Martin Jordan
artist
artist
The dancing statue from Cuenca
Some time has passed. I must have nodded off. The yellow doors are smaller than I remembered and the cathedral into which they led has disappeared. Perhaps it’s been demolished. It did look rather derelict on the outside. It’s always like that when I’ve been away from somewhere for a while, things looking different to the way I remember them. Some of it is real change but a lot is distortion of memory. The yellow doors now open into a kind of vestibule, a place where I can meditate for a while, decide whether to go home or continue my journey. The path beyond leads to whatever happens next.
The flying farmer
I can see the scene now, the road above the abyss with that fossil fish locked forever in the ground, saddened by the loss of her beloved companion. In the heavens above hangs her ephemeral sky brother with the moon in his eye, created by unusual localised weather conditions over the coming few days and on into the weekend when we can expect some more rain.
Lucid dream
There’s such delirious pleasure in memory, it can be like malarial fever at its most benign and extravagant. Nostalgia is sometimes so intense it can become unendurable. Torture almost. I keep chasing it away, afraid it might consume me.
I’ll walk up the hill where I can watch the sun set over the plain.
I’m fully lucid now. I know this is merely a dream and as such, a thing of little consequence. But I’m treasuring it for its sublime serenity, knowing it won’t last long. They never do last long, the best things.
I reckon it will snow by midnight. The early hours will be full of twittering candle-lit ghosts.
