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Post by serena on Jun 3, 2014 23:35:37 GMT 8
Forever planted in the unrooting of something that is familliar.
Again and again I am unravelled, only
to attach again to a new sticking place.
written
and rewritten
a map that is unstable
shifting the boundaries of what gets included and catching
at the edges of foundations
Scraps at the edges of your attention
are encoded within, without
you noticing.
A landscape built and rebuilt, piling one to the other
a jumbled everynowhere only you can navigate.
Each place is a location for change.
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Post by Ashleigh Berry on Jun 7, 2014 22:14:52 GMT 8
it sticks. like the wallpaper glue that binds the book I made on Friday.
from scratch.
my hair to my skin, my skin to the salty ocean air.
mapping that unstable map. but with an innocence, a lightness like the infection of a giggle.
Planted?
Stuck. it sticks.
"Have you noticed they are all exactly the same"?
...
"Plastic. Touch it. The trees are plastic."
Stuck. but with an innocence, a lightness like the infection of a giggle.
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Post by Jacq on Jun 8, 2014 20:13:21 GMT 8
Reflexes and repatterning, we take in but digest nothing. Support precedes change.
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Post by embowman on Jun 8, 2014 22:52:51 GMT 8
w r i t t e n
and rewritten
a g a i n
and again
w i t h i n
and without
b u i l t
and rebuilt
e v e r y n o w h e r e
change.
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Post by kathleen on Jun 9, 2014 19:57:52 GMT 8
Written with sticky, unravelled roots....
Sticky, sappy, sticky writing...
Builds a pile of them
The places,
the things,
them
the writing
A tangled pile
Once noticed
As it is inevitably noticed
Is again unravelled
The writing begins again
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Post by Admin on Jun 9, 2014 21:08:34 GMT 8
It keeps coming round
round and tightly bound
The unravelling, The unstable
The roots, that will never set, in the the foundations laid
Formed of paper, sweat and skin
These surfaces don't hold
Spines stretch, for the walk
Steadfast to the gravity that pulls them forward. Round and Round.
The familiar in the familiarity of leaving.
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Post by michelle on Jun 10, 2014 18:49:11 GMT 8
Here is where I stepped into my wings
and here is where they were taken away.
Here is where I grew claws, a bristling loneliness, the ability to say fuck off.
Here, I caught the first feather.
You would say I am pointing along a straight line, pressing moments of identity onto the page.
I am tying to a shifting map the seeds of an idea about myself, anchors as transient as the brush of a finger.
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Post by daisysanders on Jun 16, 2014 22:40:28 GMT 8
A jumbled every nowhere.
My fingertips are holding onto the cracks in our foundations.
And I know that I should let go but I can't.
Better reference Kate Nash as music floods my brain waters.
Songs of association, perhaps a genetic pre-written, a gift from the most stable part of my map.
So, so familiar.
Travel tunefully forward.
Navigate change.
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Post by jesslewis on Jun 22, 2014 18:30:50 GMT 8
Blank page
Filled
Tear it out
I was this I felt this I am this Am I this?
Looking wildly from within a jumble of an existence that continues and changes and confuses
Steps forward then backtracking
It's a maze
I'm inside it
And no-one knows
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Post by isabellamay on Jun 23, 2014 21:07:43 GMT 8
tightly bound in a furry string
caught on every corner and hook as you unravel
the fraying begins
without direction, i try to smooth the map across my lap
to pick up again
to settle in
to feel found and then be thrown out
to press the map more tightly the next time, hoping the directions will jump out at me
what i want direction for cannot be written or found
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