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The Oken Stone Podcast

The Oken Stone Podcast

Von: Oceanallover - Alexander Rigg
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The Interdisciplinary work of Tracy Alexander Rigg and his collaborations with other Artists.

theokenstone.substack.comOceanallover - Alexander Rigg Kunst Unterhaltung & Darstellende Künste
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  • Cicardini

    Cicardini
    Aug 30 2026

    Cicardini

    An aeroplane moves across theground at five hundred miles inevery hour, chasing its threedimensional doppel that stealsthe sun, castingit in shaded form flowingover bleached stubble-fields,crossing roads lumpening overforest canopies, an umbra filledwith the shadow bodies of shadowpeople flashing upon the eyelidsof the earthen folk in their dailydrives and all the meanwhilethe silver tube moves higher andaway, separating from itsshade setting coursesdivergent, intentions displaced,one to slide across the surface likea planarian worm, the other aa roaring avian with cloud-slimetail; yet in some many momentstheir love for one another willgrow, remembering their symbiosis,their shared reveries and be drawn,each to the other in gravitationalinevitability, to meet in trystupon the asphalted aisle, toembrace, the rounded and the flat,under an August moon.I had never seen a purplesunrise - but now I have -ultra violet.

    Kōrinja

    By the bell, by the temple walllanguage was lost, meaning forgottenhonour the ancestors combyour maiden hairsby a Ginko tree, sing in stridulationin semi-cicada sonority.

    Dusk lights the way throughcrepuscular folds of thought;the dead remain,dead as the age that grew them,whilst the brooms of their childrencatch cob-webs at the back of the shrine.

    Sweeping Jorōgamo intotheir branching mouths the spider eatersclash tymbals and shake their tailsthey will guard the hundred steps,wipe clean all thoughts in a sonic bath;the Cicardini, speak before the spoken,five years in the earth listening,one summer of singing.



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    7 Min.
  • The Scales of the World

    The Scales of the World
    Jul 1 2026
    PreludeCrackingTo the north it was dark; the skyhanging around mountains - a mantle of water.White curtains of lace pulled closed by cyclonic air over brilliant illuminated fragments -copse, river limb, field.Rooks in chaos choreographise the swirls of westerlies that rush forwards,pressing upon all boughs and all bows to the squalling blastknocked flat crackfingered roots bent backwardssalute the sky or flail to cover wrinkled boles,exposed and flashed the secret earthen crotchin multiple junctures groping this wall of saturated air,shuddering phloembark offunclothed and shameless thrash each whip of seasoned growth,the sappy hair crowned yellow-green,face planted, mouth full of mud.Smashed teeth of timbersink craven desires into grassy skin,peeling and weeping under watered eyes,bud bulges sluiced.Knock knotted the old man willow,so horny he sexes the wormsand risesengorged from their bed.To the North the hills arealready under night’s hands,soft and cold.Chapter 1Willow SnakeLight oozing between sky and land, slipping quietly into my eyes as I walk the banks of the river, feeling the air fill my ears and nose, the shy fluttering of leaves as willows bow their serpentine greeting, shaking in fear of my knife. Here are the bones and corded frame, the interwoven histories. Cutting and regrowth. I came here at this time the year before the year before the year and cut the wands. You are children to the blade and bough; an uneasy and unequal alliance. I will make with you a vessel, a vehicle to carry any who wish to travel. You will become a basket depending beneath the pregnancy of a balloon. Your sinuous dance in this early breeze will become corrugated and solidified. You shed your tails for me in an understanding that I will leave your heart uncut. Reaching across to the nearest limb I hold the length with one hand and prepare to slice down with the other, blade in motion, then stop, all actions frozen. Up and onto my arm a green snake has twisted itself - linking branch and flesh. Locking us together, blood and sap, leaves scales and hair.ChlorophylousThe stick falls straight,weighted heel fromhand to earth returning,thoughts suspended.His work fell shortcaught wanting for love - lay there, recumbent unbent and green.Struck first by thought and then by lightening - seared his crown clean, a bifurcating crack.Painting and dancing, calypso collapso, alone in the meadow cutting staves.Alone in the meadow with coppice and pollard, purple black nimbus consuming the sky.Reaping the ribs for a basket weave; plum wood handles curled like ears.A basket to carry his crippled heart, a gift of desire and vegetal fears.Small browned leaves spin wound tornado round in momentary flight and scutter away.Cumulations lift through charged, thick air and his hair stands tall, excited and changed.Arms around a bundle of womanly wands weighing his thoughts, colouring in heat.The sky is riven, burst asunder, strikes the heavens upon his head.Soundlessly fuse blown collapse and slide, a boneless fillet, kippered and knackered.Red round circle burned entry and exit, head to coccyx then jumped to earth.Around him a nest of fallen willow, reciprocity - each limb holds another.Fallow lies the field at rest under rain and silent too this man, hands and face open.Spring rises jubilant, grass blades cut through the warp of his clothes and he is naked.The cast net of sticks strikes out roots and reaches up vivid viridian arms.Twice the height of man with one season’s growth, flowing up across years - around human remains.Standing now both man and wood with chlorophyllous hair together in the meadow.Chapter 2Glass SnakeFragments of a sleeping world; I saw you blink, slowly, first one eye and then the other; washing away a glass scale that was forming there. I opened my mouth to speak to you and found upon my tongue’s tip, another; held out my hand towards you and felt the reflected nuance of this gesture, caught within the curved facets of a glass shard. There is something hidden here but how to see it? This moment slides circumferentially. The closure of a lid cupped with saline care around planetary sight. I scry with my little eye something that no one can see. Broken ScalesHold your tongue! Thus spakeththe all and none.We sat in the garden dark,shaved and inscribed,a tumbler in your hand of fire,of burnt umber.Pure is your eye and without loathing,mine Übermensch,snap off your tail in seven pieces - smooth manoeuvre.Shatter scatter scales, broadcastwith frequencyyour cataleptic convulsionssilent, dancing;the biggest come-on confusion.Whilst you depart,the all and none has all but goneand philosophyhas become a trophy wifeto now and then.In failing evening’s light I ran, away from and to wards in simultaneity. The air was cool and shadows coalesced between young trees, their arms, like my own, reaching upwards towards the gradient sky melting from aquamarine into darkest pitch. Overhead an air balloon was passing like ...
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    46 Min.
  • Recounting

    Recounting
    Jun 15 2026
    I had the pleasure recently to present some work as part of an exhibition with Rec[ount] in Barcelona. This is a really interesting project looking at how numbers, numbering and accountability influences our lives. Here is a quote from their web-site and a link to read more:“We are a small group of individuals who came together to expand the horizon of artistic and scientific debates around quantification and accountability in society. Through this project we aim to engage artists and academics in an exchange and co-creation around numbers. The project involves a photography prize which aims to guide the lens of photographs around the world towards quantification, its aesthetics, and its effects/affects on humans, their bodies, their relations/lives, but also nature and human’s relations to it. The submissions would then be used as the basis for academic reflections/developments. Following two academic workshops involving a selected group of scholars working at the crossroads of art and accounting/quantification we aim to publish an edited volume which would include prints of selected photographic submissions and academic contributions/reflections.This is an invitation to think about how our lives are changing due to the rising capacity and urge to quantify. Below are some of the questions for which we search “fresh” answers. What accounts do we create (or forget to create) as we quantify? What practices have emerged or vanished as a result of quantification? What intended and not intended consequences it brings about? What controversies and difficulties lie under the apparent rationality of this process?”Link to the Rec[ount] website~~~~~~~~I made a collaborative performance with the fabulous violinist Olvido Lanza, along with three of the Rec[ount] team. Thanks so much to Wafa and Afshin for looking after me and offering this inspiring opportunity.The poems here were written before, during and after my visit to El Clot district of Barcelona, also known as Clot De La Mel - Hole Of Honey. It was a district of vegetable growing and beehives before it became absorbed into the city of Barcelona.Here are my words for the recording on this podcast:~~~~~~~~~~~~~Re-Counting(some words for Spring)Line of SightAt the greyhound track verdantParakeets turn over leaves with hookedbeaks beside an ocean of concretesmoothed, cast in sweeping contoursthat seal in the tracks, holding fasta history of sleek beasts in line of sight,coursing in sinuous ripples of drivenjaws. Short lives of obedience andspeed. Named and valued, brushed,dieted and measured. Each racea gauge of days remaining. Nowthe race itself has been retired,its bounding oval put down in asphaltfor joggers, bladers and youths totest their metal, recreate anepic battle for validation.A Day With HelmutWoke to a day from adream of relationships,humans in bonds ambiguouswith intentions unclear.Moved from that into calmamid measured conversations,thoughts of future journeys,biscuits and coffee.This followed by lion’s legson a table round,sheep’s fleece nurseryrhymes, red squirrelacrobatical astonishmentsand then an adder atthe door in a compressedess, zigzagged and warmingin the sun of Spring’stime - finding the rightbody heat for hunting mice.StainedHer face of stainedglass hungimperiouslylike achandelier,bodyshining with thelight of self,illuminating heracolytes withpearls andinsights,daughter fromdynasticfragility,clothed in crystalsheavy,opaque andbeautiful.Hung,an atmosphericstirring -lostto a room of fear.All venturesshrivel and slipbehind and within,stains spreading outwardsfrom vacuous innardsthe lady of the limpshines darkly herglass greasy fingersheard and not seenturning the latch,letting herself outback wards offa spell of joining.Enchanté Mademoiselle,and adieu.Growing Into The DaySunlight through new beech leavesChiff Chaff fresh in fromthe South alreadywith eggs to hatch howthe search accelerates fromdormant to decorouspendulant flowers filledwith insects vibrate incolours, flood my thoughtsand sleeping passions hearthe fall of rain upon foliageand its consumptionby thirsty earth busyfeeding trees thatopen their fingers andstretch their armscaught I am inwondermentfeel my own walkingroots luxuriate infecundity.PlummetGannets diving intotranslucent green wavesoff the shore on Salt Pans Roadmob and cut the air foldshut, dropping scissor-formpierce the sea paff paffpaffpaff paffpaffSwim unseen through glassywater snaps shuttheir beak blades caughtthe silvering scaly dartspulled up beyond the sea’s skininto roistering May airshard-back gulletted passout of ken, from all knowledgeflown to Ailsa Craig,rock of ages, giant’s head,gone to feed the fledgelingfishers.PalmicThere’s a hole in my heart line,a palmic interventionordemonster able fissurepinned perhapspierced possiblyrecounting a puncture,the bursting of a balloonI popped sometime past a bangingof the door toa room withinwithin whichI fear to enter andon enteringI fear to...
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    23 Min.
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