Journal

Journal

A poetic response to Anna Berndtson’s workshop “Art needs time and we need art.”

A poetic response to Anna Berndtson’s workshop “Art needs time and we need art.”

Anna Berndtson
Anna Ber...

I shall start at the end

I like to think that every action has three states

Anticipation

Explosion

And silence.

As if a bomb has gone off,

The ringing in the ears, the dust settling inside and out.

Look up at the sky when it’s completely grey.

What do you see ?

I see what looks like two women.

They scream from the top of a lighthouse.

Saying they’ve found me,

Picking at my scabs and eating grass.

They say I smell like a Pollock painting,

And look like a Dali,

But sound like a Kahlo,

And taste like a Magritte,

Surreal to the senses.

As I sit in the middle of the sky I see a red square.

I stare into it, waiting for something to happen

Waiting for something to happen

Waiting for something to take place

Take space in the crevices of my fleshy brain

It then hits me.

I have nothing left to give.

I want you to take a piece of paper and a pen and take 30 minutes to write your name.

You must continue moving, exploring, wandering through time and space.

It’s elastic and slippery, like molasses falling off a spoon.

Watch me as I jump up and down, running at speeds slower than sound.

See me pour water into the mouths of people I used to call home.

Take half breaths of stolen air, humid and thick.

Take up time within space.

Take time to stop and smell the roses.

Look at them and tell them they’re pretty, tell them they have nice petals and thorns and stems and leaves and blemishes and bruises and holes and buds and roots.

I think the wind is optimistic and the sea is a cynic.

But the last thing I saw before I closed my eyes for the first time was something swimming in that red square.

People dancing.

Little specks of today and tomorrow intertwined between layers of velvet and leather.

Craters of thought and lost toys from when I was a child.

Broken glass stuck in my foot.

My tarot yesterday told me that death made way for growth, change, rebirth.

I sat with my eyes closed and listened for the first time in my life.

And it was then that I realised that I’m living for the first time,

And it’s the last time I ever get to know it.

This was written in response to a workshop held at play_station on the 16th February 2020 held by Anna Berndtson.

A poetic response to Anna Berndtson’s workshop “Art needs time and we need art.”

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