Looking at the origin of stones and stories. Things inherent in our landscape and experience. Things underneath, bubbling, fermenting, potions and oils in hot water pools, capped by heavy monitor Stones made from haggis and various seeds, leaching into the main water. We adapt the surroundings and it’s contents to our Will and we to its. Needs must. Innocuous objects acquire import in the new assessments. We are not imprisoned, just framed. The walls and corridors of these buildings are endless mazes we are lost in, but in certain lights, there are transcendent formulae encoded into the Shadows and texture, even into our skin. The tick bites and raised lumps of some strange intercourse we are blind to.
I found the dried egg sacs and desiccated legs of spiders and other mites and worm, settled in the humid recesses of book textblock edges, alleys of post marginalia in the interfaces, a whole other cuisine of existence, dining on the Divine edges, where secret accumulations exist alongside greater narratives.
He began to describe himself in bookdealer terminology, slightly bumped corners, gutter separation to spine. Life had become… twopence coloured… settling into a waiting game to find it’s real value in the play of trade.