Memories Lie Slumbering

Memories lie slumbering within us for months and years, quietly proliferating, until they are woken by some trifle and in some strange way blind us to life.
W.G. Sebald, The Rings of Saturn

Photograph taken at Woodchester, Gloucestershire, July 2018.

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A Brief Blazing Perception

All travellers to wild places will have felt some version of this, a brief blazing perception of the world’s disinterest. In small measures it exhilarates. But in full form it annihilates.
Robert MacFarlane, The Wild Places

Photograph taken at Woodchester, Gloucestershire, July 2018.

Work In Progress

Further to previous posts, this painting is almost finished. This is how I got with it as of last night, and I’ve just got a few more hours of fine detail to complete and then it’s done. The target for completion is next Sunday, when I’ll unveil the finished work and give full details of the title, the influences that went into it’s creation, and how to buy it.

The Folly of the Damned

The wood where I was gone
for ages, on those Sunday afternoons:

lost in purpose, looking for the lithe
weasel in the grass,

stopped in my tracks, the way you stop
for echoes. Gone into the cool

of summer, passing the line
Where sunlight snagged in the nettles,

I wanted the pink-toothed
killer, the casual

expert, the tribal memory of one
who slips into the chicken runs of the mind

and works his way with something of my own
bright rage towards the folly of the damned.

John Burnside, ‘Lost’

Photograph taken at Woodchester, Gloucestershire, July 2018.

The House of Night

Blessed is the covenant of love,
The covenant of mercy,
Useless light behind the terror,
Deathless song in the house of night.
Leonard Cohen, Book of Mercy

Photograph taken at Woodchester, Gloucestershire, July 2018.

Stig of the Dump

I’ve just read that Clive King, author of beloved (by a certain generation anyway) children’s classic Stig of the Dump has died. 94 years old, that’s a good innings. This was the first novel I ever read cover to cover that didn’t have a spaceship on the front. Where I grew up in Leeds, even the most bibliophobic kid had a copy of this and Kes in their bedroom, often strategically-positioned on the bookshelf to avert inquisitive parent’s eyes away from the shameful stash of Richard Allen’s, James Herbert’s and Confessions of a Window Cleaner.

The Great Door

As you sit on the hillside, or lie prone under the trees of the forest, or sprawl wet-legged by a mountain stream, the great door, that does not look like a door, opens.
Stephen Graham, The Gentle Art of Tramping

Photograph taken at Woodchester, Gloucestershire, June 2018

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