Sitting here thinking about the day. Planning the tasks I'm going to undertake. Writing my lists. Drinking my coffee. The same room that only yesterday pissed me off. I ought to take out my eyeballs and give them a rinse.
Another grey day, actually. We've reached grey season, here in the Northern Hemisphere at least. The food, sky, faces and mornings are grey. It can be tough. Sadness lingers in the air and everyone holds their breath. Summer isn't even a whisper away. And then David Lynch died.
I'm not familiar with death in the way others are. The only family death I've experienced so far was my grandfather dying when I was seven years old. And I only remember people smiling. They successfully hid the crying. I cry about him now and again, as I mourn what could have been, rather than who I knew.
David Lynch was many things, and to me he was my hero. He ripped the hair right off of my head when I watched Blue Velvet for the first time. Strangeness, validated. It's a cruel world for people who see things through blue tinted glasses, when the light of day is but a matchstick. Oh, but David knew how to make you feel safe, he said sit down and smoke a cigarette with me. Drink some coffee. It's alright to be like that.
The moment I found out that he died, I was cold and my fingers were stinging. I joined some friends at the pub, it was open mic night. Before they started to sing the chubby guy who does the announcements declared David was dead in the same spirit that one would announce a war. Red curtains hung behind him in a fitting unintentional tribute. I'd quit smoking, but for David I smoked a cigarette.
Perhaps war is upon us now. I mean in the metaphysical sense. David's death triggered a tidal wave of mourning within the community of people who desperately want to be recognised for their weirdness too, myself included. I watched the tributes (which in themselves were competitive displays of weirdness - a peacocking of otherness) and felt a sense of connection. These others feel other, which by nature divides us. The people who never found their people, because there's nowhere left to look, so quite frankly they are not looking. To us David was our people. David Lynch is our scene.
Now David and his body of work has been thrust into our consciousness once more. I suddenly found myself considering my creativity in relation to my own being. I reached for a second cup of coffee and revelled in the meloncholy of the season. What a power, man! He's really that guy. If I didn't love him so much, I'd be jealous that I couldn't be him. Even in his death he has the ability to bend your mind and make you smile.
Tonight at 8pm (GMT), to celebrate David's birthday, his family requested that we meditate for 10 minutes in a global tribute to him. My alarm is set and you best believe I will be sailing on that ocean wave of consciousness.
Thank you David! I will always love you!
Love, M
I've spent the past 3 days of my Christmas break dipping in and out of HTML induced psychosis. Sufficiently depressed from above normal alcohol intake, I wallow in the darkness of the flat. Yet there is a peace that falls upon me.
A week ago, we walked through the quiet icy woods to mark the shortest day of the year. Then Christmas came and with it Moscato, cheese and lobster tail. Now, in the inbetween, each day melts into the next punctuated only by a hot short coffee in the mid-morning and a kiss on the cheek.
I'm tired, run down and at peace. Wallowing in the space I gifted to myself, leaving the house only to look at winter's fungi or to drink a cup of Gluwhein under sparkly trees.
The website has been updated, and my plans with it too. I am solidifying my anonymity here so as to allow myself to go into great detail the topics I am researching. I notice, as an artist, that I often try to hide my inspiration, to protect my process. But the itch to share still needs to be scratched. It helps develop ideas after all.
Now the garden has started to grow, peculiarly in the dead of winter. But after my long placid walks in barren forest, I've discovered that nature does not just sleep in wintertime, rather it orchestrates a new type of dance. The moss grows effervescently on bare branches, and sour orange bouquets of fungi pour out of piles of rotting leaves.
And what happens out there, is reflected in here. Though I'm sleeping ten hours a night, there's a mycelial stirring that's occuring under my malaise.
Love, M
Recently I have realised the true power in being unknown. In being at one with the world rather than secluded on my island.
Nowadays, it is normal - even encouraged to pursue the concept of self to the point of success. Developing our own personal brand and identity in order to sell ourselves. Well the joke is on us isn't it. Because I'm not buying what you're selling, and I sure hope you aren't buying what I'm selling. Though we come in a kaleidoscope of forms and each mind slightly different to the last, we make up a whole. Denying this fact ends in misery. I no longer wish to be identified solely as an individual, as I recognise that I am simply an expression of the whole.
I've identified that it is important to me that I adjust my lifestyle in order to end my syncopation with nature. More to follow, maybe.
Love, M
Banana
black coffee (Moka brewed)
orange (sliced four ways)
Glass of Orange Juice (with pulp)
Oat flat white
2 eggs, handful of mozzerella, sliced green chilli in a white wrap
pot of black tea with mint
Though our karmic comeuppance is seemingly suppurating from every pore of this green earth, there are still pockets of light. You just have to make sure you are looking for them. He who looks, will find.
Love, M
Yesterday I found myself looking at fawns in the park. A warm, wet and windy day. I am being drawn to the outdoors. I saw a poem:
"There is a reason why walking amongst nature is most people's best advice when depression strikes.
Because walking in nature is a return to 'home'.
You are not a lover of nature, or a fan of nature, you 'are' nature.
You are as much nature as the trees in your garden and the bees on your picnic.
You were designed to live your days out in the wild with your fellow creatures and plants but progress, humanity, had different plans for us all.
And so we exist day-to-day, in our homes, but never 'home'.
The quickest route back to self, to inner peace, is bare feet on grass, arms around trees, head in the clouds and heart in a forest.
Put your bones in water, whenever you can, smell each flower you see and crumble dirt between your tired-of-typing fingers.
You are nature, go home once in a while.
It will bring you much you didn't even know you were missing."
~Donna Ashworth
Love, M
Exciting times here down in the garden. I can finally confirm that the gate is opened and the path is clear... We have flowers and butterflies. I will continue to maintain and update it as best I can. In any case, thank you for being here in the early moments of my garden's life. Patience is the most essential ingredient to growing a beautiful garden, or so I'm learning.
In personal news I am happy to report I spent a successful bank holiday weekend up north on the coast of Yorkshire with my family. It has been many years since I found myself inside a static caravan (even longer since I've been in a touring, which is now my next goal).
I made a short video which captured the essence of the trip. Those who are familiar with this type of holiday might find it nostalgic. Note the Billy Ocean tune; one singer from the caravan park's club hailed it "The Ultimate Floorfiller".
Love, M