All posts tagged: diary

sundial or sea-bird (diary)

a pearl grey propitious first february morning and i’ve faith as a sundial or a sea-bird’s wing and like me, the ivy leaves are all shivering and there are silver bell snowdrops, each will ring in the spring.     it is imbolc, brigid’s day,  candlemas, a traditional beginning of spring, and i’m wearing inherited pearls and reading about stellaria holostea. i am the ‘flower of sorrow’ so they say no glory can i borrow from the May yet, starlike, mid the green my fragile flowers are seen so faith her steadfast eye lifts to the sky it’s a second hand charity shop book on plant lore, illustrated by rosemary wise and written by josephine addison. i’ve also a very old-fashioned book on traditional british cooking, and it’s just fantastic. summer pudding, fisherman’s stew, sand cakes, and stilton mousse (which sounds awful, in my opinion). tomorrow, i’m to finish my packing for the ukraine: – bobble hat, two – camera, two – lenses, three – impractical phrases scribbled on a piece of paper, three – …

superluminal

01/27/19 the magazine i’ve been reading suggests that i choose between: option 1. cyclical chiral accretion, contraction, cohesion. option 2. entanglement, error-correcting code. option 3. i don’t suppose i could ever really know.   if my mother hadn’t had four children, she’s always said that she would’ve liked to have become an astronomer. my father’s guitars, my mother’s love of the stars, telescopes and cups of tea. and then, somewhere in the middle, there’s me.  kansas city’s auyon mukharji is singing silk and sticky spun sugar, clay and cast iron. a gale blows over, and then breaks, the birdfeeder, slams heavy wooden doors shut, lessens for a little while and then strengthens again. somewhat similarly, my thoughts go speeding. sunday morning superluminality, but i did have birthday cake for breakfast. victoria sponge, two iced and caffeinated coffees, clementine juice.

hyacinthine

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.

capiz moon / diary 01.21.19

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.

blackthorn, blood moon

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)

snow and snow and snow

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, …

lichen as lace

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.

preston sands

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 …

glory of the snow

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.

eosphorus

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)