Post by red on Aug 31, 2008 10:38:08 GMT -6
I started many journeys which turned out to be false. This time I was to travel at night. I was
accompanied by trees and shadows harvesting the light of the moon. My overriding emotion was
hard to describe, my identity was as fluid as the night air. During the day i did not fake my death
only my life. I carried a bag with a flask, torch and food. I did not plan my journey I heard a call
which was not of this world summoning me to Beverley.
I decided to walk any other mode of transport would have been inauthentic. I walked up the track
to spring bank, down to the graveyard. I could feel my heart pounding against the sky. I tried to
control the echo of my footsteps from disturbing the dead, the wind was obviously asleep along with the deceased. MY past life merged with the pale green overgrowth, I find an empty cider bottle filled with urine and another bottle filled with rose thorns. I did not carry a camera the twilight would record my journey for future reference I made my way up Princess avenue the night sky was a patchwork of red, grey and mostly blue. The wine bars are closed night and day to the alcoholics I passed the night to them was barely perceptible, their voices bleed with joy at the absurdity of the wine bars. I pass through Pearson park the wind seemed to blow here only, I sweep through the dreams of the dispossessed asleep on the grass, I rest for a few moments beneath a tree the pigeons call their home. I hear a solitary bird singing protesting for the those seeking refuge here The night is disguised during my time in the park, I am tricked into believing it is daytime when I take a drink from my flask. I make my way towards Beverley road the uncorrupted smell of the night air returns me to a more innocent time, an owl flies overhead, I hear the percussive beating of his wings long after he has gone. I discover a duality walking up Beverley road I can sleep with the sun while I am still awake. I need my torch to penetrate the darkness of Hull road, the darkness burns making my shadow bleed, I taste freedom finally, I feel alive. The copper rain falls, I swap places with my shadow to quicken the journey to the westwood.
The arrive at Beverley westwood, an owl dips below the full moon, I follow him into the heart of the westwood, he settles on a tree in the distance, when I approach he vanishes, I hear his call but he eludes keeping me in his shadowy grip. The darkness renews itself, the clouds skirt the moon without covering it. Maybe the owl is trying to bring me closer to the rawness of nature and out of the artifice of modern life. I long to distill the freedom of the owl and preserve it in my being.I do not feel like I traveled the streets here, but they travelled me, I realise I am merely an apparition of the westwood.
accompanied by trees and shadows harvesting the light of the moon. My overriding emotion was
hard to describe, my identity was as fluid as the night air. During the day i did not fake my death
only my life. I carried a bag with a flask, torch and food. I did not plan my journey I heard a call
which was not of this world summoning me to Beverley.
I decided to walk any other mode of transport would have been inauthentic. I walked up the track
to spring bank, down to the graveyard. I could feel my heart pounding against the sky. I tried to
control the echo of my footsteps from disturbing the dead, the wind was obviously asleep along with the deceased. MY past life merged with the pale green overgrowth, I find an empty cider bottle filled with urine and another bottle filled with rose thorns. I did not carry a camera the twilight would record my journey for future reference I made my way up Princess avenue the night sky was a patchwork of red, grey and mostly blue. The wine bars are closed night and day to the alcoholics I passed the night to them was barely perceptible, their voices bleed with joy at the absurdity of the wine bars. I pass through Pearson park the wind seemed to blow here only, I sweep through the dreams of the dispossessed asleep on the grass, I rest for a few moments beneath a tree the pigeons call their home. I hear a solitary bird singing protesting for the those seeking refuge here The night is disguised during my time in the park, I am tricked into believing it is daytime when I take a drink from my flask. I make my way towards Beverley road the uncorrupted smell of the night air returns me to a more innocent time, an owl flies overhead, I hear the percussive beating of his wings long after he has gone. I discover a duality walking up Beverley road I can sleep with the sun while I am still awake. I need my torch to penetrate the darkness of Hull road, the darkness burns making my shadow bleed, I taste freedom finally, I feel alive. The copper rain falls, I swap places with my shadow to quicken the journey to the westwood.
The arrive at Beverley westwood, an owl dips below the full moon, I follow him into the heart of the westwood, he settles on a tree in the distance, when I approach he vanishes, I hear his call but he eludes keeping me in his shadowy grip. The darkness renews itself, the clouds skirt the moon without covering it. Maybe the owl is trying to bring me closer to the rawness of nature and out of the artifice of modern life. I long to distill the freedom of the owl and preserve it in my being.I do not feel like I traveled the streets here, but they travelled me, I realise I am merely an apparition of the westwood.
