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(a moment to pause and relax for one fucking second)
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I have not made anything to go on the website for a while… and I am unlikely to rustle anything up for a while yet.
I’ve raced around the 5 fields over these month with numbers of kg and elasticated bunches buzzing around in my mind, lugging bursting bags of broccoli and other brassica produce up hills, slung over my shoulder with the plastic slowly etching its cut into my fingers and back with the weight of the crop stretching everything. Whilst racing I’ve thought about many things unrelated to numbers, orders, amounts and delivery schedules… some of these thoughts drift in and out while I in turn drift about, in and out of working hours and sleepy leisure hours.
Thoughts on justice, land trusts, rebuilding projects the potential egomaniacs that initiate some rewilding ideas.
Thoughts on planting trees, lots and lots of trees. On judgments from spirits of flowers as I run past them, beheading their neighbour and beheading their aged siblings whose stalk their share.
Thoughts on traditions, rituals, thoughts to Google or find out family histories relating to growing food, this interaction, and if performance art can help in imagining or resurrecting these rituals that I can find nestled in the practices of my Jewish ancestors. Potatoes grown, as if like magic, in the frozen sandy soils of deep Russia, a present day Stan, at the hands of a polish-born German city woman, a distant relative.
Art. Oh and what a relief it is to work in a tangible food producing job now, and how I, with great help from my privilege, did the unknowing unending and unrecognised “work” of ART for so many years…! The paths crossed with so many folks, and their presencessss keep me company when plugged into the ground nowadays.
Staying, after leaving many times and then returning, staying.
Wild animals, life in the shadows. Unconscious w/ holes.
I’ve thought of my role, Instagram framed role or perceived role, as land carer, or caretaker, or just taker. Thoughts on the body and the movements.
I take the land in the way I take the swede or cabbage or beetroot. And I don't say thank you… not nearly enough… I turn around sometimes while leaving the flower garden, and thank the bees and flowers and soil and other living forms I cannot possibly fathom and say “thank you”… but this thanks is imbued with guilt; and a guilty thanks is a hole in consciousness.
Time has flown and babies have been born and I haven’t made anything for the website in months
(old new text)
I’ve raced around the 5 fields over these month with numbers of kg and elasticated bunches buzzing around in my mind, lugging bursting bags of broccoli and other brassica produce up hills, slung over my shoulder with the plastic slowly etching its cut into my fingers and back with the weight of the crop stretching everything. Whilst racing I’ve thought about many things unrelated to numbers, orders, amounts and delivery schedules… some of these thoughts drift in and out while I in turn drift about, in and out of working hours and sleepy leisure hours.
Thoughts on justice, land trusts, rebuilding projects the potential egomaniacs that initiate some rewilding ideas.
Thoughts on planting trees, lots and lots of trees. On judgments from spirits of flowers as I run past them, beheading their neighbour and beheading their aged siblings whose stalk their share.
Thoughts on traditions, rituals, thoughts to Google or find out family histories relating to growing food, this interaction, and if performance art can help in imagining or resurrecting these rituals that I can find nestled in the practices of my Jewish ancestors. Potatoes grown, as if like magic, in the frozen sandy soils of deep Russia, a present day Stan, at the hands of a polish-born German city woman, a distant relative.
Art. Oh and what a relief it is to work in a tangible food producing job now, and how I, with great help from my privilege, did the unknowing unending and unrecognised “work” of ART for so many years…! The paths crossed with so many folks, and their presencessss keep me company when plugged into the ground nowadays.
Staying, after leaving many times and then returning, staying.
Wild animals, life in the shadows. Unconscious w/ holes.
I’ve thought of my role, Instagram framed role or perceived role, as land carer, or caretaker, or just taker. Thoughts on the body and the movements.
I take the land in the way I take the swede or cabbage or beetroot. And I don't say thank you… not nearly enough… I turn around sometimes while leaving the flower garden, and thank the bees and flowers and soil and other living forms I cannot possibly fathom and say “thank you”… but this thanks is imbued with guilt; and a guilty thanks is a hole in consciousness.
Time has flown and babies have been born and I haven’t made anything for the website in months
(old new text)
