(this was piece was written as a result of Short Pieces That Move, a workshop facilliatated by Kate Briggs)

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1.

After exists, after exists

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2.

Buffering exists; and bros and bright stars.

Beach whales exists: and glances and glaciers.

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3.

Criticism exists; and cradles, crying,

Coastlines; craniums exists;

Craters, catering, coding exists.

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4.

Don’t wanna know exists, and deviations, doughnuts

Hands exist, and drifting and dozing.

Diving, drawing and days exist

Dullness exists; dear friends exist.

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Here is a town where the stars cannot be trusted. They spy and look over the townsfolk, collecting hoards of secrets and packing it all away neatly in the airing cupboards of local hotels. Ready-made weapons for future deterrence.

The stars are friends of the planets. For every planet there is an apple in the field, and a woman in the town. This is the holy trinity, according to the preachers. Although only we can understand what they are saying, to everyone else their words do nothing but control the tide of the local lake (as they become more impassioned the lake swells). This is no good for the squirrels as they are keen on fishing and exporting their catch. For 20 years now this has been the foundation of the town’s economy, so everyone tries to keep the preachers pleased.

The time we are in is around 500 years before the end of the world, not only as we know it, but how anyone has and ever will know it. Truly the end.

Today, a letter has arrived from another town - 3km and 12 footsteps east of where we now stand. The letter is addressed to The Eyes of Saint Lucy.

The letter reads:

I cannot for the life of me, and my tiny children, understand your insistence on nuclear disarmament. There is nothing more I can say to you on this. We will have to agree to disagree.

Yours,

The Palms of Pastor Michel

The Eyes of Saint Lucy weep.

They have wept now for some age…she is so ashamed of her weeping, that she collects her tears and under the dead of night, pours them into the lake. The salt levels have risen in the lake and make the catfish particularly tasty, a local delicacy that only her and the stars know the origin of.

The Eyes of Saint Lucy are returning from the lake, and have decided to take the long way home. The following story will last the amount of time it takes for The Eyes of Saint Lucy to make one circle around the edge of town.

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(this is an excerpt from a text which came as a result of a collaborative writing practice with the artist Aitana López Rodrigo, and forms the inspiration for the short film 'In Long Grass')

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(this piece was written as a result of Short Pieces That Move, a workshop facilitated by Kate Briggs)

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Not in the sense of during,

or the pairing of things,

rather,

“A cohabiting of all the in-betweens’ she said,

as she carried our keys,

like precious stones,

across the kitchen,

to the bowel,

in which we kept them.

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