Having recently moved to Totnes in South Devon, after eight lovely years of exploring Berkshire and the environs of Reading, I soon realised that it is impossible to stroll down Totnes high street without being magnetically drawn to almost every single shop window. Unlike most high streets in the UK, Totnes is unspoilt by chain stores and chain coffee shops and offers an impressive breadth of consumer experience against a backdrop of old-world charm. What is also noticeable is the art – predominantly local artists are given window space in all manner of venues, from high-end clothes boutiques and dinky art shops to old-school barber’s shops and even the local butcher’s. And this is how I discovered the work of Lucie Smailes. A casual glance into a shop window and it was love at first sight! Staring out at me through the glass was a doll lamp constructed of doll limbs attached with chains to a torso made of a black tin box. She had pretty plastic flowers in her hair, a perfect Barbie face and deliciously deformed arms and feet. It was a vision of cuteness entangled with the grotesque, an object of beauty dusted with horror. It was everything within the world of art that appeals to me aesthetically and academically. Casually glancing into the neighbouring shop window my heart skipped another beat – gazing upward my eyes fell upon a glittering chandelier made with hanging hand mirrors! I have always loved the image of a hand mirror. For me it is evocative of fairy tales, mermaids and miniature doll paraphernalia – a motif of the feminine, a symbol of narcissism and the allure of beauty. Then, glancing downward, I saw another hand mirror with a pair of chubby doll’s arms reaching outward from the glass – adorable.

I was so enamoured with the art and so surprised to find an artist who appears to share my passion for freakish, surreal doll art that I wrote down the artist’s contact details and set about researching her more. I was not disappointed. Her website was packed full of all manner of twisted taxidermy creations, assemblage art, doll art and pieces alluding to the weird, wonderful and perverse. What also excited me were the titles of her pieces – some sexually explicit, shockingly rude and tantalisingly controversial. Viewing her art alongside these daring titles created a unique kind of magic in my mind and I began to write poetry inspired by the descriptions of the artwork alongside the art itself. And once I started my pen didn’t stop. The poetry wrote itself, as though some invisible mind was concocting story and verse at just a cursory glance at a stuffed fox, doll-head arcade machine, box of plastic limbs or sexually explicit title.

A number of weeks later and I had an entire book’s worth of Lucie inspired poetry. It was a fantastic creative ride – all manner of thoughts and insights flooded my imagination…from the myth of Jesus to romantic encounters from my past, from feminist anguish to defence of the exquisite experience of femininity, from love and desire to the accompanying sorrows of loss and loneliness. And throughout it all lurks the enduring theme of childhood. I have always been aware of the psychoanalytic component of my writing – for we are all walking echoes of our infancy, doomed as adults to perpetually chase after or run from the shadows of our formative years. And that is what attracts me to Lucie’s art – the symbiotic interplay between the motifs of childhood and raw, adult sexuality – a Freudian fusion of fantasy, family and fear wrapped in fur or pouting cherry lips.

I love the wild freedom of writing – how the unrestricted manipulation of language can construct meaning from the mire of lived experience. And I love the added component of incorporating art and image. Ekphrastic poetry (a description of a work of art) can add a deeper dimension to the power of the written word – can create new interpretations of an image, and thus construct new and multiple meanings. For me Lucie’s artwork provides a rich smorgasbord of inspiration and I revelled in the process of closely examining her work whilst weaving poetic narratives on myriad themes. Sometimes the ‘story’ was predominantly title led, other times it was one object or one image that sparked an idea. But always the end aim was the same: to craft a poem that represented something meaningful or thought provoking achieved through an interplay of my own personal philosophies, battles and experiences together with the images in Lucie’s work.

Upon writing a complete set of poems I then decided to create a prototype for a book, which I then sent to Lucie, in the hopes that she would approve and possibly agree to working with me on future collaborative projects. To my delight she loved the concept of the book and following on from a quick introductory chat over coffee one sunny morning in Totnes, we have become good friends. The book is currently in the works and due out sometime in December. We are also in the preliminary stages of planning a pop-up exhibition in Totnes which will be a wonderful experience – hopefully my poetry adding an extra dimension to Lucie’s fantastical work. Thus far my new life in Devon has been fun in so many ways and surprisingly fruitful poetically.

For more information on the work of Lucie Smailes please visit her website: https://luciesmailes.wordpress.com/

For a sample of some of my Ekphrastic poetry please visit here.

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A short science fiction story.

 

 

Written Language Recognition Code Inserted Here: {                            } /Archaic English/

This is the final archival summary report logged from the last space centre still functioning on Earth

The last generation of us: EBHSU (earth-born Homo sapiens unmodified) are soon to depart Earth – to experience Star Sight for ourselves

We are destined for: MACS0647-JD

Feasibility of reaching destination: unknown

Arrival date: unknown

8,196,320 returners remain asleep: location: 50 miles beneath this location

A few radical EBHSU’s remain – inhabiting forest, jungle and desert

Earth date: unknown

Summary Report:

The first test reports came back inconclusive. Lab experiments on such a limited scale could never anticipate or even hypothetically assess the psychological, biological, even existential effects of long term hibernation. So the first expeditions within our solar system were the first catalogued experiences. 5 years in pod sleep was sufficient to know that the human body did not take well to it. Bone density and muscle mass were severely depleted and it took months of intense physical training to return to a sense of normality, to a state of pre-hibernation health. But nobody expected the dreams. What happens to the brain when it is suspended? Do the multi-trillion neurological networks just remain in stasis? Is memory simply frozen? Where does the mind…go? Scientists couldn’t predict what would happen. It was a risk. A risk the first voyagers had to take. A risk we had to take collectively.

The first voyagers returning on the 10 year space missions all reported strange dreaming experiences, even those who had previously never recalled their dreams. Vivid recollections of childhood and adult memories fused with events that occurred throughout their lifetime and before. Nothing too strange until in their recovery period they reported dreaming of the pod dreams, as though some part of their unconscious minds were processing the 10 years of brain activity as the body froze in induced artificial sleep. Some maintained that it was a consequence of the drugs that kept the human body alive, barely. Others speculated it was a consequence of the suspension liquid. It was hard to fully comprehend it all. The technology had suddenly made it all possible, one equation by one rogue biologist and the rest just followed. There just hadn’t been time to test it. And, of course, time itself was the thing needing to be tested.

The 50 year missions reported the same, but those voyagers seemed more unsettled, more disturbed by their hibernation recollections. Some also reported sensory changes. Smell and taste sensations had been dulled, and in other ways heightened. The scientists did their tests, made their calculations, but were unable to account for the phenomenon. At this point the experiences of hibernation were just minor side effects, a small price to pay for one of the most significant breakthroughs in all human endeavour. But once the missions began going further afield the side effects became more startling. Upon waking the voyagers reported acutely vivid ‘visions’. Some described the experience as floating, some felt they transcended the physical enclosure of the pod, others felt that they had travelled deeper inside themselves. Perhaps the brain tuned in on itself, created new neural networks, explored deeper enclaves of memory, thought and human cognisance. The science offered only speculation. The science only revealed our still limited knowledge of the human self…of where the ‘I’ lurks, of the separating lines between thought and matter, being and physical embodiment. Besides, despite all the questions, speculations and philosophy – physical survival was the only aspect of suspended life that truly interested anyone, was the only thing, ultimately, that mattered. That was until the 100 year missions were successful – then everybody started paying attention. Brief notes made on the voyagers’ post hibernation experiences and their ‘revival adjustment’ became long transcripts, and the long transcripts turned into entire books…page after page of vision, testimony, lived experience, recollection upon recollection sometimes bordering on the supernatural, sometimes incoherently surreal, sometimes undecipherable as though what had been encountered could not be put into words, perhaps some things, new things, were simply beyond the parameters of known language, beyond the tongued walls of known articulation. Some of the returners, unable to verbally articulate their dreams, chose to paint, creating spectacular visual forms. Some assembled enormous representations of unrecognisable regions of the universe. Imaginative dream-fabrications perhaps, perhaps not. Other images were impossible to understand – swathes of colour, twisted nebulae, swirling constellations, undocumented stellar forms, strange symbols and undecipherable mathematical equations.

And then everything was made public. Wild hypotheses were constructed. Some of the old religious zealots came out of the brickwork, resurrected the buried myths, dusted off the discarded texts that once blindly led man through millennia – led him through the misery of countless wars and eventually forced him to battle through his barbarism and come out the other side. Wiser, freer, knowingly alone and still as lost. Then, as before, religion lost its way, was outgrown…and the gods once again were laid to rest.

Once the 300 year missions were successful, people on the ground became more curious. New generations set to work attempting to decipher the dreaming experiences reported by the voyagers. New sciences sprung up, new theories invented. Patterns were emerging which were painstakingly decrypted by the new generation of computers. The old dreams of AI were cast aside, once these new machines had captured the collective imagination. New ways of thinking and living developed – civilisation continually evolving with the passing seasons. By the time the 500 year missions returned the focus of humanity changed. The old interests died a natural death, a small number continued their passions – their creativity and intellect still focused on the earth, still rooted to the old ways, but mostly the eyes of man were turned upward…wondering how far we could go…how long the human body could survive – drifting, suspended, unconscious. As the climate changed, worsened, the majority of survivors left – taking the hopes of man to new worlds.

Centuries came and went. Fewer people born, more leaving, the earth gradually repairing itself. The great cities of the world crumbled to towns, then deteriorated further to villages populated by clans who mainly lived surrounding the space centres – carefully constructed structures designed to send out new pods and receive returners over the ages. Eventually the ruination of cities crumbled away leaving little sign of the grand buildings, towers and dwelling houses that once littered the land. For those left, existence on earth was the best it had ever been. War, illness, politics, the divisive scourge of countries, race and nationalism, divergent and conflicting human endeavours, currencies, and the fight over resources – all became remote history. The richness of the natural world returned to a bountiful state prior to the crises of the 22nd century. The fauna of the planet largely went unobserved and undisturbed – left to run its own evolutionary course. And everything human became driven by one desire – to reach ever further into the universe, and in so doing learn more about the workings of the human brain in deep pod hibernation.

The very concept of time radically altered too – it had to. And with the shifting of time came a major shift in the very concept of being human. Individuality lost its meaning, the personal and temporal lost its allure, communities changed, the concept of family vanished, the limits of one lifetime expanded to encompass multiple centuries and beyond. The panic of death was overcome with the overcoming of isolated oneness. This was a by-product of the returners’ dream experiences. Consciousness itself continuously redefined itself – perpetually expanded with the insights accumulated from ‘Star Sight’, because ultimately that was what it was: seeing the stars. Some, however, argued it was not space and stars the voyagers saw but the vast internal geography of the human mind. Some philosophers argued they were one and the same – that the ancient Cartesian divisions existed on a grander scale – a scale encompassing the very possibility of infinity, of multiple universes.

After the 10,000 year missions returned humanity’s project shifted again. The desire man once had – to exist in multiple solar systems, to inhabit multiple planets had been achieved, and later down the line, lost its appeal. The project of being then became directed singularly toward Star Sight – to travel vast interstellar distances purely to experience longer and deeper expanding (un)consciousness, with no other agenda. For countless centuries the visions and experiences of those who returned were deciphered, analysed, picked apart any way possible – and then reassembled with the perpetual reworking of the craft once known as science. Until it all came to a sudden end. Past 10,000 years the mind seemed to close down – the stories, pictures, descriptions, philosophies and myriad artistry created by the returned travellers lessened. For a while panic set in. The first new returners came back blind and deaf, until at 10,500 years their bodies came back to earth silent and motionless, but still alive. The space centres decided to connect the hibernating minds to the largest computers ever built – in an attempt to understand what the returners were experiencing, in an attempt to reach them, revive them.

At 10,500 years of hibernation the human body, it was concluded, finally reached its limit. Beyond this the perpetual stillness and immobility seemed to pacify the flesh – make limb, bone, cell and gene – redundant, obsolete. Yet the mind continued, and still needed a warm home to thrive in, still needed a host to feed and sustain it. And what the vast technological brain of the computers churned out was, ultimately, undecipherable. The only conclusion possible was that Star Sight had grown beyond the comprehension of earth-bound thought. Some analysts thought there was movement in the black silent screens, some detected obscure sounds, some were convinced they felt something strange move within them as they gazed into the dark abyss. And some thought, radically, that the darkness, at times, was actually omitting light.

Unlike most voyagers born on other worlds who either volunteered to return to Earth for research purposes or who felt psychologically compelled to return ‘home’, these computer-connected returners never woke up – never regained conventional consciousness. So they were put away, held in pod-tombs beneath the surface of the earth – left to dream their dark dreams with flesh still warm and hearts still beating. Occasionally they were looked upon…the suspension fluid keeping their bodies in stasis – the rot and decay of time kept at bay just enough for their brains to go on existing. And the computers, however long the scientists stared, never gave back any clues. The detachment – of brain from body, mind from matter, once a dream desired by many, was never possible. Without a beating heart the machinations of the mind slowly go out – a flicker of light finally extinguished.

Despite the distances reached by the voyagers, no evidence of other life forms have been detected, this remains a catastrophic disappointment. We always hoped others were out there. Some returners claim to have had mysterious encounters but tangible evidence remains elusive. The colonised planets sustain pockets of life established by us – orchestrated by the endless stream of voyagers who found inhabitable zones and executed the protocols to establish sustainable life. Some offspring of the voyagers, born of extricated and modified DNA, chose not to experience Star Sight – chose instead to live out their days on other planets reviving the habits of their distant ancestors. Talking in old dialects, using the old tools, reliving the old rituals of birth and death seamlessly stitched together with that one enduring human trait that never quite disappeared – biological desire. But most of man drifted out to sea – alive, sleeping, on rustless, ageless ships pulled by the gravity of myriad planets, moons and stars – achieving man’s enduring aim that was with us from the very start – for Star Sight has given us, not a detachment from blood and bone, not just other worlds to call home – but cognitive immortality.

I saw it first by accident through the rain-blotted lens of my binoculars. I was reluctantly watching Oystercatchers on the behest of my partner when to my sheer delight (because buildings are far more interesting than birds!) I noticed a square shape on the horizon. Almost entirely swallowed up by cloud I could just make out a ruined mansion and beside it another hollowed out structure. I gasped – the last thing I expected to see on the northern edge of North Uist was a romantic spectacle such as this. I eagerly consulted the map and there it was as if out of a Tolkien wonderland: Vallay.

According to some frantic researching I did via the sporadic phone signal, the Baronial residence I could see through the binoculars was built in 1902 by Erskine Beveridge, a Scottish textile manufacturer, historian and photographer who passed the house onto his son. His son, however, drowned and from there the trail of Vallay House goes quiet. So, with my imagination at full throttle and with a few days left of our holiday we decided to check the following day’s tides and attempt the walk to the island.

So the next day we set off from the boggy edge of the strand – a seemingly infinite stretch of sand disappearing into mist – sometimes giving way to sparkling slivers of stream and tidal current. Because of the height of the water it seemed impossible to do the walk other than in bare foot and so we began our fast-paced and slightly nervous walk across. Our toes were numb from the icy water, but the hard sand felt lovely and it was wonderfully soothing to plod here and there through stream and river…interesting too to trace the movement of the tide…a rare chance to actually be in the midst of lunar gravity. This really was a thrilling experience as the weather seemed to throw everything at us at 5 minute intervals. First it was bright blue skies and dazzling sunshine, next ferocious wind and battering hail – downpours that whipped your skin turning clothes to rivers in seconds. In the Outer Hebrides soggy clothes and wind-whip are close companions.

Passing little islets and large stones covered in slippery seaweed and barnacles, the island, still engulfed by billows of cloud, drew ever closer. As if by magic as soon as we reached the edge of Vallay the sun made a brief but dazzling appearance. Eager to get exploring before the bad weather returned, I hobbled across the pebbles and weeds and once on the island I raced toward the Gothic ruin. The path leading up to it was dramatic in itself – the entrance had two turreted stone structures either side with an old farm gate half-open. I felt like a heroine in a Gothic novel racing up the path to meet her secret lover! Usually derelict buildings are boarded up and surrounded by fences and barriers – but not Vallay House. The doorways and window hollows were open and if one dared it was possible to go inside – to move among the broken walls, bits of fallen-in roof and general damage and detritus. I didn’t dare. The rain returned and so I circled the building – swooning and sighing and taking as many photos as I could. Parts of the old fireplaces were still intact, as were the original tiles and bits of coloured wall. I was devastated and enthralled in equal measure – what a tragedy to let such a beautiful building fall into disrepair, yet there is something so alluring about the process of decay. I felt like an intruder, a voyeur spying on something in the final throes of dying.

We only had an hour or so to explore the island until the tides would start coming in. So we briefly explored the other buildings and generally enjoyed being there on Vallay – entirely alone – surrounded by water, rock and carpets of entangled Machair. Given more time we would have explored the pristine stretch of beach we could see over the verge of a rolling hill. Given more time I would have lingered more in and around Vallay House. Reluctantly we made our way back across the strand, turning every so often to see the island grow ever smaller and bury itself ever deeper into the clouds. Visiting Vallay was the highlight of my trip to Scotland, an unexpected hidden jewel, and a place I hope to return to again and again.