Sculpture show london 25th april- 25thmay
There is a high amount of trace uranium in the Department. You can tell if your gourmet mushrooms came from these hills; they will make a Geiger counter purr and taste weirdly delicious. In mountain swamps, greyed with lichen beard, glow the green halos of Correzien minerals. There is nobody up here on the plateau, just the Marsh and the endless rows of forestry-farmed pine. This is the first hill that a cloud will hit as it sails in off the sea, dropping month along rainstorms and covering the trees with a thick fur of moss. Mushrooms love it, and the first warm spell after rain you will see the old folks spill from their stone hovels with favoured twitching sticks lifting leaves and turning to see if they were followed. This emptiness is American. Depressing, disorienting resentful. You can hear a rush of wind combing back the tips of a plateau wide forest. It reminds me of motorway life; 40 hour travels on extended sleep patterns. Military techniques developed by cave divers experimenting on biological clocks. Stretching out the days, popped like coffee and frowned upon like nicotine.
We have entered the phase of adjusted atmosphere. The bitter oscillations sweeping through autumn and spring equinoxes are braced out by gyroscopes spinning inertia into our planetary swing. Warm winds shift in drying moss to duvet lawns.
I was once in this film and they made me look into these lights. And these lights were like a sunburn on my face. In the middle of the night, in the middle of nowhere. Green blackness floated across my eyes for hours. Then I went home and my life started to fall apart. All of my family left me and I was like a bum, but I did not know that it was because of the lights. I was supposed to try and understand something, but because I did not know this, I was doubly confused. I could see signs in the most ordinary things in the world; my pillow, my mashed potato.
I devised a plan to discover my mission. I did this by making and drawing the things that arrived in my head in the end I had a huge map of what I was supposed to try to understand. But it had ruined my life. Then I saw a picture on TV. The real world had copied my model. When I saw this I ran away into the mountains.
Great wooden craft, carved from single pieces of wood, presided over this country. They were fashioned following the twists and buckles of the growing tree, and held its travellers on a domed platform polished to transparency. Massive bows, too enormous for these shores, were washed through seas of fluctuating time and beached as the flotsam of quantum storms. From these giants were hollowed the Correzian Gaelic flying machines. Fuelled by thousands of years of solar heat, gathered through green leaves and stored in the marble hard trunk of these cosmic trees, they hovered in the sky above the jump jets and witches and temple smoke.
The last of these machines evaporated when their solar stored energy faded, back in the mediaeval era. These very massive craft, embellished in their last days with Gothic spires of oak and chestnut, carried folk to the heavens. We can speculate as to whether these craft were the first to bring people to Jupiter, ahead of the American hippies, but these space travellers did not have conquest in mind. With wooden helmet and woven suit they took to the air, to hold council, the first academies of free geography.