Teaser Trailer #1. The Remains of She – the new Spira/Ford collaboration coming 2021!

The Remains of She.

“A journey to a childhood castle in search of ancient artefacts, healing and renewal; and a love story about to unfold which has travelled across the centuries.”

Announcing: a new art project featuring sculpture by Spira (aka the Wizard) and poem by Ford (aka the Shaman) … 2021 will be bringing you the latest collaboration from these two artists.

DoNotEnterDoNotAwake

DoNotEnterDoNotAwake

DoNotEnterDoNotAwake

A wordless “come in”. A blast of barely warm air from his cheap electric fire. She. She pulls down her mask and smiles, and he, he stutters, You… you haven’t changed a bit. She says, You… you look like shit. I’ve seen better days, he says, but now… I don’t have much time.

She says, So let’s hurry along, do you have the key? And he, though enchanted by the shanty of her azure blue eyes, turns away to a desk missing several handles, its rosewood top tattooed with time and the ringlets from tea cups, and he plucks an iron key from a stack of biros in a plastic desk tidy. And he says, The key to the castle?

She says, Yes, we should go there now. And he blinks a sole pale and blue eye and asks, Will we find treasure? She is already turning to the door when she answers, Every castle that ever was, and is, contains a treasure. 

DoNotEnterDoNotAwake

        DoNotEnterDoNotAwake

                DoNotEnterDoNotAwake


The Remains of She

Coming 2021


 

Six Sentence Stories: The Ape that could Heal

Revell Endangered Animals. 1974. US.

Greetings, vintage mates. Today I’m linking up with Denise at Girlie On The Edge Blog, where she hosts Six Sentence Stories, and the cue word today is Claim.

The Ape That Could Heal

In the mirror you see the ape, black and white, a monochrome beast of healing, standing behind you and claiming your bathroom as his consulting room.

You prey he might help strip away your grief; the daily spooking performed by ghosts who arrive as regular as commuters, subway trains, and parcelled-up self-healing books from Amazon which you always finish with disappointment.

“Wash away your pain,” says the ape, his black-olive eyes primordial, sad, gentle, elemental and kind.

You wash and you scrub and you clean and erase the sticky pain which had set itself deep inside your pores, like shellac filling the grain of mahogany tables you have no desire to ever sit at, and where patina seals over all that mattered back then, when you were young and terrified, shivering below a desk in the biology lab, while all around you lay the bodies of classmates.

Says the ape, “Keep scrubbing, and peel back those layers until you see yourself grinning, just like me…”

And all at once, the ape arches his lips and gives the most exquisite and comical grin you have ever seen, and one that causes you to reciprocate; and only then do you find, in your reflection in the mirror, you are monochrome – black and white, just like he – the ape that claimed your bathroom as a consulting room, and helped heal you with ablutions and grinning teeth.


Thank you for healing with us 🙂