The Devil’s Death, Dean Melbourne, 2013, Oil on canvas, 150cm x 100cm. All rights reserved.
Darkness in nature fascinates. Small nature. Urban nature.
The lines of twisted roots that cling and overwhelm. The dark shadowy spaces between leaves. Nature illuminated by artificial light. Golden canopies and the blackness beneath. Walk further to the woods and feel the darkness envelop you. Hollow trees the day time retreat of crouching witches now vacant.
Weeds, brambles, nettles next to languid pools. Sit there , still. The night is full of noise.
Footsteps on the gravel approaching now. Fuck who else would be out here now. Stay still. Freeze. Thumping heart.
They pass and the dark world is mine again.
The train is busy tonight. It’s still light outside and the banal chatter of who said what to whom rattles around the carriage.
Grey day but still and calm.
In the centre of my palm on my left hand. A shard of last years lavender punctured my cold hand.
That’s not a surprise, I’ve always had soft hands, “girls hands” “never seen a days work ” hands.
Sitting on the cold slab of the second step to my house I go about removing the fragrant thorn. It’s good to be outside. The temperature eased to just make a bit of pottering possible.
I’m reminded that tending any plot of land no matter how small or unremarkable is good for the soul.
Cutting back last years dead feels cleansing. Even the rumbling exhausts don’t bother me as they are soon replaced by the arching clap of wood pigeons and birdsong. Sipping tea on the step and taking in the ice blue sky.
The splinter hurts and brings me back.
Cold blue sky’s full of potential and an increase in pressure. Some turbulence and periods of light rage.
I remember moments with nature. As a child my strongest feelings of joy are linked to to natural landscape, the weather and birds and animals.
Being woken excruciatingly early to drive to the harbour in looe to watch the morning catch of blue shark being weighed. My photo taken as I stood beneath this beautiful giant. The pride of the the spot of blood on my new white tee shirt. It stained.
We fished for crabs on the harbour wall for most of the day. Buckets and buckets of mostly green crabs. A friend and I explored among the boats at low tide as they lay prone on their painted keels. We found a conga eel head and were amazed at its size. Our parents were less pleased to see it as we rushed excitedly back to them holding it aloft.
At sunset we walked around a small lake or a large pool. The sky was red with fire and I remember my dad clapping his mechanics hands and sending a flock of starlings into the sky. I stood in awe at their display and as the sun dropped beyond the horizon I headed home in my dads coat.
Leaving the house today felt I can only imagine how the end of a winter hibernation feels to a sleepy animal.
I was surprised to see the moon in the sky. I always think of graham sutherland or Samuel Palmer when I see the moon in the day time.
I have not seen very much for the last few weeks. Mindfulness and awareness have been beyond me. I guess that there is a natural rhythm as with all things. Odd to feel unable to see after a period of all seeming significant.
I saw the moon today, that is a start.
While waiting for an anxiety cloud to pass I have entered a new world of the second Triassic with JG Ballard and discovered the late work of Singer Sargent.
Revving up your engine
Listen to her howlin’ roar
Metal under tension
Beggin’ you to touch and go
Heading into twilight
Spreading out her wings tonight
She got you jumpin’ off the track
And shovin’ into overdrive
You’ll never say hello to you
Until you get it on the red line overload
You’ll never know what you can do
Until you get it up as high as you can go
Out along the edges
Always where I burn to be
The further on the edge
The hotter the intensity
Yesterday I stared up at the cirrus clouds and marvelled at their intricate and evolving glory. Reflecting a pure light as they touch the troposphere and form ice particles.
Today I did not see. I turned my face that way and although I know it was blue and spectacular I could not see the poetry. My mind was wrapped in thick stratus. Claustrophobic and paranoia inducing fog.
As I write the clouds have passed and there lies before me the myriad of stars.
The difference in truth is citalapram.
I stood on the cold wet stones, I could see the glow of orange street lamps in the rain. A small flock of geese flew over head in the darkness. The talked to each other. They were heroic and driven. Out of sight from me my mind flew with them for as long as i could keep up.
Back on the ground I could I could feel the stones again. I shivered and stepped inside.