In the Ink Dark
where the desert meets the sea, where the cloud drowns the forest,
where the mountain meets the mist,
I lay down chalk
We are here.
Here, in Peterborough, in a cottage. Chauffeurs’ cottage. A place where lives were and are, lived.
We are here. Here, between river and cathedral. We are here, searching. Here making.
Wandering and waiting.
Here, with some rememberings. Fluid bodies, some-things coming to surface.
These forceful objects.
We are making, a beginning, a new work.
Informed by this place, these places of reflection, these spaces for gathering and sharing, wisdoms for living.
We are here to dance and to talk and to laugh, to listen and to play and to touch, gently on what might go unnoticed.
We are Luke and Kitty and Rob.
And Janice and Kate. And Ben.
We are In the Ink Dark, on the edge of a precipice, the beginning of this new dance.
We are here to share, to talk and to listen with people in this particular place.
To dance for the things they have loved and lost.
We are searching, for handfuls of words, that might just touch
Those things.
And those words, those lives lived become part of this dance, this installation, this living poem.
A space for reflection, a moving, impermanent collection. In celebration of time and place, of people and moment.
A re-remembering, a choreography of connection.
A live, act.
These details and disturbances, these voices and visits, all these ways of witnessing, with words and when words fail, with dances.
Are amplifications of empathy,
(little) Political acts of Love.
