Tough Poets Review 02
Words from Beatie Wolfe
New York / Boston 'Tough Poets Review' published excerpts from Beatie Wolfe's imPRINTING: the Artist's brain exhibition (last installed at the Boston Museum of Science) including five poems written by Wolfe as a teenager, as featured in the Inner Self brain channel. Poems/fragments include:
Time Poem by Beatie Wolfe in November 2003 (age 15)
Brain Poem by Beatie Wolfe on July 14, 2003 (age 15)
Brain Train by Beatie Wolfe in January 2005 (age 17)
On Art by Beatie Wolfe in August 2005 (age 17)
Pain by Beatie Wolfe in October 2005 (age 17)
Inner Self Fragments by Beatie Wolfe
The following excerpts have been taken from Beatie Wolfe’s ‘imPRINTING’ exhibit which was first presented at London’s Somerset House followed by a year-long installation at the Boston Museum of Science. Of the eight different brain channels, these pieces come from ‘Inner Self’ (Hippocampus area, known for encoding memory) as adolescence diary entries from Wolfe age 15 - 17.
Brain Train, January, 2005 (age 17)
My brain has turned off. Really, I'm staring at a window of black. My body never wants to move again. I think I'm now part of the chair. I have become one with it, like we are breathing together because I need it so much and it feels proud of how appreciated it is. Every inch of my body is blissfully static and relaxed. I feel as if I could live my life just on this train journey; die before I reach my destination. Or as if this moment doesn't exist, yet it is the only thing that is real, that is happening, that is Life.
Shit. I'm here. It's over.
Time Poem November, 2003 (age 15)
8.15am, no sleep
Two hours of burning, tossing
A soft white feather on a fevered sea
I've forgotten how to spell
8.30am, stay awake
The minutes sting at snail's pace
A rich thickening plod clambering lazily on
I've forgotten when time ends
8.57am, stay asleep
All houses make noises
A distant vacuumed shiver of a door
I've forgotten why I'm waiting
9.08am, wake up
Every other sedated soldier stirs
And trick the sea to calm its eyes
I've forgotten where the problem lies
9.14am, no dream
Worn hair and greasy jeans
I've forgotten how beautiful you are
Brain Poem, 14th July, 2003 (age 15)
“What time did you arrive home last night?” Drenched with fatigue, my Brain stammered, “Not too late, before the birds began.” With a stern look, the Body shook a tea cloth in front of the Brain, “Clean yourself up right now before I disown you.” The Brain stopped cowering and laughed. “Not if I disown you first.” And the Body collapsed.
On Art, August, 2005 (age 17)
God, in life, all I wanna do is create and be remembered for, or live through, those creations. Not live through them, but let them stand as signposts marking my journey and experience. You can talk and think and feel and work, essentially live, but those creations make it all worthwhile. There's an honesty in Art that's quite unequalled.
Pain, October, 2005 (age 17)
Pain can feel harsh, really brutally, mercilessly harsh. Like a cold dose of unsanitized emotion. What a way to bring you back to reality. Pain is insane in its power to affect yet it is only harmful to the person when its cry is silenced and suffocated. Pain restricts sanity if it's denied because you're living with the biggest lie that you're above human emotion, that you are a God who can use the mind to deal with pain rather than the heart. There is no logical way around pain. It simply needs to be felt, to be acknowledged in all its weakness. There is a beautiful strength of honesty there. I wonder if writing is an adequate method of dealing with or expressing pain. It seems to be the easiest. I don't need to be brave anymore. I have nothing to prove to anyone. I'm human and I bleed.