Sunday, 27 June 2010

From the Notebook of Prade the Figgis



2 August
For my own entertainment, I wept today. Shut up me for wimbling on, gasping. Afraid to bend for three days with broken, crossed-out eyes, and looking very shifty. Figgis. Merging uncertainly with columbine, spiders creepy crawling. Off with me to the lanky tree line, careful not to step upon bending grasses. How long did it take me, Prade the Figgis, whilst wallowing in the meagre satchel?


3 August
Concubine, tuft and trumpton are all good words to use when talking to grasses. It is one of life’s greatest pleasures to listen to their music and to embrace the topsy-turvy images they conjure up. Figgy me. Last night I tangled and wrangled in the emotional threads of someone else’s brain fever and now feel the need to voice my concerns, but to whom? My day undulated with the fall out and I wonder whether I should be sitting in that special space. I’m waiting for the marshes to dissipate, waiting to disappear.


5 August
I’ve been fly catching – not a pretty sight. Flummoxing around like a fool, blurting out. At odds with myself actually. On recollecting, mustering up, pre-fabricating I must hover. Poor rabbit, he drew near but only because he was dying – his nose bitten. Forgotten in a bed of thistle down. I called over to the goats and they came and kissed me – beautiful it was. They climbed up to show me their ancient horns. I touched them and wondered whether they were forever. I think so Figgis.



6 August
GĂ©rard Depardieu has also got a big nose. He blew it hard one day and I felt it from here.


8 August
Been busy. Squabbled with myself when I awoke, then thought of nothing while I filtered through soil with my fingers. I toyed with the idea of erecting a monocle until the jezebel hussy ripped through from the other side, sounding like wind whipping through ice sheets. Shivering insect rhythms. I can tell no one about this, apart from my big toe who is a very good listener. Meanwhile, a wood pigeon flew my way. He fluttered and whistled, turning at a steep angle. Seeking refuge from my gaze in nearby branches. Quite an uncanny manoeuvre I thought, I must have made him start. Flap, flap.


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Prade the Figgis, oil on board, 50 x 50 cm
... here is the Jezebel Hussy