Coacervates of stormwater and ink

The wet diaries of an augmented flaneur

Walking in the quiet of the day, I become increasingly aware of my presence in the pristine environment. Steps, breath, thoughts - their subtle imprint I leave behind to bite off the crunchy air - Good morning. My feet chew the sugar candy of the frost. Time archives the steps in a minor scale, simultaneously disposing them into the vacuum of the retrieving fog.

While my shadow sips the brown tea of a puddle under a birch grove, I think of the numerous ways Bulgarian folklore tradition describes water based on its mystical properties: blessed water, censed, dead… living water…

 I think of Masaru Emoto and his experiments crystalizing the memory of water.

Next day, I return to the puddle. The undone winter lace of the birch leaves threads the glossy sheen of the decomposing matter. Intimidated by encroaching the silence of this steeping ground, I ask her permission. Then produce a set of vials and a stack of good quality paper. I dip the sheets in the puddle and let them rest. The milk of the paper swells with memories: the fallen branches, leaves, the star strung summers, the rusty freeze of winters, the echoes of passing chatter, reflections of the hunting birds. Brown tea and milk, I soak the paper for ten more minutes. Then, fill in the little bottles with the woody water carrying the imprint of synthesis and decomposition.

Away from the sample site of the “forest library,” I lay the pre-soaked paper and read it like a litmus, dropping beads of water through the detailer cap. I dip my brush in India ink to gently inseminate the beads. Immediately upon impact, the ink rushes through the water, pushing its weight and causing the droplets to travel along the surface of the paper. In that interaction I’m affected by the behaviour of the water flowing freely towards its ultimate merging. The ink-impregnated rainwater channels reveal a landscapes, a map of layers which is left to evaporate for days.

The geometry of the water beads have been sieved to an imprint. The process of dehydration and pigmentation augments the visibility of the particles, otherwise, hidden in the liquid. Likewise, the creative process infiltrates the self through distilling experiences from the environment and the unconscious. I look for familiar steps in the ripple of the emerging landscape. Needling the thread of memory, I find the untold stories of my past…

A rather unusual taste of jewelry

The untold stories of my past
I wear like a necklace of ovarian cysts. 
They swell to swell
potentially unconceived,
starving seeds enveloped in million bubbles, 
fish eye stare of a dormant monster.
What are you saving yourselves for? 
Dancing your muted dance 
dipping the brushes of your sleek tales in the obsidian dyes of my dim unconscious. Stories afraid of their own story.

There are stories - entangling.
The curiosity of my umbilical cord 
curves along a forest path 
towards an end near but never here
an insatiable, self-inseminating, 
sorrow befriending womb
gestates the luminous curbs of lunacy
incapable of completion.

Some stories sneak in a forest fire
through the flick of a spark
with their voluptuous and glamorous bodies
absorb every gel of stage light - a life sustaining force 
their pockets overflow with applauds of vibrancy -

The unquestionable ones

sole attention would bore them
they feed on devotion - The stories of pure emotion.
They leave me roaming the ghosts of petrified trees,
to bear coals of their burnt hearts 
with my bare feet dance cool with the grays of morbid ashes
They leave me seeking life between the crooked toes of wild birds

knock-on-a-seed. 
Those stories come up to me.

The possessive stories - elusive to defeat. 
Stories that keep me hostage - the unnamable, 
shapeshifter's prey
with lips suffocate
nurse on my breasts, 
devouring sweet milk 
snakes weaving nests with my glandular pearls
Then disappear
to come back in my dreams
pretending to be
the babies I forgot to feed.

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