The squiggle of interference as we twiddle the dial, the red needle floating through Luxembourg, statics and squelches and extra-terrestrial interferences, ghostly voices from other centuries a sudden crackle turning into operatic song. Then through the spectrum of cosmic background noise, as if with the sudden depression of the red squelch button i have no more knowledge of the fact than the Devil has of the jackdaw the rippling tide sounds coming from a murder of crows, their arguments restricted amongst themselves constructed out of fibres and mosses, strips of bark, dead leaves, old newspaper with a base of clods of earth and a final cup of hair and feathers lining our bedroom chimney. We will not dig for worms these intelligent rogues, stealers of eggs, corvine congregating in chimneys, the cokes and chars, hydrocarbons sooting the brick lined darkness creating their eerie noise-storm.
Friday, 29 May 2015
Sun spreads the deck surrounded by foxgloves, aquilegia and phlox to fool me with a false sense of security that soon gets undermined by a barely perceptible adjustment in the wind
that spells trouble.
I don’t let on: it is one thing being miserable, quite another letting others know it.
The air turns slowly, gets its talons to grip.
We take a cliff car - one of those odd arrangements that depend on weights and greased cables, weight and counterweight working in symbiosis.
When we get to the top the cliff is covered in a sea mist.
More flowers here: angelica, cow parsley and another of a nameless blue to compliment my hands.
Tuesday, 26 May 2015
When you revisit a place, say once every other year, the landmarks make some kind of pattern and you feel a difference in the air and the water that makes the streets built on the cliffs familiar although they could never be home. This is a rebel town. It has always kept its distance from the mainstream: in a way, it is like visiting an island, the palpable sense of separateness. Conservatism is rejected. You can wander here without the feel of the judgemental eye although I caught one staring at me through an inn window. The difference is the eye once caught in the act of staring quickly turns away and you can carry on your business with a sense of freedom in your movements. Dusty shops with nonsensical stock piled up to the rafters in higgledy-piggedly towers that threaten to fall down and overweight shopkeepers who wouldn’t bat an eyelid if they did. All roads, in the end, reach the sea. The fishing boat stranded at high-tide waiting, yet not really waiting. This isn’t a place for those who like to keep a tally.
|Image: Su Joy|
Tuesday, 19 May 2015
Saturday, 16 May 2015
Thursday, 7 May 2015
My face is split in two by the thunderbolt that cracks the silver moon of the shaving mirror. A black hair makes a question mark on the porcelain as two space ships land on the planet inside my head. The surface of the planet is like an egg carton. I know these ships. I can even tell you the year that they are landing in. It’s a year that once seemed part of a far off unimaginable future that is now very much part of the far off distant past: so far back in time now as it was once so far off in the future.
Earlier, it had felt like big black clouds had been passing byalthough there was no discernible change in the light.