Casting Appendages - June 2014

Artist -

Author - Damien Sheridan



"Pure scent."

"Summer's love, lost in the night."

"Scissors and a razor."

"Remember the first time?"

"Dad's zipper down his chest."

"Mum's stitches."

"Pebbles on a beach washed ashore."

"Volcanic babies."

"Lava's red tongue."

"Roots up and branches down."

"Mazes under the gravy."

"The wild spiral spurning consequence."

She hung them from on high and let them spread out over the floor; contained nervousness, a ready spill. Tendrils for reaching and arms playing at being legs. The upside down rolled over; supporting, airing, displaying; catapults of attraction, ejecta dispensed in agony, delight, indifference; all of them, always. None face denial.

The finagle tree. Our parent. He suggests a bending back, an anterior body arch, a bridge between our-selves. Santa's sack. Goodies for unwrapping. How many layers? Is that a question asked? Who wrapped? Drop the paper and put down the tape! No. Pick it up, roll it out, cut with joy and fold, crease and stick. It is our joy to find and flavour, our commonality; grace against brutality.

Light in the darkness? Darkness in the light! When they fall during the throes, and the toes pull back, there is wanton isolation, time without time, there in the darkness, full and beautiful. Then snap, the light is back, and with it, the turning hands and the promise they will stop.

But; I'm afraid so. Is it not too sweet? Do our teeth hurt? We need to (no) investigate. There are transitions at work here. Minimums and maximums sketching out a gradient. This cuboid of concealment and its simple service balanced atop tickle recesses and coax the shy.

Again they said, drive through that blasé (yes) euphoria and fan the flame, entice a return, erect new walls and block out the sun.

What was left behind is now. There can be no going back. When the ephemeral hand snatches it grasps emptiness. Searching the horizon for the beyond, sightless eyes glimpse intersection, an absolute terminus that cannot divide; this door has no opening and to prise to find the prize is a game of folly, the seeking of a guess.

This is necessary. This is a caper. One might think it jacketed. Is it of the kind to be straight? (yes) A wraparound. Does it walk hand in hand with hope? It might. The two are not so far apart. Syrup. Of what kind? Though many are offered their accent tastes the same. If it is rejected absolutely, minus reservation, the air is severe. White light on a black night. Do we wish to live arms akimbo, unblinking creatures deep in breath, finding nothing to temper this-ness, the here; a sun for an eye searing remembrance and aspiration.

Detritus. Leaves off a tree. We stitch the two together here if we have not already done so. She and he talked of together. Different places; different traces. Common ground for the scribe. A sprinkling of confetti on a bright spring day. The twine of floss around a stick, sticky and sweet. Gay laughter spreading under branches granting shade to both flower and friend. Hanging of decorations in fuzzy anticipation, a treasured day on the calendar. This is the uplift, when what is loved and gone before has resonance and gives fulfilment, satisfaction and protection. Rupture exposes what has previously been hidden; it shuns exteriority. Turned inside out, victim to nasty inversion, the shrieking interruptus; the gaze stares inwards and sights a walled universe papered in one's own skin. Whence viscera subjects beauty to abjection. Here we are embroiled in the downturn, whereby horror suffocates and sweeps aside our illusions and makes us swallow certitude and forces us to hold and comprehend the imponderable weight of finitude. Their presentation is not static and neither should an assessment prevail upon these instances in a declarative manner. One slip of the tongue that could, nay should be replaced by others. Do you have one? No doubt. Do I? Here is one, the simple one, the obvious one where we take the predictable interface and play reversals or the diving down and looking up from below, that humorous game of picturing the other bipeds opposite globally, giving us a haphazard planetary symmetry.

The pretty is filthy and the grotesque delicious. I have, we have fallen into the trap. From one to two, monad to binary; and as the tumble picks up pace, two to many, binary to manifold. Is this an inescapable dilemma; or can we say in the matter of conception; machinations of cogito, all mazes have an exit. Then think dammit! What is it to not think of a thing from one locus, two, or many? Simultaniety is our way out if we can manage such a feat. Our regard must be held thrice. It must be fractured and hold no ground, an emissary of vibration and scattered location, refusing fusion and an advocate of purity, excess and indifference waging war on a pinhead. This is the incendiary rebirth of discourse. No position held and an immediate recourse to contradiction. Re-presentation. Poiesis.

May 2014

Damien Sheridan