WALKING DOWN THE COAST PATH on a windy winterly afternoon in spring, a north/eastern wind bites the air while the spring sun shines.
It will not be an aimless walk, of no direction as i know exactly where i am going and how to get there. The first bit is with my face in the wind but it will be the shortest bit and the bit i don’t want to see. The stopping at the site of the road to let a car past as their stink burn my nose, hurt my lungs and make my heart quiver, lucky not too many do past by and them who do, the wind helps me by pushing the trail of pain vastly away in thin air.
The turn off from the road away from cars shows just an other human cultivation of space in the shape of farm buildings, so my head turns to the right to drawn into the hundreds of Daffodils, a good moment to stop and breath.

aimless walking

A stiff clothed arm moves into the cuddle bag for the camera, a small enough camera to hide in the corner. The yellow complementary colour against the blue of the sky a click a moment a movement an other click and other vision and other capture on the screen into an other screen showing the world where i have been.  Stepping over cattle grid into a field where the human becomes the animal watcher while loosing her faint to see the old, very old building of stones.
Millenniums ago people walked here but it was not a field as we see it now. Them people saw the sea than, as we see now a highway, they say to give their dead the best view of their life, thats whats the building represent perhaps for some, maybe for others, not for me. It shows the shadow of the past that i do not know, a shadow of human activity, of human alteration.

aimlessreminderofthepast As i walk past the dying sheep which has no hope to stand up anymore, i wonder shall i go back or shall i move on. The gate opens, the open air factory of a productive field, full of sheep with one lost sheep. The path is not straight, is not hard, do we ever walk in a straight line or do we just follow what an other left behind so we don’t need to make our own choice, becoming idle in our movement. The ocean water, the sea as how i see it, vibrate in the shining sun as no rain stained the water for more than a week. The wind sketches white lines randomly over the surface creating small jewels, like dropped pearls from the sky. My eyes wander along aimless art, art made by coincidence, made by elements who react to each other. I walk towards the waves with the wind in the site and than turning an other gate to move along with the wind in the back. A relieve as my bare face faces now the sun not the wind.

aimlessemptyfieldTHE WANDERING through an empty field has no straight followed track, no aim of direction. In an empty field, where did the other go, shall i follow, shall i go elsewhere, what shall i see. In that way, sheepness sleepy walking. Move away alter the being, be alone in emptiness to follow your own line. Create your art within art as it does not need to be explained. It has no price, it has no number, it has no name. It is alter, never here, never there, alternate, the alter alternative. A short meaningless talk about an even more meaningless coat, a coat to keep me warm shows respect of what we can make. It shows a difference to beauty as it has a function within a coat to keep me warm now for years but it shows my fellow humans of what can be different. Nope i didn’t make it myself, i bought it as a bargain as nobody wants to really stand out yet so many appreciate the once who do stand out, swarm intelligence, crowd thinking. From the empty field behind the shelter of an old stone wall the boundary between cultivated open air and wild open air. I sit down to rest with my back against the wall, sheltering me from the wind, i become warm, from the beams of the sun, i feel spring.

aimlesabridge My tears salted the bridge of my nose as the wind blows the salted waves curving the rocks, creating a bridge, creating an edge, a wandering line between dry and wet, curving a vision of a division. I write down some words, meaningless words, in a notebook, a slim soft notebook, with roses on the covers and a useful bar of lines to tell a price, a number, which don’t give a value too the words i write.
The words appear from the free pencil from the store of money, a tiny pencil with their name, so, you always remember where you got it, to make you feel guilty you didn’t buy, well not me.
I scribble the line of the coast line over lined paper, straight lines of the paper getting covered by the curving line of sheltered bays and beaten rocks. How can words describe this how can a photo show this, show, tell, a feeling of lost while gaining a sense of freedom?
Due to my disability, my non-ability, i see what others just pass as they walk from one line to the next line their eyes focussed on the distance, i cannot walk on end, i must stop time after time to get my breath back to make my heart stop chasing an unseen rabbit.
My heart was never right always wrong and it made my body adept, it made my mind sing a song to cover the scream of pain. Yet, that heart made me see the beauty of the world. What does the other see while they just walk past, drive past, sail past, fly over. What does the bird in the sky see, her language is not mine, she shout and i hear but i do not know her meaning.

aimless curve of coast lineMy new piece of art based on the empty feeling of rest-bite at the site of the sea.


Where the wave alters the Rock, where the shrub alters her behaviour, where life is alteration of adaptation. A walk of 1 hour takes me 4 as my health makes me see, makes me create. This is where i am staying this is my home.

New patterns from new disorders open like a Rose.



Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.