100. Full Circle

I made it to the end! And in such distinguished company too. The people who inspired me are of course listed in the tags at the side, but since I took a predominantly visual approach to the inspiration, there are many fantastic people involved in the project that my magpie fingers did not encompass, the wonderful writers and poets that I enjoyed reading so much such as Susan Gibb, Steve Ersinghaus, Mohini Dasari, Kendra Bartell etc.
My hugest thanks to Dorothee (her picture below from re/creation) for introducing me to the project, and to Sina & Steve for the back & forth nature of inspiration.

Things grew and faded, and yes, died. I no longer cry but enjoy the sadness
We circled each other, spiralled and pulled a little closer on most passes
I don't always know how to write the things I want to say
There will be something beyond this day.

(I will bring together a book or e-book - I'm just not sure where yet)

099. Branching out

Oh that the end is so near... it is time for a little introspection. Today I use Billie's "Day 75 - layers" as a start point to ramble on about the things I have come across during the project. I paired it with an early development stage asemic image derived from snowbound winter branches (the original here). Strictly speaking, I came across the whole idea of asemic writing while hosting an edition of the >language>place blog carnival; but when I think about finding my artistic voice in this project, this is what comes to mind. And  layers captures it perfectly, this is how I build the writing, the markings, taking shapes from images.

I conjure a moment out of time for us, another one. Sun heated river smoothed stones at the edge of the languid water, fishing with our toes. Insects, no, a pair of dragonflies, they dizzily buzz around us, you start to raise your arm to point them out to me, then realise that I saw them at the same time, turning to you with wonder on my lips to tell you. A wisp of breeze flutters coppery backlit hair across my eyes and I view you through molten sun-red riches. Your hand brushes it, brushes my face. You believe in it.
Out of time we lay down by the river.

098. Scars

Sina is also intrigued by the whole asemic writing concept, and has been doing some wonderful stuff over at 100 Days of Sun and Art. Today I am pinching even more detail from her piece "the scars language can leave behind" and pairing it with a further experiment of mine on the spiral theme. More thoughts on the ending of the project. And I have been working on a compilation of all the work in this Magpie Days blog and exploring where to post it...

there will be an emptiness at the end

we were stuck too close to not tear the skin 

on parting on leaving threads filaments

jellyfish stingers embedded in each other

unbearable itching tearing off the scab

making it well blood and junkie blind 

searching for the next fix something to fill our

mouths our fingers and steal our minds

097. Stones

Catherine Singer has a series of photographs called "Sea Jewels", with lovely composition of flotsam/jetsam against glistening black stones; I chose her "Sea Jewel 3" as inspiration for today. Paired with the closest thing I have to a brand or avatar, a highly photoshopped picture of a split stone also from Iceland. The weight and pressure of the glaciers fractures the stones underneath, and when the water melts, the split stone shape is left behind on the moraine.

I am a little thing, washed up here on the stones, so hard and glossy and rounded and unyielding.
I am mostly water myself, and will soon shrivel and dry and lose myself to the wind.

I am a little thing, under the pressing ice, so thick and heavy and  cold and pressing. 

I am only stone myself, and will soon fracture and break apart into an igneous skeleton. 

096. Hotter than hell

Returning from a business trip, to the unseasonably warm Slovenia. 37°C outside, inside a rubber factory, well, it made outside feel cool. Storms delayed the flight, and the trains; and despite a minor panic thinking I'd got on one going in the wrong direction, I made it home only an hour after originally planned, time to take in the "beyond 100 days" thoughts. Partnered with Steve's "Oh Hell" picture, a picture inspired by Steve and Susan, from Dorothee's original.

                                  Smoke clouds drift
                                                                    cream splodges as Nero fiddles
                                                   time twists our foundations
                                              we are over cooked

095. Dreams of leaving

The title "Dreams of Leaving" is from a wonderful book by Rupert Thomson, which is now on my reading pile to be re-read. A multi-layered book, difficult to describe, but leaving traces of the characters to run through your empty head, resurfacing in fragments of dreams. Kelli Costa-Newton's wonderful composition of growing blades/leaves brought this idea to the fore, and I have been experimenting with spiral patterns recently, for something beyond 100 days.

We both say          

one day                    

I mean it to have meaning

between us          

you mean one day                    

there will be more fun          

094. My backbone

The cool blue of Sina's "Day 94" and the gentle curves really worked for me today, flying off to a Slovene heat wave... Feeling the lethargy of coming to the end of the project, wondering what is beyond 100 days...

It looks ridiculous on the table, lying there. It seems smaller than I had imagined somehow. You have done a good job, it is mostly clean; there are a few scraps clinging to it here and there, to remind us where it came from. I droop a little. With its extraction the few words left to me nestled in the crevices, I am no use to them now. We have done it, with my help you have rendered me spineless. It scuttles off the table on invisible feet.

093. Hope you have had a good day?

And as the days turn, and the weekends come around, the presence is withdrawn. The aggressive and damaged remoteness of Steve's "Butterfly Composition" snagged my thoughts today. And more Möbius lizards... slightly Giger-esque...

"Hope you have had a good day? x" he types today.
I won't embarrass either of us by pointing out that what he typed yesterday was very different. At least, I won't share it. No, leave me to come to my own conclusions about the shallowness of his interest, the excuses of how difficult it is to get away. Words from another, it's what we signed up for, blur in my head, so that even I forget I never said that. You make your bed... sometimes... sometimes I just crawl in there.

092. Fantasy

At the moment, I am reading a fantasy novel that is dull, plodding, filled with one dimensional characters; and for all that is unaccountably popular (George R. R. Martin's "A Game of Thrones"). There is no beautiful language, everyone on the "good" side is noble and honourable; and everyone on the "bad" side is loathsome. Caricatures. I also read on a website a detailed critique/review of a fantasy series I found this year and adored (Patrick Rothfuss' "The Kingkiller Chronicles", spent a couple of hours reading through it, thrilled to find references to other loved books. I don't really know where I am going with this; just trying to bring some thoughts about popularity ≠ intrinsic worth.

You want it like this, truncated days and longer nights, for us to have no existence outside of the dark; the twisted dishevelled bed. You are scared of the scales that slide through you, scared to look down at yourself and see the hard edge of reptile skin, scared most of all of your forked tongue, promising too much to too many. I am your chameleon in a cupboard.

091. Möbius

circles, spirals, repeated patterns are on my mind today. Neha Bawa's wonderful poem "circles" says it better than I could, so I am concentrating on the images rather than making my words live up to the clarity of hers.

I lose track, of how many times we have been around this loop. Since it is infinite, I guess both for ever and not once. We talk, seriously to start with, of friendship and only friendship; we talk seriously about what more than friendship would mean; we coil and recoil and one of us sticks their toes into the succumbing pool of flirtatiousness and we are whisked away, over and under, dizzying and knowing we will be spun out sooner or later. Spun out to a time in the cold, a time that seems forever until the next time.

090. Vulcanology

Whether it is plate tectonics, mantle plumes or a thin spot on the earth's crust, the lava surfaces. It is too hot to keep down. Inspired by Claudine's "Night Eighty" and working still with Sina's wonderful curves from Day 82, I have volcanoes on my mind.

my words build heat, animalistic desire
not love, except as a rationalisation
because lust would be too simple, too base
a betrayal. the earth splits apart to grow

089. Rain

Not that it did today, for the first time in what feels like weeks. When I came back from the draining heat in the midwest of the USA, I was so happy to see the rain, but finally I had enough. Today was perfect, blue sky, fluffy clouds, a light breeze and 25°C. An optimistic day. Nothing had changed, in the things that were giving me pause for thought, the job situation was the same, the other stuff too. But I felt lighter. So pinching Valerie's "Rainy Days and Mondays" today (because now, that SONG is in MY head) and pairing it with an image of rain in Tokyo, all neon lights and reflected shop windows.

I was very alone in Tokyo, I wandered around and I was the only red-headed person I saw. People stared, not in a bad way, but they stared. I reached out for you then, even though it had been months since we last spoke. And you were there, you answered me. You always answer me, even if I don't have a question, or if all of my questions boil down to whether you still feel me there.
How do I stop the reaching, when stopping pushes it into a blind clutching?

088. Self indulgence

today, although I have not read much of his stuff, is Charles Bukowski's birthday. And the birthday of the girl in my office, which I discovered because she brought donuts. Not doughnuts, donuts. Which is more than we got from Bukowski today but admittedly being dead is a good excuse. Today I am going to be self indulgent with the pictures and post more variations on an asemic theme; I would say "stop me if you've heard this one before," but part of the reason for doing this project was to see if I had a voice of my own. Judging from the comments/views for the asemic stuff, these posts are the least popular, but you know what, I still like them & think there is more to go at...

“Love is a form of prejudice. You love what you need, you love what makes you feel good, you love what is convenient. How can you say you love one person when there are ten thousand people in the world that you would love more if you ever met them? But you’ll never meet them.”

Charles Bukowski

087. Blue Hotel

Reflection is today's theme. Not the quiet contemplative type, the crazed thoughts spiralling, zig-zagging backwards and sideways. Trying to have thoughts before engaging feelings. Loving the dance, but knowing you will be shattered glass afterwards. I stole Sina's "the implied geometries of building" from Day 73 as the calm before the storm; and paired with my image of windows in Hong Kong as the aftermath.

job interviews and marmite blow jobs
anal beads and plastic sheets, washing
my curtains, new double-entendre
to me anyway, breath fresheners
   (I still prefer Tic-Tacs)
the state of english rugby, ahead of the world cup
e-mails bouncing back and forward
we are chatting, only that
he said I wasn't far off perfect

086. Language

More ponderings on curves, lines and asemia today. Wondering if there is any such thing as a common language, if so it has to be non-verbal, deep & instinctive. I used Sina's "curviliciously arced" from day 82, with a few adjustments - rotated to look more menacing for example; and a development from the series I've been calling "foamwritten"

when i look back at the things you say they mean so little even the things that we said to each other that stopped us saying things to each other for so long they no longer have a kick or a twist to the guts i wonder if it is because i am healed because i have reached that plateau where your words are just not sounds that i hear they are scratchings dead things without you animating them so that it is only a game that we play now and of course we both think each of us is safe as the words are pretty teasing things but dead pinned to the paper the screen i look down at rosetta and see the tablet that allows me to translate and bring your words to life

085. Spatters

I loved Sarah Ficca's "Manual Labor" when I first saw it, but it's taken me a while to come up with a companion piece to it. I wanted the randomness of spatters but in playing with the image, something else developed. Working title is "Earth in a soup bowl"

I walked past the pond today, and there was a heron again. The first time I saw it I was cross, I thought "they" had put up another stupid plastic or plaster ornament, like the ridiculous seal. But it was real, it was stillness, silence.
When you tell me about your day, what you are doing, what you plan to do, what you think about it; I feel part of your life. Then you stop talking and go to do these things, and I have stillness, silence. The spatters of your presences are elsewhere.

084. Effervescence

Hard to know what inspired today's pieces really, I loved Stephen's image - it reminded me of looking through the microscope at bits of plant back in pharmacy college days, before I changed direction (once again) to the "pure" chemistry side. Still hooked on lines and curves and developed the partnering image from Antony Gormley's "Clearing" again, with a nod to Steve Veilleux' image style...

Talking with you makes thoughts soda fountain through me, and I want to let these balloons fly free, admire their buoyancy, roundness, colour. But my sticky fibred mind clings, all cilia, fingering the thoughts and changing them. Building things with them, adding combinations together until the edifice of expectation is looming ahead of me, effervescence lost.

083. Metal under

Ok, back into the 100days2011 fold for inspiration after my day trips out to other sources. And what a picture to jump back in with, Nicolette's "Metal" with it's fantastic poem...


"every time you leave
           i throw the shield i've been carrying
                   to the ground"

Damn, I wish I had written that.

every time you leave, there is a tension, but I always bring you back
every time you leave, you feel good about yourself, until you feel bored
every time you leave, a little more of me rusts, you have left so often it is starting to show
every time, you leave

082. Conversations

Sometimes, conversations flow and you don't notice time pass, you are excited to be communing with the other person and before you know it, an hour has nearly passed. Sometimes a fragment of a conversation can make you feel like you talked for an hour. Make you feel a connection. Some of the artists here, our posts are back and forward and it is like a conversation, sometimes without words. I guess I am starting to feel melancholy that the time for talking may finish in a couple of handfuls of days. Today, Dorothee's picture from her "virtual notes" blog is the jump off point.

This last week, I have done so much for you, I have been your advocate and encouraging voice, walking alongside you so you don't even see the heckling crowds. I am your entourage. I need to step back now though, to allow you to make your own way, so that you see where the steps will take you.
They could bring you closer to me. In space, bring you to my country more often. In availability, I could be there more immediately. If it happens, we would both expect things again. It is nowhere near a reality yet; but already I start guarding against expectation. Many are the things I can bring you, and many are the ways you can let me down. One day we may even have this conversation.

081. Juan Muñoz

As promised! Thanks to Mum for the high resolution image that allowed me to play around and get the pictures below - certainly from before the days I had a digital camera! I don't think they quite convey the sense I had when I was there, probably because the size doesn't come over too well; but they were chest height, the size of a  child approaching adulthood, which added to the feeling of, maybe helplessness, the sense that they were mired in something they couldn't escape.

                             my ghosts will be solid
                             haunting me and sitting on me
                             no escape.                              "you were careless
                             and cruel with others" and when
                             I protest that I knew no better,
                             that that was all the experience I had had
                                                          "you of all people should have
                             known not to be like that"

080. Curvelines

Wow, day 80! With having uploaded/caught up 95% of my backlog over the weekend I started to feel "Oh no, there won't be enough time to do everything I wanted to do here," which is ridiculous as I know of several blogs where this 100days is just a section. I wanted to do something with Juan Muñoz sculptures but I can't find any decent resolution images unfortunately, so I used Antony Gormley again; and echo Dorothee's day 80 "Lines"

               I must go; chat tomorrow; catch you later; sorry had to dash

lines/lies               

               I know you are married but she does not know you cheat

lie to her               

               you don't need to set off on one of those curving sentences with me

a lie ally               

               tell me the truth; You were distracting but my life is elsewhere

I lie               

               I can take it because if I can't it will be done, hurry that time

fly               

079. Memory

The internet is a wonderful place to find stuff that you have forgotten the details of, except when it isn't and you get frustrated. I remembered seeing an exhibition in the Courtyard at IMMA, but not when it was or the name of the sculptor. There were small figures, chest height on me, with sacks instead of lower limbs, they were sandstone coloured and scattered around the inner courtyard like monks in cloisters, gossiping, chatting. It took around 20 minutes before I found they were by Juan Muñoz. In my search, I stumbed across Antony Gormley's website, I paired a nice clean sculpture "Full Bowl" with my snapshot into the sun of Another Place at Crosby. More on Juan Muñoz later, I expect.

you have forgotten me                             

you should have been back by now?                             

I have been good, I stayed                             

put like you told me to, did                             

all the things you said, sometimes                             

you will say anything to get away                             

078. History

Today, an image from Sandra Davies, "Stone Chamber 2 Pathways (red)" from her Orcadian Stone Chamber series, which was inspired by archaeological plans of various brochs, burial chambers and prehistoric houses. And a blue-toned midsummer midnight shot of  stones at Brodgar to complement it.

When the ice started to come it was a bountiful time. The animals ran towards us as their food ran out further north. Our tribe grew bigger and we had so many furs, so much to eat. We were in charge of our world and we marked it with the great circle.
The ice kept coming.

077. The City and The City

With apologies to China Miéville for pinching the title, but it is a wonderful title... Today I am using Janelle Stone's "Light Bubbles", a marvellous cityscape image taken from behind a window, and one of mine from Chicago last month.

The light is not the same in the city, in the concrete crevasses it is almost all artificial. The sky comes in slices unless you climb higher, build higher than the others, a Catch-22 race. They invented the skyscraper here, and there is no sign of the swamp from two centuries before. No will o'the wisps floating up on bubbles of swamp gas. The sky light fades so fast, it was day, then the next minute it was dusk and then night was upon us. You came home from the city to my bed, weary with climbing.

076. Lines

Going abstract for today's images, using Sarah Richters "Day 56" as it reminded me of a sculpture seen during the HoW trip to New Orleans in 2010. I still have the organic swirls and bulges and curls of the sunflowers large in my mind, but decided to take a break and focus on lines today.

               spilling in straight edges

gravity pulls, wind absent               

               ribbonfall metal surges from

the split earth, silence as               

               noise is only waves,

walk away with me