Crossing Over, Duration 10 min, London, 2015
2015 November 2. Crossing the bridge. Unzipping all compartments of the backpack and letting the contents fall on their accord.
||And so when you have lost everything, no more roads, no direction, no fixed signs, no ground, no thoughts able to resist other thoughts, when you are lost, beside yourself, and you continue getting lost, when you become the panicky movement of getting lost, then, that’s when, where you are unwoven weft, flesh that lets strangeness come through, defenseless being, without resistance, without batten, without skin, inundated with otherness, it’s in these breathless times that writings traverse you, songs of an unheard-of purity flow through you, addressed to no one, they well up, surge forth, from the throats of your unknown inhabitants, these are the cries that death and life hurl in their combat.||
Helene Cixous, Coming to Writing and Other Essays (London: Harvard University Press, 1991) p. 38
Birth With No Land || 2016 Comeragh Mountains, Waterford, Ireland
||Where space doesn’t have a center and surfaces don’t exist — a continuum.||
I was born in 1986 June 17 died 2002 October 9 (clinical death) resuscitated October 10
2007 November 15 – My Mother died.
2008 – Grandmother.