phoene-somsavath
Phoene Somsavath
Some stuff I write and photograph. Some music I make.
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COEUR DE PEINE : My recent music podcast dedicated to women in music / female-identifying / non-binary artists...
LISTEN TO ‘COEUR DE PEINE’ HERE : http://soundcloud.com/coeur-de-peine
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I made the trailer music for ‘Les Héros Ne Meurent Jamais’, directed by Aude Léa Rapin, starring Adèle Haenel, Jonathan Couzinié and Antonia Buresi
Watch the trailer here : https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LW0EsVWuIF4
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Radiant
I have been
knowing
so little
the
dimensions of desire
shape of your shape and my shape
embodiment of the triumph
kissing my cheeks
the
progeny of this very instant
It is all fleeting
fluctuating
scene / scenery / spectacle
streams of my consciousness
yet
Joy gratifying love beam irradiant
I let go of
the fears of past
the anxieties of the day
and hereafter
the
progeny of this very instant
gleaming
oscillating
between today
‘when I was a child’
and yesterday
‘once, I was a child
so little’
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Link
The track ‘I Was A Fool’ was playlisted by SAMA (Scottish Alternative Music Awards) for their July selection. It is part of an EP I released under a new music project called ‘L’ECHO DE L’ETANG’
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Video
vimeo
Inadequation # 1 - a video essay
She smokes. She stares at the webcam, looking for a familiar face, a familiar gaze. Who is contemplating what?
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Brothersister
He is a different type of Cherub
corrupt
Handsome,
he knows without knowing
Indolent to the throes
of the Machiavellian ;
aware of time
the capsule of
the greatest saddening, cringe memories
– he uses this word a lot,
impossible to capture, to own
even for the ones who do not know
there is
more
to it
more to come
The uneventful is the patient form of hopeful
His curls should know better,
as they grow, slowly invading
and plundering the expression of
bewilderment
that shows on his face
There is more to it
more to come
His present hesitating footsteps will take him
to the most certain places soon
everywhere it is possible,
where everything is possible for a Man
in his early twenties
to experiment
The plurality of sex and love
outside of the sweaty clubs of Berlin
in the intimacy of a bare room instead
A room
with walls singing sighs and laments
howling
like lady foxes in the dark night
Be patient, 'brother'
be brave, ‘sister'
– you're both to me
Be gentle and kindness
For the mother figure :
she loves you on her terms
You love her back on your own terms, too
Terms, they're not a mere partnering dance
It is how you intend them to fit in,
and the space between them,
term after term
between your pain and her pain
How the words, the letters and their sacrifice
stammered
often coming across shushed as they appear
make the good terms
They originate from
(SELF)-LOVE
ahead now
Be brother, be sister,
be son
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Copland Place
I woke up before my usual noon that day, like normal people do. It requires a small amount of effort stretching on short minutes, to reclaim collectedness after the qualm, the haziness of the dreams I didn't dream last night. To feel normal again in the absence of their vivid imprint, lessened of the perplexity ensuing the memory of a good or a bad dream. 'Shh, that was just a dream. You can go back to your normal life'. The abstraction of remembrance, then the reassuring sensation of a ground beneath our feet. Still abstract, but it's an intelligible sensation. I didn't dream last night, or the nights before. Now, what is reality, what is normal?
This situation is nothing but normal. Look at me with my reverse normality, deluding myself to think I am part of something I never wanted to be in the first place. The realm of reality. Transfigured and enduring the counterfeit that I am more free than others in the world, content with this new routine of mine, the fiction I have newly fabricated. The once late now early bird — the pendulum has not yet clocked eight, vain and supposedly full-eyed, making the most of the matinal sun while it’s there, while it lasts. The lavish sunny days in Glasgow are rare, spoiled in lockdown, thus anticipated with substantial affection each day, one after another.
Those are my days and perhaps your days. We’re in lockdown so fuck it. It feels like each second is the first breath of the last, contingent on the time expiring with a diligent slowness and precision. Second after second, breath after breath, feeling more or less alive with my quiet resolutions, amongst the living and the sample of nature seen from a bedroom window.
The back garden longs for the lonesome ones, desperate to escape the quietude of their tenement house ; the ones who despite or because of their solitude would feel appreciation and gratitude for the communal bit of green, the non luxuriant aspect it was given, allowing room for future objects to be amassed, and for the possibility of their absence too. Those who feel lonely do they not feel alive and somehow even more lonely, enclosed by the spring grass just enough moistened by what remains of morning dew. There's no one in the garden that day apart from me.
The picnic table that seats in the middle is a very ordinary one. But it’s a table and that’s about right. It doesn’t need to be more than that, other than being a picnic table. Adjectives would be lies. A wooden vintage clambake table, hah. It would look equally ordinary in the silent setting. In this garden that looks like any other gardens, yet in a different way. Precisely because of that picnic table placed where it is, looking the way it is, being what it is. Indeed, that's what makes it beautiful. That's what makes its uniqueness. That makes it extraordinary, its truth. Unuttered, like a secret well-kept between lovers.
Perched on the bench facing the sun, I smoke the first of many cigarettes which come to punctuate yet another day. With the minor — utmost minuscule actions, the fleeting thoughts, the inane thinking, the sentiments rousing by proxy. They stir and extirpate my body from the stiffness of a dead moth*. And my brain is a steam locomotive overreaching its share of desired and undesired stimuli, catching up with the necessities.
I start looking closer at the plants my flatmate carefully disposed. Randomly, at other times. The plants she has rescued and grows with devotion, looking after them with the same patience when one loves. I look at the found chairs, some of them missing their legs. They're chairs singled out from a fate of abandonment, for here they're seen. And this is not just a table, or a garden. I realize this is not a simple reality. It is the reality I want to build my narrative around. I suddenly notice at the beauty of stillness, finding momentum of hope when it's there. I notice at all the intentions that had been put into this garden, the time it took, the kindness it took. Those are the necessities.
I ponder the constant revisions of views ; the decisions made as days pass, that change over the course of this present of ours ; and the future amputated of its limbs, of its haecceity and quiddity, further and further ahead. It no longer belongs to us the way it used to. It has slipped through our fingers, like the silver sand of Camusdarach’s beach. I think about love and humanity, I think about death and humanity. The beauty of the universe. The fear of the unknown. The solace of the unknown. The ugliness of the millions ways all this will end eventually. Life, civilization. At least we’ll be in peace, sans the tyrant drumbeats of a police state. Liberated from the vehement contestation and greater of a vociferous despise for a system of superstructures uncapable of promising love. At last, there will be love, outside the pain caused by the incompetence from above.
I like to read, sunbathing in the living-room through the bow window. It brings me comfort, the nonchalance of those days spent nevertheless with avididty and a sense of urgency. I read anything that could possibly pique a frantic intellect or provide distraction of some sort. The thin frontier between leisure and learning blurs. 'What do I know?' Does it matter to know when our small world is collapsing? We — the idiotic witnesses who scrutinize existence as it turns into nothingness, a mere concept doomed to be a novel form of antiquity. The eulogized nothingness. Where it all started from.
I meditate on Prufrock’s words echoing through the chirping of the birds, wishing they were cicadas instead, transporting me to the south of France where sun beats harder. Let us go then, you and I**.
I feel content and that’s enough. What else that I know matters?
----
Notes :
* In 1941, Virginia Woolf wrote the essay 'The Death of the Moth', published a year after she committed suicide by drowning.
** 'The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock' is a poem written by T.S. Eliot, opening with the words 'Let us go then, you and I'.
Many thanks to Caroline, Alba, Janin, Tyler, Zita, Seb, Kim, Becky, and to my family for being here. With love, Phoene.
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