The Archaeology of Hope was launched on the winter solstice of 2016, with an invitation to a game that culminated on the summer solstice of 2017. This book is a catalogue of the results of the game, and a record of the exhibition and performance ritual that sprang from it.
The catalogue may be ordered through Lulu. A free PDF of the catalogue is also available.
For Paul Cowell,
September 21, 2014
Collage by Janice Hathaway
My drummer is my conscious
Floating silently along a bed of roses.
Good morning sweetie, it’s going to be a glorious day,
Skinned with a rough bark-like substance impervious to weather.
Because of gun shots and thunder
Once the sound of my drum catches their attention they cannot keep their feet on the ground,
giving rise to the notion of the flying dog.
A large swan that uses her beak to drum.
I was in seventh heaven when my drummer found me.
Ringing, rat-a-tat-ting with little fluttering notes that fade away slowly.
The horrors of the war, the whispers of the leaves, the roll of the waves.
Their hearing is so astute they can hear the smallest flutters as a shout for attention.
When pinned down and catapulted off into the night sky.
discharging melon seeds to miners
whose eye balls dilate with darkness. Chimpanzee historians
recite stanzas until ting tong tones tell tales of the aftermath of digestive organs
as if there were worms crawling about.
Meanwhile, belts of bells, bullets, boxes…bobby pins, bags…
An excellent debacle ensues
Sancoset series given a name
On the ashes of imagined signs
In the lethargy of firm ropes of “miracle gro”
We sprout hearing buds and exercises of listening.
There are fragments of rose thorns and crystal reflections on your face
You have touched and been touched by the loud chorus of artifact,
a scattered memory with legs and floating in steel.
Random tongues of razors and mortar
Gave a lingering presence like perfum
Leaning towards golf with loose fitted coral balls.
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