outsideinroads

Life games, music, magic and all the rest. Adventures of the fringe of the fringe amongst the.. "People's Republic of Brighton and Hove"


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The Past’s Future

Open | Sun | Shimmer | Movement

Slips between channels,

our experience, energy

moves from

place

to

focus. You, the heavy weight,

tall hoof of the past’s

future, you burning neck,

soul inside my heart,

trapped and

breaking

Out, weak point

must be strong to hold

space for you.

The largest

form

an everything

for endless expanse,

still tracking under !Xu’s wide sky,

while these layers of

Power struggles

demand sugar in the cement.

For shudders, kicks,

expulsions, pushing towards

our future, our past

presents itself now in threatening letters,

to loved elders,

whose home is here.

Who once welcomed

to Britain

as young folks,

descended from the people

ancestors of this country

stole, sold across oceans as slaves

into the hardest life on

those soft wave shores, the ones who survived

and broke finally free

into a world which has

never yet stopped trampling on those

Bones, those humans, adding

accretion to inheritance

trauma, constant battle ground

to be known

as human, to live in peace,

share in, and hold

wide network of Love and

All, for those ghosts

that haunt the bones, raised each time

Words are spoken or

threats or guns are raised. The Windrush

a n  o p e n i n g

of its time, another expectation

of servitude, to previous

powers, now in need. One dressed in

fancy best and invited

for tea, which we drank in your living room

when we were very tiny, so sweet, so

Delicious. My first attempt at a school friend,

I digress. And you know

on a day like this

in 2015 I

wrote about hearing Miriam Makeba

in the sunshine in Brighton,

Our own adventures in community

and amplified political

horror had

just begun. Whirlwind creation

of spitting fire between our hands

You kick and sputter, you

Hoof hands, you heart

neck attack, the world,

the life and

death

oh my. Half a million souls

across the waves to reach these

shores towards attacks, you know the

signs in windows, fists in

faces, words, attitudes,

Integral structures

against

and hopscotch

Imagination games, playing out

Beautiful mergers, our

learning, playing

music, dancing

our attempts to make some sense

of belonging

Together

Apart

to build what we saw,

make magic in the mountains of

our dreams, like, no idea

what the power of stories,

words | breathe | touch

could be. Still. A woven dream of

a moment in the

brutal

Interruption, a vision of a home to make

somewhere. That

somewhere.

It continues, perhaps on purpose

the layers have kept

Pouring in the same patterns in the

mould.

Mold may grow in

Different shapes. We weaponize mold

to grow new forms. If fungus can eat

plastic

we Mycelium are the fungus

that can eat these structures, it is not a drill but a

Growing, and the patterns can be moved through,

Can be adapted or SMASHED

We say NO to this

repeat pattern built of slavery. We say it

with real process inside and outside

of ourselves. We say it with care and love and

Setting fire. We say it throwing seeds and spores in all

Directions and ready to water | wait | tend | protect.

We say it with sigils. We say it with alchemy.

We stand together in our home.

We build that astra

Diane spoke of.

We say it with those we love.

We say it looking

at who we are.

We say it clearly. We say it with words.

We say NO to this

repeat pattern built of colonisation

and slavery.

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ecstatic dancing particular nothing

unstoppable beauty

these sounds

those ones

made from recordings –

sounds in

African mines.

Reenter instructions

to consider conditions

as the sounds do

their work.

Did you ever think how

so much music

is beautiful, broken,

all compelling rhythms of

work songs, passing down myths

to future

escape, to escape

     now, right now.

And these works

of transmutation, these get into sensation reminders,

what life is,

inside/outsides attempts

at escape through

with talons, machetes,

claws, fists, dance moves,

fizzing to…  <    >

pulses, living, stories, remembering,

wing movements, proboscis,

bells, drums,

changing

one elemental substance

into

another, a chain reaction

involving

whatever is to hand…

to work through

and not around…

And. Us. This. Now. Working in

Ineffable yearning life space,

dream

Call it strange, call it home

Make a world from it.

We tumbleweed into spirals of tickles and licks.

Your spines are gentle in my hands, not soft, no,

but never there to hurt me. You

could be a creature that comes to

live in this home, for a moment

bought and sold as a pet in my

Imagination – before I realise it’s you, again.

Tumble to our senseless senses in

flashes of light and spirals, bites, claws,

transformations – you spin into snake forms, you spin

Around my arm in serpentine dances,

You are so fast, so intense, so present. I fall into

flow space, I keep up, it’s easy. You

allow me to overtake so we oscillate,

you, me, you

waveform double helix,

and this is what energy is. Life is.

Energy is, as we dance and fall and

rise around each other, clattering exo-

skeleton on skin, slipping passages of air,

flutter,

ecstatic dancing particular nothing,

gentle animals in a strange bohemian apartment

formed of imagination,

formed of long, dry savannah grass.


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Flicker between worlds

fantasy-island-wallpaper

Stop. Breathe. Feel the world

Tumble down in the wail cadence

at the start of Erasure’s Sometimes.

 

Take a pace forward. You

know that iridesce

is a flicker between worlds,

overlay elements,

myth potential.

The ones you work with live

There, perhaps, in between worlds to

here, like this role in reverse.

 

The lands there appear differentiated too,

a stack of

 

 

 

which flickers, alike, different, to this space

and always has.

 

Yet things are different there, the same. When

spaces integrate I have

seen entities expanded over entire sky,

encountered beings up close in a

myriad of forms, sung to the dark

 and beautiful abstract mask spirits who cluster

around leaves and trees. Been encouraged in

process, shit and vomit by serious,

giggling gnomes. Felt >bzzz< wings against my

legs, learnt strategies, developed relationships,

friendships,

developed strength, and felt myself give it to them.

 

The question of reality is a misnomer.

The Otherworld does not exist

on the same plane as this

Space. Is this imagination? Pretend?

Dimensional? It doesn’t matter.

The shifts made through

interaction                              (between this non matter and)

matter.

The potentials created, envisaged,

the layers, those layers of being, life.

 

It is time to call the worlds together.

This is the

Battle. The only war that matters,

to paraphrase Diane. And yes,

it is the power of our imaginations, and

the power of working with their elements

as whirling, existent, experiencing in their own right,

which brings us to

strengths and possibilities

we did not know we had. The chance

for real change I can perceive

lies in aligning to these realms,

Honouring these spaces,

spirits, energies, that we have always

sensed. Seeing where they take us,

and where we may go with them.

 

What next? That daoist/BDSM symbol still appearing,

                        maybe, recently,

on surprise church windows in Africa,

back in the roundhouse in Wales.

 

Do you want to come

along? There’s a bridge to build

on this quest

and it’s not made of stones, but

wonderment, curiosity, stories.

Discoveries, energies, balances.

Space, Love, care, observation, listening,

communing,

communicating,

space.


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Culture Breakdown

That crack in the structure, which when examined

leads exponential to such vivid complexity

You could never pretend to understand even your own

tiny angle, and as for beyond, your feelout senses heave and pull, strong gentle

adrift in attempts at pattern recognition, so a heavy degree of lightness appears only hope

in sundown, rise, stars, darkness. But

what is happening here isn’t that. Unpacking a clusterfuck

of careless commodification, where desire for any connection

pulls in sharp, and it’s perhaps only by chance when

something shines out brightly, a beacon of expression

from a hair matted past. Or it could appear so, something is telling you it is so, but you

find you know know otherwise. Those E.T. touches of possibility

always held more of everything than every fucking plastic print,

every snatch and grab blowback, all those yearnings

entertained, yet held back on. And the contacts made

with imagination beings are always realer than those crisp packet

monsters, those plastic lights, mythology made from sales targets.

It’s not the 20th Century anymore, and we discover we are far from that strange

stage we called home. And yet still it surrounds us.

Roots and bugs, mycelic in its rotten debris,

 

processing, processing, creating not just connections,

But new fertile soil.


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Untitled (Brighton, June 1 2017)

13412975_10153806693458031_4064815948681787480_nBrighton is that sort of place that makes you want to throw off all responsibilities and declare everything a holiday forever. The beach is always there, whispering all Siren. Bright sun through the window. The promise of fluttering sparks of energy, dancing with your gaggle of tremendous oddities. The spinning rides in motion on the end of the pier, tangential lines and angles.

The sun is out, the beach is full. People have plenty to do, but sometimes the call of the beach is greater. Everyone feels a bit guilty about it for a moment, then laughs it off. If you escape the guilt you feel the tingle of a kind of immense freedom. The streets are full of shopping mothers, folk on lunch breaks, weaving hippies, mod stance, fluttering gulls and pigeons. The sunshine/chatter/open/flit through the crowds in a sea of possibility. This is the only place in the country where most people vote Green. And you can feel it. 

And still violence happens. Gaybash tourism to St James’ St, drunk football louts shouting trans* slurs, almost no one realising how insidiously racist the stupid little things that fall out of their conditioned minds and mouths often are… all of the above is true, but also this is England. This is life. This is not so different, and the streets are full of dickheads and people who have no idea they could stop griping at each other. Cops. And people who are unable to get a roof over their heads.

I remembered recently a primary root of the floatsome weight that seems so often to be inside of me, the heartache at the core of my being, all hoofy and impossible. I remembered why there is a seriousness, and why I have responsibilities to it. Plus I also have to eat, pay rent. It would be great to get out of debt. Fun doesn’t pay for itself either…  and wouldn’t it be nice to buy some records again one day.

But look at Brighton, although you can’t see it the sun shines through the window all shimmers and you know it’s out there, holiday town, mini windmills, put on those imagined or actual cowboy boots, a featherbow-a, little shorts and a spangling attitude. Mince down that promenade like you know you were made to! Howl at the folk trying to get on with their regular lives. Fall over laughing. We’re glitter trash queer party otherworld motherfuckers from the future. We’d better make it right now!

And later in the soft moonlight, crash hush waves, repeat, repeat, and the two moons hang gentle power in the sky. Close companions suddenly on why we are no more to blame for this mess than the moths and butterflies, leaves on the trees gentle rattle, yet sit in shared responsibility still, as with so many things. Remember the stillness, the wide open brilliance of sitting on this rock in space and staring out to sea, out to the universe.

Absurdist patterns that we make together and apart are not merely to shock each other into realisation of political emptiness, no. And that is why those tools cannot be left to reside in the hands of those who do not at all seem to perceive these things (and also why those tools may still yet have effects on them that we have not yet seen). It is the profound emptiness of everything that floats our boats and blows wind in our sails, the experience of consciousness that for a moment in time appreciates it, and within it the being of those glorious roots and connections, flutters that function so obviously as this is one, this strange process, us strange process, universe, All.


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Owold’s 11 no.?

Owold beach

The kind of home splace invasion sectored out by instinct and your words cutting through ice like butter,

                                              fantasy space, fantasy animals

we know and the questioning reality is exactly why we followed this path,

but what is the path itself?

                   Get back on it. Get back on it.

It bleeds and suckers to//read accounts that are all too human and

one knows their closeness, sensed in physical space of mind,

in physical space of body

 

Does exist out~~

side# of?

 

Where reality is made and….

 

Tell ourself a bundle of kindling tails, get lost in the undergrowth,

singing,

humming,

screed to (distant)screaming.

 

You also told me this would not hurt me

Or at times stayed quiet on the subject

You also implied its usefulness

in process in

the clarity of seeming accounted

The clarity of experience

merged selves, create

connections beyond

 

Twelve years

in….

…….best one

…..

in

process break force stretch to

pleasant necessary sunset, to pastel fade out, to ocean vapor, to an innerspace bigger than ourselves as, to not be as we know it, to not be, to


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Karoo Invocation

18195008_1666432273663234_9135668202142400948_n.jpg

Home desert gives free flow to

twisting genetic

freeze frame in strange pattern space.

Bring up processing tension weight release…

Guess I came here to do this. Forgets how spikey old memories that never

happened, to you,

looping trauma patterns.

Shared together, held alone

in empty expanse,

Wider scale than eyes can, tiny details,

perfect flowers at miniaturised, shrub plant, thorns, focus.

Desire to weep, unknown difficulty, but I know I will and invoke safety in it. With all its vaguely teeming with snakey mambas, stacks of bones, its endless vast potential to be lost, this place is safe. I feel it’s gentle hum deep always, and although I am filled with age old chasmic sadness, tears lurking,

it holds firm, steady soul, parental hand in rattle boom storm.

All the stories here, although weighty and familiar, are still stories.

Karoo continues, ta ta ta, ta ta ta, train – hosho rhythm.

Silence. Wind in howls. Wide winged beings taking flight.

Depths in dust.

Connections as they are: loving, strong, essential

will come through.