Plants grow in all sorts of ways. Sometimes it is because we plant them. Sometimes they grow without our intervention.
If words can plants seeds in our minds then how do we make mind seeds grow.These plants that are ripped out so violently from pruned gardens are so bad-ass.
They are defiant. They travel by all means available in their environment. They withstand the conditions they are subjected to and they grow.
I don’t want my words to grow like the ones in the pruned garden.
Those gardens are predictable and plain.
I want my words to grow wild like weeds. I want my words to be swept up in whispers like dandelions.
I want my words to be defiant.
So when you walk through my garden it will be unpredictable and strange.
I write the words on the window panes of my old studio. A place far from me now. I know the words have faded. It was the nature of the light to draw out, to suck in all it could, including the ink that could be wiped away just as easily.
sunlight over time can draw up ink
Water over time can cut through rock
Knowledge over time can split dimensions
The light helped the seeds grow.
Maybe i just need to find a way that makes my writing grow if you shed light on it.
"Collected plants, and teabags. Things I encounter on a daily basis. They are organic. They can be dissolved into paper. The paper will make a book. The book will be buried.
Maybe the seeds from some plants will grow. it will only be known once the paper is planted. Maybe it will grow. Maybe it won’t. Do I want to be more intentional about what grows. Where does intention go.
A Book to Grow
Handwritten and handmade.
This book will be read aloud once. At the end of the recitation it will be clothed. The clothing will conceal it.The book exists in a PDF version. The PDF is encrypted. The code will not be provided.
IQRA_The recitation will take place on Friday at 10h30. It will be streamed live on Instagram account @hafiza_asm. The live stream will be deleted immediately after the reading.
Its form is familiar but not simply fitting. The pages are not worn out and yet they have a feeling of being touched so much that it actually accumulated strength. The paper is heavy. As heavy as the weight of wanting to know what’s inside. Because inside the paper is tiny bumps like pregnant bellies of the earth.
These seeds are unsure of myself and the fragile paper. But the words on the paper make me sure of myself. It is asking me something that I cannot grasp at once. It speaks so perfectly to me that I must revisit it. And I have to revisit it again and again, until all my life has bled into the air and I am no longer there. No longer in the words on the page and now with the words in the age in my skin. And I will grow, remembering my belly of comforting red, when blood didn’t mean trauma. I will understand the words more and more and yet these are wishes. When will I have a chance to burry it. Let it grow. When I cannot grow without it. When will I be buried, to let the life I lived grow into a wild untamed grave of gardens.