Open-Air
Surgery
51°29’20.1″N 0°07’44.6″E
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Investigation reveals that nature needs assistance. Here on the footpath in daylight we see the results of some prior surgery. Curves chopped and piled. Twists abruptly sectioned. What was this treatment for? Was there a contagion? The work is left unfinished, delayed by formalities, perhaps, or a logjam in decision-making.
Peace and quiet are different things. How quiet it is here! But is it peaceful? You listen for birds but hear nothing. Chestnuts have fallen, prickly among dead leaves. Brambles spread over stumps. Twiggy heaps like intricate dropped antlers, their growth diseased, gone awry, are gathered as if for burning.
After all, perhaps there is peace here, beyond the quiet, deeper. Only, come back at night. The plans made in daylight are sterile. Come darkness you see the wild shapes rise from our roots.
Leafless, unbranching,
Until, at its very crown,
A sky-seeking hand
With sawn-off stumps of fingers,
Which will never make a fist.
Leafless, unbranching,
Until, at its very crown,
A sky-seeking hand
With sawn-off stumps of fingers,
Which will never make a fist.
Within this distressed wood, the cello’s strings twist and contort, mirroring the gnarled trees and tangled undergrowth. Percussive strikes and dissonant harmonics intertwine the creak of timber. The improvisation moves through this chaotic landscape, each note a raw drawing against the spread of decay and regeneration. Sound structures emerge from the organic disarray, a dialogue of bark and breath, life and decomposition.