Workshops for Ark Sand, hats and herbs

Wand moving forward:

She is shy

Of living with a man/ Of living with a boy/ So she whispers to him/ She is a baby whisperer.

And sometimes he sits on the window ledge/ He has pulled on his boots and sits in /Only his nappies and coat.

Looks longingly outside.

Magnolias

Magnolias unfurling One by one Their wings curling giant butterflies Blink and they're gone

 

Is it harrassment to laugh at a love that is harassment?

Twenty call a day in May 2015

Theo plays games in which Mum Laura is excluded.

She is not allowed to follow through the gate at Kew,

Playground.

As it is she is always over him, so this is how he escapes

 

Jeremiah Wellbottom thinks his bottom holy

But really it is jelly and guacamole

 

 

By Kafkas Wife

The letter: It lay there.No, it’s not that simple.one could think about it for a while.The post arrives instantly, meanwhile flying over the need for a dark-haired beauty, in our mind of course, who with her yellow trolley fills up the whole of the pedestrian walkway, with her newspapers, catalogues, summons, warnings for overdue, penalty notices, family greeting cards and other unpleasant bills, towering over the street. If one wishes to go back even further, then one needs to enjoy looking at the wild suppositions, the knots of thoughts to the cafe where the piece of paper had to sit on the table between the coffee cup and the saltshaker, and to the fingertips which have to push the halting ink pen to meek, uncooperative letters.One must mention that I had a wish to reach the distant friend, my disappointment at the up to now missing answer to the other letters, which caused me to halt short of enthusiasm and exuberant openness and forced me to clam up.What is it about words on paper?Nothing is more uncompromising and divulging than a conversation without a spontaneous answer. A sort of monologue. As each dishonest written word is a stumbling block for the wished for flowing text. The reader of the letter can easily tell. Thumbs up, thumbs down, how redundant is: ‘I don’t know how to tell you what I think..’ In a conversation with a person in front of you, it would be easy to read it as as an unaccentuated, quick example of a person’s apology, looking for the right words. The empty phrases are easily forgiven as if by the attempt at conversation one might reach towards things one had not expected to say.A letter is different.How many of the incomplete thoughts end up in the dustbin, before one begins to think that one has attained expression of what one wished. No tone of voice, no pause, or gestures, or miming, but rather the running time, charting, repetition of word, sentence structure that is required of a conversational framework.Not to cross out small errors of choice of word in the general attempt to reach another.Now and then one reaches in writing a moment’s pause, as one considers if one has expressed a bit too close to bone, or ambiguous. The reader might not react, ultimately he might find it very binding, to read, it can make one feel panicked as driven into a corner, affronted, enforcing a decision which one might never have wished to make, or even in any case forced to react. Yes, yes, yes. How undependable, unforgiving is the written word. If the letter is actually read to the end, relieved, the name written with a flourish below the cheerful, farewell aphorism. Once finished the letter is then subject to reasonable consideration. With lipstick, biro, cough sweets it now shares its destiny. It is schlepped around, prudently past a couple of postboxes, and as the envelope is sealed, and one cannot change its contents anyway, at some point it is eventually in a high-spirited, generous mood dropped in. Yes.After a vigorous movement toward the receiver of the letter it commingles with the uniformly folded over hidden secrets, written revelations, forms, etc. becomes dogeared and attains a fine but grey patina. It reaches soon enough its goal. It has by now been several times superficially assessed, is thrown into an overflowing postbox, after it is opened it is filed away, and is put for a while on a perhaps dove-blue table.Mere speculation of course as to what will follow, perhaps it is a bit idle to think about the mood in which my reader picks it up. Perhaps he opens it hastily, or peels it back slowly, or skims across it, or reads every word, wonders, with a shake of his head, feels, understands or agrees. Whether surprised, or feeling near to me, who knows, I know I do not.The person waiting for a reply is in a fix.He awaits.He as a waiter can take it a bit lighter. Mind you in defence of my friend I should say: for the traveller it is difficult to regulate what is day, night or distance. It might best be described as a juggling, if one ball falls then another will soon be thrown in as a replacement.It is a difficult decision. Too much packaging is bad but also too much limitation.The dark-haired woman with the giant yellow trolley bag storms the last mailboxes and with a stoic calm shares out the important, unimportant and annoying lines. The hallway is full of the sounds of boxes clattering open as she stuffs the mouths of the boxes with monotonous rhythm, ending the wait or in some cases extending it.In my case the box remains empty, the errors of writing unreported, unanswered and so in my i magining alone I open the letter of a travelling friend.

The Email: He found me: I had first looked for him in google mail. That sounds like on Mars, or in the Matrix. He lives in London. I in Dresden.So now I sit in front of a bright monitor, in a bleak room, and the text seemingly jumps right out at me and has a presence as of a break-in. The spy on my laptop. Above middle to the lower right the message.It plops onto my computer display, instantly there, we are up-to-date, ready, nimble-fingered and amazingly intelligent. I hardly have the time to pause and wonder if I really am, it is taken for granted and then it leaves me wonder if everyone is cleverer or whether I am the one to fail to see that everyone is in a chorus and that is why no one notices I don't understand.Though maybe I am sitting in front of a giant monster that is controlling the world, so that we ants all run in the same direction. The IPhoneX. Everyone runs to the latest at the scent-brand, as though it were an extension of one's body, which once it has been mounted cannot be removed, only extended. A body part that is there solely to allow one to remove all, stand naked, in public, imaginatively, in public imaginatively, an octopus' arm of useless communicating. A tool for us in a fog of accountability.Wait though, before I give in to anxiety and self-doubt at what could be progress as a fast communication. Charlie wrote to me. And I start to resolve the text as it compresses in my brain. What does an email have that is so different? Why do these questions and answers appear overlapping. What is happening is a sort of impatience, a carelessness or is the mail actually advancing my ability to interpret at speed, so that by the end I have actually realised I forgot the start.It is as though the email would be a kind of outfoxing, associations, a card box even of smells as I remember the winter of 1991. See myself at Gatwick, without a penny in my pocket and the first person I ask the way speaks a strange dialect. But what is Charlie actually writing?Content!So to justify myself I must admit that I'm not sure at all, what is written because of my lacking English. At the same time I'm working on a translation of his pages of a long text, and am seriously wondering how we ever communicated 26 years ago?Maybe words are overvalued? Language at all? Do we all have to talk so much? Can we longer be silent? With each other and unconcerned about status and cognitive abilities.The letters in sentences, in paragraphs, in Times Roman, size 9, in an advised format, the log in, the google logo, that is displayed in the left top corner, there are hundreds of variations and thousands of synonyms, as though one were listening to music, as higher timbre they flood into one's head, not with sensual or haptic appreciation, but of a form of rationality, concerned only with knife-blade, sharp perception. I feel like I've had sugar, way too much sugar, the subtle hum of adverts, the addition of news, fakes, electronic triggers, my head is growing fatter and fatter, my brain collaborates with the sugar, without making any sense, digestive ability in flow.I'm off on a tangent.Yet that is exactly the point. The email cannot be held, I'm pulling it apart, but only answering in bits, yet there is the circle of confusion. Half-English, half-German, with a lot of subjects, relating to one mail, then replaced by another so we are stuffed with satellite-mail.No. No prose can develop, the whole thing is empty of meaning, the button for rubbish hovers on the screen.I try to lift myself out of chair, my brain clicking on assimilating stories that pop like soap bubbles.I play a long note on my flute, a d would be best and then a chord, on and on and on..and on.

Jean Findlay spoke and is still talking about Proustian memory and healing wounds...for Refugee Week

Jean is descended from CK Scott Moncrieff forced into exile,after being a fearless fighter in War, as homosexual (she was nominated for LAMBDA Award. This is particularly relevant with gay murderers still in Russia), with Bob Cooper, a passionate campaigner for rights and a Minister.

 

A letter Jean recently received which she talked of in Centre for Fiction, NY from a man relating working with war wounded from Iraq and Afghanistan, at Walter Reed recovery centre, said he read of Chasing Lost Time and CKSM's wounds with great interest..perhaps "beauty and rendering commonplace things that illuminated their beauty may have been important to Scott Moncrieff" So we "knit ourselves back together through memories, a creative process Re Membering," as Jean gently puts it.

 

Poet Bob Cooper is also coming with his new collection Everyone Turns

We all have a female and a male component, with

 

Feel very humbled by meeting and working with Ugandan Jade Jackson, who although she suffered torture, writes gratefully of "Freedom from Torture", formerly Medical Foundation as "a Mother to Millions of all colours" with PEN's Lucy Popescu she is now published and her moving poetry relevant to all; she writes of her forgotten country

Last spring we were interviewed for Women's Week Radio, invited all to play a piano on the beach,to Edinburgh, bringing many thousands to play music. We wish to continue building works in the South: Morphe is London, Crawley Brighton.."You won't heal anyone unless you have respect for their dignity" Jean Findlay, Jenny says in 'Enemy Territory' to doctor. She met legend Tadeusz Kantor, who let her uniquely study a year with him in Krakow, and she publishes beautiful memoirs, of those of perception

She with friends Sally and Lala supported some war veterans I met, inspiring me in my direction to show real life, as perceived and unadulterated..

Great, inspiring change,forward-moving:bring a poem or thought of your own

 

We have taken a few workshops in Kew Gardens recently, with discussion of a green woman, as opposed to green man. We are building relationships that seek out neglected women, who feel partly ignored by cultural supremacy and looking at how ecology relates to that. Zena.. Mother Courage..whoever that is, rather than cowardly depictions of women as sassy victims by Brecht, renowned genuis and womanizer, or Sam Beckett, who used Bettina (pic)

 

Biographical

Open faces

Ray has written

a very humble

book about his

career as an actor,

starring for Ken

Loach and in

hit Hollywood

'the Knack'

 

 

 

 

IN recent months we have oriented workshops around women

who for want of chances have not been able to make careers

in singing or acting. Having a friend Bettina who sang at the

Royal Court in the Sixties, with followers such as Peter Brook

and Bob Dylan, and was at the hospital sad‐end‐of‐life wedding

of George Orwell to Sonia, I spoke with her about how Professor

Jim Haynes, often on TV and in news for his part in starting

Edinburgh Fringe programme, as well as Traverse and the world

leading Writers Conference, which involves another friend these days, Jenny Browne, whose family I met at his Paris flat. These women who play such a leading part on the cultural scene are browbeaten for bringing up children; how little is mentioned in the annals of time of women.

With our trips to workshops at Kew we also found out that "Land Women" had made jams and other winter sustenance in the vicinity. In fact Twickenham was once described as the Garden of England and there are postcards at Kew of women leading all the gardening.

 

Image from

Calendar

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

There is also something to be seen of Owl Time, a name Virginia Woolf

gave to sunset, or rise when the hoot of the wise old birds that appear to see in

the night watchfully observe.

 

Older more experienced women are behind a wall, where the wounds are healed: as the purple or black and blue dissolve into sunsets.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

They are able to heal the

wounds

..of those

who have only arrived...

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Like Lysistrata the first flesh and

blood woman hero, who brought

all her girl friends to stop sleeping

with their men until they had

left the wars: the Peloponessian

Wars were a time when people

had been fighting for so many decades

that every one was tired of its futility and knew someone who had

been killed.

 

 

 

 

A magicianness also, she appears

to be able to transfer suffering

out of the hats she makes:

one Jayson

has covered in eyes open and

closed to represent the various

stages of

rousing or wakefulness.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

There are myriad ideas in the play about how open eyes are: for example, is anyone who has their eyes open awake really, or are they more asleep than those who have their eyes closed?

Do we see more when we dream and have our eyes closed?

Is the darkness necessary in any case to create light? After all in Genesis we are told that the earth was dark, before it was light, so maybe closing one's eyes is the preliminary step to finding the light well within.

.

 

 

 

Is the child that Oblomov

lost in the storm really

Lissie's and will he

be a wise owl?

 

 

 

 

 

 

Women also seem to be barely appreciated when considering

Mother Courage, a play about a woman who profits from the war. It has

the air of suggesting mothers role is to be led, and she is misled by the

violence of war. A real Mother Courage is a character we are trying to

connect with, as a Mother Earth, protecting rather than cunning

 

 

 

Sam Beckett's life was influenced by Bettina invited to her flat regularly :

when he was nervous he would play the piano as a way of relaxing.

She also became his intimate after Calder, her husband, had an affair. Trinity College, Dublin

recently bought his letters to her and she gave me a copy of one analysing her play The Wheel that was on at the Roundhouse.

Suffice to say she has many interesting stories about Jim who also began the ICA. When she mentions several americans being involved in CIA I think I am mishearing, but then it occurs to me

that she is referring to how serious art as I have researched often

has had CIA backing. Rothko for example, was subsidized by

money they put in to scholarships, as Russian artists like vorticists

were receiving so much state support. I met someone Assange was

close to who told me her granddad Eng had been a founder of CIA.

These were people who cared about their country, perhaps too much!

Marie Luise from Putney and a young man Anton came to workshops: we

discussed.

Green woman has a daughter suggest Marie Louise and Nadine.

 

 

 

 

Rangoli Sand Art by Jayson Singh, created entirely out of sand, as in his pieces of the sky that have fallen .

Hats with eyes that are looking within or out?