approaching daybreak, and once again the snow that was falling has turned to rain and my hyacinth heart bursts from flower to flame, petals as blood, it is always the same. i’ve been reading about cladonia cristatella, and white-striped parasol scilla. in less than a month, i am going to be 28. i’ll either take myself to paris on a train, or else i’ll drive to see hopefully thousands of snowdrops, again, there’s a special walk you can do around the gardens of a grand old house near to where my father’s studio used to be, they’ve dozens and dozens of different breeds. things that don’t help me fall asleep: the silmarillion, valerian tea, worrying. Advertisements
a capiz moon retires its light to a softening silver sea of first fog, and i am here listening to the sound of boiling water being poured through the little teapot that i’ll set in place next to the candle on my bedside table. lavender, valerian. somewhere north, this morning, there’ll be sunshine yellow guiding gorse petals glittering with frost. and, somewhere further, hopefully, there’s mycena luxaeterna, or eternal light, illuminating a very dark and hidden patch of some faraway forest, to be seen by noone. somewhere else, a family i know will be lacing up their already muddy boots, jumping in the car, dogs in the back, flasks-in-hand, they’ll be heading to dartmoor, i’ve been thinking about down tor, or else, to the beach. and in california, the southbound coastal starlight will have just reached los angeles, city of dreams, where reality and fantasy melt into one another in the heat.
a bleak january evening approaching ethereality on a railway bridge as the fog’s falling byssine, and brilliantly, around me. in the hedgerows, the blackthorn and hazels are blossoming. and everything else is moving underneath, quietly, you can’t see it but there’s beauty blooming silently, silently. it waits for the spring. my uninterrupted attention is prayer. what celestial circumstance brought me here? there’ll be a blood moon tonight, the last for ten years. selenelion sunlight scattered by atmosphere until it turns rust-red peculiar and then disappears. (i’m going to try valerian tea tonight, maybe i’ll sleep a little better)
diary: 01/18/10 all of a sudden, the snow is falling, and without a moment’s pause, i’m out in the garden. the birdbath is frozen, and it’s almost midnight. this feels like dreaming. i’m catching snowflakes with frozen fingers, they’ll turn red and sting soon, but not yet. it’s the sort of clumping snow that i don’t expect will linger long, brief and brilliant beauty, and each flake is half the size of my palm, or, almost. my hair is soaking, i can’t stop shivering, i’m only wearing a skirt and a turtleneck, but i couldn’t care less, there are very few things better than this, and soon enough i’ll borrow my brother’s coat. * there are 41 different types of snow crystal, apparently. stellar, sector, simple, sheath, each requiring a particular set of circumstances for its creation/crystallization. the most commonly spotted snowflake is the symmetrical, six armed, star-shaped, stellar plate. when i was a little girl, i’d fold a piece of a4 paper in half, and with scissors i’d cut patterns into it, unfold, …
the tallest of treetops are my temple arch and there are cyclamen, snowdrops, lining my path through this frost-frozen forest, dewdrops, grass, as stained glass rising incense, the scent of sea air and wildflowers. i’ve got silver birch bones, and i’ve paper thin skin and near-transparent, i’ve a heart that lets everything in so with lichen as lace, i’ll go wandering this place, seek the shadow and shade of each meadow and glade.
it’s rather a windy mid-january day, and i am in torbay, wandering about the rolling cliffside gardens of a fading 19th century mansion. celandine, winter heliotrope, snowdrops, snapdragon, there are several wooden benches too, for sitting down and admiring the view, and there’s a particularly ornate, but switched off, water fountain, weather-worn ancient sea gods and sirens, still proud, but paint peeling. there’s even a crocus or two, though they’re not yet in full bloom. all about me, dew drops are clinging to every blade, and over the ocean, clouds and sunbeams alternate, shadows stretching and contracting. the sunlight fades, illuminates, and fades again, and on the horizon, there’s the distant, but eventual, promise of rain. i find my way to paignton’s preston sands, where stephanie tells me that each seventh wave is the strongest. there are strandline seashells of every sort, washed up onto shore. whelk, whorled, silver striped and slipper limpets, all caught in the rippling ribbons and ridges of shale and shingle saltation, sea-polished cobble and perfectly spherical pebbles aplenty. a black …
07/01/19 ever onwards. i like to imagine that each january day rolls something like a crashing wave, the tide is coming in and the water is pushing you further, further, into the unfamiliar, fantastic, frightening, foreign, territory of a new year. on a particularly dreary winter’s evening, you might need reminding, to step up your observing, look closely, you’ll see. this is a land of: half-moon teapots. salmonberry jam from kodiak island, or strawberry, from the supermarket. sugar pine scent on your wrists, on the breeze, there are far away and ancient forests to be wandered. catkins that pretend to be caterpillars, caterpillars that pretend to be catkins. seashore scilla amethystina. springtime glory of the snow, bulbs through the post.
shivering sunrise, holy moment wandering venus, waning crescent. my train window splits the sun into three and there’s silver mist rising from sparkling streams and the fields are frosted, and glittering, dawn sky, parts to pearlescence, light’s pouring in. this is omniscient beauty, and with observance, you’ll see how it moves through the morning as it moves through me. (i think i’m in love with the south coast sea)
trembling girl, cut from coral and pearl delicate, like harp strings, and hummingbirds or the first winter snowdrops, pale petals unfurled how determined they rise from the frost-covered earth. you have made yourself home, out of canyon and cove you have crowned yourself queen, in california gold time tosses, like blossoms, us each to its fragrant wind but you’re wrapped in a light that can never be dimmed. * new years eve, torquay. there are three flowers on the table. two white freesias, silk-petalled and splashed gold, scented citrus-sweet, and there’s a single nerine, too, or guernsey lily, the place they first grew originally. named after the nereids, the sea nymphs that would protect sailors and their ships, in the language of flowers, nerines represent vulnerability. freesias, trust. each bloom or bud sits in its very own ginger beer bottle, labels half peeled off. fever tree, iron & wine’s fever dream spinning about in my head. an almost astonishingly pretty girl/goddess, in a pale grey lace dress, is sitting by the …
so said the starlight, to the sea, do you know where all rivers lead? what could you hope to know of me? i’m far above you. out of reach. i sing the music of the spheres, and every dawn, i disappear, oh, cosmic lyre, into the fire, that all things come from. ever higher. responds the sea, pellucidly, don’t you know? you are part of me. we rise and fall symmetrically, there’s so much, still, you’ve yet to see. your glow, reflected on my surface? the exhaled breath of universes. and that’s your path, your shining purpose, celestial child, to learn what love is. (i will never ever finish my album if i keep insisting on adding new songs. to the sea!)