crowd. Always the same in art, or sport, certain people follow certain forms. The boxing fans are interested in Kung Fu but maybe only some in Contemporary art. I find only the practitioners follow Performance art. Some art fans are more global but usually each Performance art piece I have followed i.e. LIVE art has, as a rule, about 30 to 50 people attending. This was a good turn out of maybe 60 people.
Nigel Rolfe has been a good inspiration. Tutor of sorts and mentor to me when teaching myself by observations and studying all the best practitioners in Ireland I could find. He is one of the best.
I was a little surprised, but chuffed too, that while walking around before his work he started chatting to people, He stopped and we hugged and he told me he had injured his back in NY cutting back bamboos before an event the mayor was coming too. He damaged his back and crushed his discs. He was in considerable pain but still proceeded.
He sat with one hand extended the other slowly applying gold leaf to the other hand. Everything done with determined care and control. Absorbed in this one felt you were watching a master gilder applying paint to a renaissance angel in Venice
He then slowly spilt Prussian blue paint into a mound on the table in front of him, only then did he gaze at the audience.
I felt he was seeking the power to engage us into this act whatever it was to be.
He then plunged his whole head and face into this mound staying only to rub it on his head and stay there, until I at least, wanted him to come up for air, “please.”
He did and then explained the contexts of the action. The grimness of death by cyanide poisoning, 1942.
The three videos that surrounded this action played on continuously. One of his hand been gilded gold, the other the blue falling onto his hand, and then, “bang”, blown away by a clap. The third, the cell of victims with the blue stains on the wall, no movement but a moving picture.
It gave me such a lot to think and talk about but on leaving I asked “What did you think about it“? The other half said, “Don’t Ask“
Move On.
Shepherds pie.
Cut and peel loads of spuds, my fingers hurt now when I use the peeler. How many spuds? Over how many years,? Joints say “Ouch,” glocusimine hardly works.
Chop a few red onions they don’t make you cry so much. Hint, never put your face directly over, as the fumes come up and hit your eye ducts.
Did you know the loo seat should be down, uric acid fumes travel up the same way? Ten feet approx
Some tomatoes garlic, some herbs, some beef stock, yes a packet!
Pre cook mince, etc in fry pan, use good olive oil, some tomatoes puree, some peas cooked and carrots too chucked in.
Get big casserole dish place all meat and vegs on floor and top with mashed spuds bit of butter and cram to make more yummy.
Into hot oven cook for approx 30 to 40 mins,
The three boys from Wexford staying with us loved it. Went down well but later they wanted to change things and eat out and pay less.
I agreed as its suits all, we all can come and go and I don’t have to race home to cook. BUT we, the other half and I, had to wade through that dish forever, good grub should not be wasted.
334 total views, 1 today
