A Voyage to Sirenusa

In a group meeting, it was proposed that we name our shared space ‘Sirenusa’, after a cluster of three big rocks off the Amalfi coast, one of the many reputed homes of the sirens, the inspiring muses of La Sirena. It emerged that Rudolph Nureyev (Russian ballet dancer, choreographer and actor, 1938-93) had owned and lived on one of these islands towards the end of his life.

Where Do the Sirens Meet?
Where do the sirens meet?
At the turning into evening
They meet in the eardrum of a grandfather clock
They meet in the glint of sunlit underground vistas
They meet in dry patches under the sea
The sirens meet in the inner ear of Odysseus
In the library of Alexandra – or of Babylon on public holidays
They meet where the dream of midnight kisses the sun
At the confluence of the lost rivers of London
They meet in the ocean’s hot springs
They meet hand in hand garlanded in petals and tears
In the bride’s train
Where the three hemispheres meet
They meet on the giant chessboard
At the hour of the wolf
In the rose made of seashells
They meet through the mirrors
When the stars are right
In the place of whispers
In equality
They meet in waking dreams
They meet in the clocks without time
Under my lover’s curse
They meet in the smiles of lovers
In the ghost stations of the underground
Coffins brimming with yeast
They meet in the shadows of living ghosts
In echoes
In hopes
They meet in the miracle of becoming
They meet in the hazy daydreams of tomorrow
In the folds of time
They meet in period novels
They meet without limits
Under the moons of forgotten worlds
They meet in black and white
After the ball is over
They meet in the womb of the mountain
They meet on giant clams to play with phantom limbs
They meet inside her silver castle
In the mouth of madness
They meet on the dissecting table
At the Tannhäuser Gate
Where my first childhood grew glass antlers
They meet in the androgynous islands
Down a dirt track road
In the swollen ant hills of Arabia
They meet on Pangaea
Within the old house filled with swallows and love letters
They meet on purpose
They meet on the tail of an upset cat
They meet beyond the border
In a feline landscape composed from the glassy stares of the first sirens
They meet in each other’s gaze
In Plato’s prism
In haunted houses
In a message, glimpsed in a mirror, from a borrowed dream
They meet in de Sade’s chateau
In my silent laughter
They meet on the screens of abandoned movie theatres
They meet without prejudice
At the lighthouse
On someone else’s sacred ground

Collective Poem by Doug Campbell, David Greenslade, Taya King, Daina Kopp and Darren Thomas

The Castle in the Archipelago

Located in the uncharted waters of the Bermuda Triangle, the Western Sirenusas offer a haven from the poverty of everyday life. The centre of the archipelago is a towering pinnacle of rock, surmounted by a structure known colloquially as ‘Nureyev’s Castle’. This building was inspired by the ‘Star Castle’ of Prague, but built on the plan of an earthly five pointed pentagram, rather than a hexagram. As with the original Star Castle, the interior is filled with elaborate plasterwork and obscure Hermetic imagery. Each point of the star provides an independent apartment space, decorated according to the occupant’s own taste, while the central atrium offers a luxuriously appointed meeting space and library. Other attractions include the famous ‘Doctor Phibes’ automaton orchestra, standing ready to do justice to any music from any time. In season, the picture windows may afford views of unwary travellers from nearby yacht clubs hunted down by the native sirens of the rocks.

Power is provided by underwater turbines submerged in the treacherous and stormy waters that seethe around the island. The local climate can be unpredictable, particularly subject to the intense effects of the meteorological phenomena known as the ‘Pathetic Fallacy’. Access to the castle is by astral projection only, and subject to solar winds.

Doug Campbell

At the Centre of the Pentagram
At the centre of the pentagram, where the sirens meet, there is an atmosphere of peace and reflection, conducive to relaxed conversation and reminiscences. There are overstuffed armchairs and couches, luxuriously upholstered in leather and velvet. A scent of old books, a trace of cheap incense, and a suspicion of cats. Lighting is low, and entirely unnatural: a golden glow of indirect electric illumination, pointed up by candles and oil lamps. The walls are lined with bookshelves, sufficient to hold every title the members have ever read or heard of, and exactly thirteen more. Projection equipment may be lowered from the shadows of the painted ceilings on cantilevered gantries of brass and polished wood; the shelving also holds all the movies the members have ever seen or heard of, with space left over for alternate cuts representing films misremembered or embroidered in recollection. Glass cases and walls display curios and taxidermy, adding a faint tang of formaldehyde to the ambiance. Ghosts and ancestral spirits may, at times, be glimpsed. This is a collective memory palace, a pocket phalanstery, where all things are held in common and may be drawn on as needed. (Make no mistake, these resources are absolutely real and present where the sirens meet). The decor is pulled together by scattered Afghan rugs, cushions and fabrics, a timeless look, eminently suitable for time travellers.

The atmosphere corresponds to the gentleman’s clubs of my leisure reading: century old whodunits and horrors, but without the ingrained privilege, casual racism and misogyny. (In short, without the gentlemen). A place for confidences over strong drink: ‘That queer business on the isle of Capri…a dirk of jagged obsidian driven clean through the left shoulder blade…they never found the carnivorous sponge…’

Doug Campbell

The Transformation Chamber

Deep within the catacombs of Nureyev’s castle, situated in the East Wing, we experience the nocturnal splendour and splendid, sunflower opulence of the siren’s favourite haunt – The Transformation Chamber

The masonic angels enchant the sirens with their cinematic stares

Their games with silent ashes and roses dipped in the ink of the last rays of summer were celebrated for miles around

The mausoleum comes alive with new ghosts and dreams of tomorrow

All are welcome in this place to share the collective gaze of the androgynes

You will find sirens taking flight amongst the angels, experimenting with form and in the process of becoming…

Taya King and Darren Thomas

The Room of Marvels

The Room of Marvels, bathed in the majestic light of a thousand suns shone its ethereal beams onto the assembled company

The palatial room personifies the platonic hybridity of the sirens

They dance, intoxicated by the magic of warm kisses and the dreams they ride like the children of Pegasus

The mythological genealogy of the room is reflected in Diana’s decorum

The marble columns are said to be created from the teeth of the hydra

It is only through immaculate conception that the sirens inhabit this grand space

Without doubt the game of the glacial pomegranates was the highlight of their calendar

The formlessness of flight will be the sirens’ paradise

Taya King and Darren Thomas

The Room of the Endgame

‘Checkmate!’ intoned the phrenological head, from the golden ceiling of spheres

‘We do not see the half-naked fish-man above us’

He is only a reflection of the fish that was once man

He referees the game, which has been played by the sirens since the dawn of time

This is the room they affectionately referred to as The Room of the Endgame

The monkfish enter the womb-like monastery through the sea curtains

They always bring with them the greatest gifts:

Shrines made out of sacred seashells

Wines made from the secrets of starfish

And signs composed of significant Others

Taya King and Darren Thomas

The Sessile Fauna of the Sirenusas
Having found an anchoring location for the sirens, David Greenslade decided to go under the sea surrounding Nureyev’s retreat. This proved extremely fruitful. He noticed that the world comes to those who wait, who cannot move. In the case of La Sirena collective immobility set off a creative explosion. The fertile world comes to the sessile, flows through them while they have no obvious control over the form of the results – especially outer form. In this case the seed material proved rich enough to lead to an independent publication – a book of imagined sponges.

David Greenslade