'One cannot speak anymore of being, one must speak only of mess.' - Samuel Beckett

Monday, September 27, 2004

The inexplicable

During the times of the bear, images materialise from my hand. As a child I dug holes in the ground, scouring it, barely significant wounds beyond the surface of the earth. Inside those places where I would sit sometimes for many hours I found a comfort in the raw fabric of the soil around me. My hand is always guided by this ground and at the very core of my tarnished soul the body has been stabbed beyond the limits of flesh. It's all I can do with this inchoate; to wear the bear and witness.