14 Days

Recently I collaborated with a very talented writer and musician. Over 14 days, I did quick 30min sketches, emailed them to him, and he responded with a poem. We decided to leave them 'as is' without further tweaking or edits - o.k that's a lie, we did a tiny minimal amount of editing, otherwise I would have been tempted to finish the really sketchy ones. Overall I think the result is rather interesting because it shows how I work - pulling collages together first in order to work out my ideas, then the sketchy draft and lastly the finished, polished piece. 

I really enjoyed this project as it allowed me to quickly work out some things that had been floating around in my head and loosely scribbled in notebooks. The time limit and the thought that my collaborator was waiting for my drawings added a nice pressure. There are still 4 more that need their accompanying written piece, but they will be updated when that happens. I hope you find the finished result interesting :)

We must get to the slopes, past 

The choppy waves, I have a wish

In my bones to arrive, it does not

Matter if I'm asleep or awake.

A howling gale is splashing the waters 

And wrinkles grip my skin like ropes, 

The mast of my sail is still strong and 

My compass gives right direction and scope.

After a cold evening playing outside

Toes licked at the fireplace,

And the eyes and face have felt

The rising chimney stacks

Bricked across suburban 

Heights unbothered 

In the sun.

Leaving

Biscuit crumbs on

The carpet,

I'm not allowed,

But I want to,

The gate is pretty

Hard and it holds

The velvet lake of lips,

Sculpted and

Polished.

The grass seed is still hard,

Too heavy for the wind and

Quiet as monks in a canoe,

Dragonflies move closer

To the time when they will

Be spread out on a tablecloth,

Or drying on a clothes horse

By a fire, upended 

And cast aside.

It is not found here,

It is in the valleys and the fields

Under the clouds that rain down

And the leaves that fall.

It is in the train that passes by 

mucking the sleet, burning the coals,

Under street lamps upon coastal

Promenades smashed by winds

And in the hedges sheltering the birds.

It is in the trickle running down the bark 

And on the spade standing at the shed,

Quietly waiting without a word,

Asking for no more.

Rock has two or three colors, depending

On the season. The north facing wall has 

Marks and lichens, put there in cold fronts.

October birch is pale faced as a baby in 

A pram spinning a rattle of doves and fishes,

Waiting to leave and be set 

Alight with the bulrushes.

In dreams,

Robots

Change shape,

They want to be like us, make

Love, but when

They awake they revert

Back to their own ways.

Uploading data and

Adding numbers,

Repeating function.

It would be nice to touch

Skin, or in the right moment be frank.

Shelves of rain on the meadow

As if they were

Ghosts in the wild

Twinkling in swathy complexions

Moving southwards

Over the bog,

Horseman's boot upon the peat

And a martyr 

For the cause,

For a moment, taking

A leap

Of Suicide.

Never a fear in play, springing

Around in silhouettes, jumping at

Flies and annoying horses

Only when I lie down

Do you come and smell me,

Fast and innocent

Patter paw on dirty floor

Came to see you and say hello.

I just wanted to go there and see

What happens. It's good to get 

Away. I'll know when I get there!

Last time on the train I fell asleep

In one town and woke up in another.

Do you still go to the woods every

Morning after breakfast and pick

Flowers. I like that. I should make 

More time for my own morning 

Strolls. My Mother is asking for you,

'Are you's two stilling palling around

With each other'. I wish She wouldn't

Ask anymore, but mother's are like 

That, so its alright. Anyway, I am your

Pal! I'll call next week.

Take care.