Krissie Ireland


KkK Krissie Ireland Withywind Its leaves like stretched hearts; profuse, strangulating bunting, choking life from everything it thoughtlessly, sightlessly gropes. The whitest of white deflowering flowers grow along the delusive vine. Surprised, she finds her foot is caught. Slowly it turns blue. The danger noted yet strangely captivating, she remains, perversely marvelling at her own hastening decay. A sour smell permeates the moist green birthed by summer showers. Lingering, its source, the sloughing of skin, slain as tendrils tighten, remains a mystery; an insidious bouquet: this intimate perfume, immediately earth’s presumption. Its virulent impact sets her searching for the source of its nourishment, seeking the seeds of its origin she is further entwined. Moving spasmodically, painfully aware that by its very nature the search, a precursor to loss, changes the place most diligently sought. Something else is found. The first sign is warmth. She is faced with a heap; it seems like an eruption from the ground, a mighty molehill – but is not – it exudes heat. She pushes her fingers into its interior, then her hand, then her arm up to her shoulder, reaching to find its core. Her cheek rests against the crumbling surface of the heap. As she blinks this causes more to dislodge and become airborne; points of brilliance momentarily illuminated by the fading sunlight, seemingly without purpose or pattern, they go… somewhere. She cannot help but listen, taste and smell. The orifices of ear, mouth and nose, so close to the gently undulating mass, cause her to worry about invasion. She becomes charmed by the notion that to be invaded will bring about a feast. The heap offers nourishment but it is a reciprocal process. Her dilapidated frame, a source of discomfort, and disgust, begins to disperse. It is a downfall, an undoing and yet is not even remotely Sisyphean. This is a salvaging where nothing is washed or wasted, and whereby she nourishes the heap. It becomes difficult to distinguish where she ends and the heap begins. The malign plant, which found nourishment and nurture in the heap, can no longer keep a grip on her unstable form. She becomes part of the plant, its stretched-heart leaves, its whiter than white ruinous flowers, but also she does not. She is the plant and is not the plant. And at last she is free…

KkK

Krissie Ireland

Withywind

Its leaves like stretched hearts; profuse, strangulating bunting, choking life from everything it thoughtlessly, sightlessly gropes.

The whitest of white deflowering flowers grow along the delusive vine. Surprised, she finds her foot is caught. Slowly it turns blue.

The danger noted yet strangely captivating, she remains, perversely marvelling at her own hastening decay. A sour smell permeates

the moist green birthed by summer showers. Lingering, its source, the sloughing of skin, slain as tendrils tighten, remains a mystery;

an insidious bouquet: this intimate perfume, immediately earth’s presumption. Its virulent impact sets her searching for the source

of its nourishment, seeking the seeds of its origin she is further entwined.

Moving spasmodically, painfully aware that by its very nature the search, a precursor to loss, changes the place most diligently sought.

Something else is found. The first sign is warmth. She is faced with a heap; it seems like an eruption from the ground, a mighty molehill – but

is not – it exudes heat. She pushes her fingers into its interior, then her hand, then her arm up to her shoulder, reaching to find its core.

Her cheek rests against the crumbling surface of the heap. As she blinks this causes more to dislodge and become airborne; points of brilliance

momentarily illuminated by the fading sunlight, seemingly without purpose or pattern, they go… somewhere.

She cannot help but listen, taste and smell. The orifices of ear, mouth and nose, so close to the gently undulating mass, cause her to worry

about invasion. She becomes charmed by the notion that to be invaded will bring about a feast. The heap offers nourishment but it is a

reciprocal process. Her dilapidated frame, a source of discomfort, and disgust, begins to disperse. It is a downfall, an undoing and yet is

not even remotely Sisyphean. This is a salvaging where nothing is washed or wasted, and whereby she nourishes the heap. It becomes

difficult to distinguish where she ends and the heap begins. The malign plant, which found nourishment and nurture in the heap, can no

longer keep a grip on her unstable form. She becomes part of the plant, its stretched-heart leaves, its whiter than white ruinous flowers,

but also she does not. She is the plant and is not the plant. And at last she is free…