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[ANGEL]


ongoing


> Writing, painting, and other things, but mostly writing.

> Femininity, desire, home, and permeability through fiction as memory.

> Developed in part at the Interdisciplinary Residency, Hospitalfield, Arbroath (October 2021).








> Extracts




Notes on a transformation (a marked change in form, nature, or appearance)


Angel wings the feminine sweet that wonderful magic, the way she is silent and able to read the room, takes it all in, offer a palm like, this is your medicine, weighing it out carefully, administering, beautiful skin, over and over showing how a girl can do it can be so good at balancing.


To transform, in his clothes saying out loud “this is easy,” the shape that can take over, weigh her down make a silhouette to throw itself across the wall, the one with a fist hole in it, conning them his body so lithe like a sister’s (A. body, D. body?) It is like the black fog sitting on her chest in a dream, pinning her to the couch, night terror weight on go too far and you’ll never get up.


A trick of the camera, the sister becoming brother, pinned angel, bad girl setting a fire.

*

Lessons (I)

In his dream the curtains are alight. He says, “the curtains, they’re on fire.” She wakes from the floor, curled tiny like a cat. Unfurls, douses the curtains with water from the pool, her giant hands scooping and scooping, silver raining down onto his limbs, the bed, her dress. She grows so large she empties the pool of everything, the water, the pull of the tide, the fish and the weeds, and still the curtains burn. “The curtains,” she says, “they’ll soon be gone.” Red velvet, red halo. Later, red palms from the work, scrubbing over and over to get the ash away.


*


Like Brothers



Strange white faces

coming out of dark pools window frames

all of them looking

all there is is a drive and cars

parked in a row



faces facing to the left or the other side

through glass, watching outside the gift

silenced nearly, more muffled

pride on the floor gee kid you better throw

better than that



when the time comes

on their knees heads locked together



forever, it seems, forever

*

Beach Scene (I)


At 4am there is a vague grey about but the cold is what wakes him, and it’s terrible, really very terrible, there is actually sand in his mouth. His car is fifteen metres away parked up in the lay-by a bright white note on the windscreen but he’s too far off for that, spitting dark pink sand out the side of his mouth. His whole right side lead, including his cheek, which dribbles a bit. Fuck’s sake, on his coat. He tries to stand but his jeans are unzipped, belt buckling his knees. He’s not shaking but so slow it’s probably impossible, he thinks, probably, which is how he likes it, if he had the words, defying his own expectations.


When he wakes again he’s in his car a great pain in his jaw, sand in his molars singing baby don’t leave me baby don’t go which is funny ’cause he was just listening to that. He is slow to open his eyes but he does and eventually is up to look at the crinkled note under the wiper, where there’s a crease across the words  G O   H O M E .

*


Wedding Scene (3) (The wonderful magic to tell the fortune)



One thing to keep in mind is the premonition of the red flowers in with white, how they spelled bad luck, a lacking fortune. They were taught to keep the bundles separate but up the aisles plumes of red against organza folds and folds of white and Flan back there muttering it look like death and Angel putting a gold hand over her mouth laughing saying you gotta be quiet don’t say it and Flan dodging joking like but then serious saying instead dead straight it’s a warning.



Angel waking with harsh needles in the base of her back hot everywhere

tipping the vase over in the dark outside the water splashing her bare feet

snapped stems in the dark no colour but glows of white sticking to her ankles

red everywhere in the dark