Some pages from a notebook kept while invigilating The Palace of Humming Trees (French Street Studios, 2021) during a thunderstorm in August.
Sam Williams’ project, A Soft Landing, is ‘an online resource inspired by the activity of communal gardens and city allotments. It is a space where volunteers are invited to share, learn, contribute and care for themselves and others, through the sharing of material that could be used for nourishment, growth, pleasure, education or healing’.
I like this website because it’s what I want from the internet, a place to share and graft and cut and paste, to nourish and discover something unexpected. You tend a little plot and see what grows from it. I used to live near Woodlands Community Garden and loved seeing the flora and fauna change throughout the seasons, people volunteering, pulling out weeds and planting. Something of A Soft Landing is in this spirit: you might get asked to respond or contribute, you might volunteer yourself. You never really know what might crop up in the meantime, which is why there’s a satisfying ethic to ‘checking back’.
I’m happy to find a home for an ongoing and incomplete series, Meadow Fractals, among the leaf matter and stems of other makers. It features a sestina after Kevin Killian (and isn’t the sestina the most fractal traditional form?), plus some weird and tessellating meadow illustrations done on an MS Paint simulator. Long live Paint. You can find the full selection at a-soft-landing.com (look for the dark grey tendrils).
In recent months, I’ve also been reading Sean Roy Parker’s Fermental Health substack, which has got me excited about blogging, and even food again. Do have a read! 🌱
If the portal is a smiley you want, abstracted, I already
am the same. Await your reply if we are alternative time
zones, your train was late and the wifi shaky is only
another ‘trembling structure’ in the words of John
Wieners. It wasn’t smiley it was pure mad HIYA smiley,
aslant on the concrete childhood where once I lay down
and later tried to make this theory. Lie flat. All the
horses lie down in protest of symbolism. That I write
anthropomorphically is only because most days I am
more like a fox and stealthily will steal your garden
gnomes to think they are chickens and the most
perverse fox I turn vegetarian, asking the gnomes what
happens down the drains and they say ask the trolls.
But this is why I left twitter in the year 2030, released
a thousand marbles in the weft of the sun’s coming
too close for comfort, organised my floating children to
clearfix the element, old and browserly on your blog.
Shine brightly with flashes of light. Will I fuck. That feeling
when you miss someone but somewhere to know they are
there for you, making bread or like, conserving energy.
You should buy a firm mattress if you want to lie
on your back and tell me the stars were good, what else, like
how could you put that in a past tense where the stars are
still coming, £10.99, they are light years towards us and to think
of when the stars are come is delicious, becoming this
drunk at the splendid omen, lavishly served. Inebriate
starlight / a laced pony / liquored with three sheets
to the wind and call you beauty. Hold us up.
Bubble write most of the film, asleep
means only to dream in the house / your birth.
All the drunk horses are sparkling, swear it.