Tom Moulsdale

Im now 31 and;  ‘’Do not ask me who I am’’ says Foucault. When becoming more vocal in the lessons I've learned people are gonna assume stuff,  get hung up on the highlights of my enthusiasm  as if they’re my entirety, as if i can express my full self in a half hour talk,  or share the wide expenses of coast that is my journey in this life so far in a two hour walk as if anyone could. ‘’Do not ask me to remain the same’’ says Foucault. Any labels will be a tool,  will be a challenge to any divisions you can come up with will shift like the march winds, whenever the pin of your glancing gaze tries to land. To become this wise you have to make many mistakes. I am a minor, lazy trickster,  lovingly hypocritical,  questioning to my core,  to my detriment maybe, definitely a fault in this capitalist system  but it’ll be worth it probably,  it usually has been.  ‘’the only constant truth is change’’ says another. Butler, oh wisest, oh wonder of liberation,  be with me when the nerves of confrontation,  disable my baby-enby expression of all that is true for me now. ‘’Bi ann, bi liom’’ an all the rest says the bard O’Snodaigh In a language that says more than any of these english words  ever could. I will no longer be alone in a world of wounds,  ecological wisdom is rising in the reconnecting, we will all cry together now,  when the one last blackbird singing outside my window right now dies. Laugh together when a large tortoiseshell butterfly drifts over, out of the past I will question anything that creates division  I will question anything that creates division I will question anything that creates division I will be a sanctuary for the growing herd of scapegoats I will be a sanctuary for the growing herd of scapegoats I will be a sanctuary for the growing herd of scapegoats

My zine is ready for sharing! It's been a lovely distracting side quest since Winter solstice and has created a little ecology of its own in my head with all the people who have helped me get it printed, So thankyou to @squashliverpool who let me use their scanner device to digitise it 🌸 And to @moeritherium who went into the digital realm and formatted (is this the right word) it all for me🌼 And then to @crookedneckprint who gave me a wad of A3 paper and held a beautiful zine workshop where I met the amazing @thewanderin_library too and learned many things such as how to use your pants as a floatation device if stranded at sea🌊 And finally to the @circularartsnetworklcr who spent ages communing with a printer and finally persuaded them to spew out about 50 copies of my zine. This organisation is doing incredible things and has opened my awareness to the arty community of Birkenhead 🏵️ Im planning to sell them on a sliding scale/donation basis to fund an adventure to find Bears in the wild soon, DM me if you'd like one and we can sort the details 🌱 So, will I get addicted to making zines? Or will it be another small obsession before I move on to another obscure skill such as making flowers out of radishes? Or Competitive Shrubbery Creation? Stay tuned to find out....

My first zine!

Due to complicated logistics and family commitments I haven't booked any workshops or weekend courses at the usual places this year, however, I'm open to planning perfect one ~ to ~ one days (or perhaps 2 of you if you want to bring a friend), here in my studio in Hebden Bridge if anyone is interested? 🖤 The day can be tailored to suit your skills and wishes 🖤 We've the @iouhebdenbridgehostel in town or plenty of places to stay on the tops or in the valley that I can suggest 🖤 I'll do lunch to suit you too 🖤 It's lovely to share a day, once in a lifetime perhaps, weaving willow but more, our own stories and time, just for the day 🖤 Leave me a comment if you'd like all the details 🖤 Big love to @bear_snail Tom, for the being in all the photos 😊

Happy Imbolc,  Here's a poem about it 🐚 In a church with your name  and a thousand year old roots there was a man who spoke from the ground he stood on. His words were open doors and windows  And then a beautiful wrecking ball to my education. A hog-back stone as metaphor then mimic then reality, and he spoke of You,  and of the story of Stone Soup, and that when no one listens  just stick that big pig stone in a cauldron of bubbling water  and watch them turn back,  curious.  Someone told me You were the patron saint of embarrassment?  I’ve not found any story about this anywhere, but maybe it's still living as oral history? Anyway, I think it was just something I needed to hear,  And since then you have been the elemental-west-coast-mother-of-mothers,  ancestor plural, The huge delicious mystery of the Other  knowing nothing and everything  of shame, bundling me up when I most need it, alone in a barren land,  or stuck in my own head realms of warping loveless jealousy, or witness to a slow death of the world, You have been the laughing black-headed gull,  the levelling sunset,  the sauna and sea with Mum.  Is it religion? Or just being human?,  To follow the heart pulls,  the catching throat the hospitality.  I went off-course to Kildare, one of your homes. The centre was closed on a Saturday but Sister Phil welcomed me, led me to your flame on the ancient bog Oak,  left me alone with it! me and my wonky nostrils! I knelt and wove my hand over,  holding a breath to not blow out Your eternal light. Feeling the fire-called-spark-of-inspiration,  but only feeling all the moments of vulnerability, shame, and rock bottom emptiness.  And then that Otherness enters,  when often I say its the non-humans around, keeping me,  these times I feel your arms  soft, strong and warm as a cows belly,  wild as the weather, human as anything, You hold me, gently push me up and say- Go on now, get up, you're just learning again, and time is not so linear  that you only have to learn to walk once.

The Song of Knotweed You brought us here, To your cold damp islands, From other islands, Where they they gave us 689 names, Because you thought we were beautiful, You thought we were stately, handsome and fragrant, We were a symbol Of your far stretched hands, Of your nightless arms, Gathering jewels From all corners, Himalayan Balsam, Rhododendron, Water Deer, Mandarin Duck, Ring necked Parakeet, American Mink, Grey Squirrel... At first we were frightened, But you gave us a home, And we settled, Welcomed by the burnt soils, We thrived, grew strong. We thought: what can we give to this scarred land? We heal the grey dirt along your tracks, ditches, canals, We stabilise and give thicket homes to small beings, We feed you! We give you medicine! We give you soups, crumbles, Streamed treats, In your hungriest times, We flower for thirsty bees, Fruit for starving birds, We burn for cold humans. But then the shouts come: Green Japanese devils! Invasives! Destroyers! Scourge of habitats! Foreigners! Monsters! Enemies of Britain! But why? Not once have we killed, endangered or made extinct, Not once have we poisoned, uprooted or segregated, So who are you really shouting at? With whom does the blame for the dying truly lie? And if this is how you treat us, with toxic sprays and curses, Then we only wonder at how you treat your own kind... But now your actions are making your wounds visible, We can see you on your high seat, Flinching at the mud, Ordering, fencing, designating, killing us, the birds, the mammals, the insects, your own children... And we watch for the ones who fall, Who can't keep up with the senselessness, We catch them, Wait for the opening eyes and ears, Let them hear our music and stories, taste our flesh, And watch them realise, That these stories are theirs too. You humans are not lost, More and more wake up in our roots every day, And the more you spray and hack, The more resilient we become, And our vengeance will only be in our sharing of refuge, For you in your time of awakening and grief, For we are plants, And we only know How to give.