Hi there, you’re receiving this because you subscribed to letters from marn, in which I write to you as I would a friend, separated by pandemic, about making art while trying to be a person. See my work on noisybeak.com and instagram: noisybeak
At our new home away from home
A lidless teapot picked off the street is now-
a pen holder.
A small piece of rectangular cardboard is now-
a ruler used to cut other cardboard.
A 16cm stainless steel pot, while still a pot, is also a rice cooker, that part-time as a teapot.
A quilt from charity shop and a friend’s gift of ripped blankets are now-
a floor cushion.
Toilet roll cardboard core is now-
a wedge between a loosely hinged door and the frame it slams on a windy night.
Pre-loved soft toys dropped off by a kind lady who runs childcare are now-
holding tight onto each other to stop draft at the door.
Packing foam on top of a chessboard on top of one half a speak stand pair are now-
collectively a TV stand.
Thinned and faded bedsheet with holes is now-
a draped bag for my husband—who, before the bag, even sweating on a warm day, insisted on wearing a thick jacket for its pockets.
The clothes unfit for charity shops redirected to me by people who frowns at landfill are now-
beakies beakies beakies beakies beakies… …
To make and be made
I could not communicate my thoughts and feelings with words.
One after another and then another, each beakie has a different personality than the one before.
If I intended to make a happy one, I could study the image of what I believe looks happy (at least to me at that moment), and break it down into a set of technical specification, and obey the rules.
But what would be the point, when on an overcast day, even a happy beakie becomes grumpy.
Each piece of fabric waste summons another, my hands follow. Previously owned by different people, collectively, these scraps reimagines life, and become beakies.
There was no need to think of an emotion to create with.
Each beakie is an individual born without expectations, without baggage, without bias.
I need to be born a beakie. Every. Single. Day.
Beakies: Nnew borns
It might be a while before I can turn my skin into fabric and joints to stitches, and me into a beakie, in the mean time, I was making them.
Guess my favorite!
Wait. Don’t. No bias.
I’m increasing the size . 4 versions before I chose one. The most anatomically accurate version was not chosen.
Books
Finally found a crack in the mind to take in words that were not generated by my own head.
My recent reads lean disaster-ish:
Read
The World of the End by Ofir Touche Gafla
It is perhaps(?) science-fiction plus bit of mystery and philosophy. Immersive world building and raised some questions about life and death, fleshed out pondering I had as a child into a novel.
Reading
Disaster Tourist by Yun Ko-Eun
‘Climate-activism’ and ‘dark tourism’ in the blurb hooked me. It started off with an interesting premise of the two ideas, but fell shockingly dull.
Radiant Terminus by Antoine Volodine
As I type I dream of finishing this letter, then, lie down on my seafoam green couch, reading about a world after a series nuclear meltdowns that teeters between dystopia and folkore/fantasy.
The Scent of Buenos Aires by Hebe Uhart
I read the first story about plants with personality. The second story about cats with personality. This collection of short stories isn’t the type with plots and arcs and blah but reads like concise observations of everyday life. It encourages me to examine my life more attentively.
Elsewhere online
Watching this made me wonder how little we know of what they know.
and why.
How facebook knows the toothpaste your mother uses
Knowing that it’s not voodoo spooks me even more.
Mortician Answers Dead Body Questions From Twitter
He talks about dead bodies like objects, helps expand the concept of life and death, just like The World of The End mentioned above.
Watch Cate Blanchett from every haunting angle
‘I love you’ said repeatedly lost it’s meaning, became a texture, much like the life of buzzwords, jargons and labels.
Hey. Thanks for sticking around.
For the last few weeks or eternity, I lacked practice in expressing my mind and no longer could as easily as I did before.
Events in the last few months inculcated in me a new habit of justifying reality in attempt to validate what I really went through and that I wasn’t going crazy. The result of which affected me. It showed even in fleeting interactions at the supermarket.
While I kept this letter honest, the concerned replies I received are mirrored the state I couldn’t see I was in.
Then, I wrote while censoring the negative emotions, but deleted as soon as I typed the empty words. Eventually, there was nothing to send.
We’re in the second week of lock-down in Melbourne, Australia. Words and beakies are budding. Let them bloom, marn