the imperceptible weight of light, i learnt as a little girl that the only proper way to count time, in the middle of may, is with dandelion clocks. cheeks pink as sea thrift, wishes on the wind. perfectly proliferous pappus, parachute, plume, they’re at their prettiest in the evening, floating gold filament and feather. sometimes in the springtime, even just the sight of them feels a sweet and simple glimpse of forever. Advertisements
diary, last week of february, 2019. catch alsophila aescularia in a mason jar. cirrocumulus clouds above you, baby’s breath in your hair. the sky is almost the same colour now as the persian speedwell that’s scattered about everywhere, and a bumblebee is hovering sleepily about bethlehem sage. it’s the first you’ve seen this year. set out a teaspoon of sugar water. an unusually mild february. everything is waking up early. * the sun is on your shoulders. you’ve jasmine petals in your pockets, and winter bells helleborus, too. watch as a blackbird plucks red berries from a holly bush, one, after another, after another. ** “there are snowdrop valleys and swiss mountain trains and by-the-wind sailors and sweet peas sprouting second leaves, there are children with clattering cans chasing bad spirits back into the ocean, the blackthorns are blossoming and they’re guarded by…” – what are you going to do? *** the sea is not a surface. you have called the gods by their names, and now they form within us.
diary 10/02/19: 1- cormorant. celestia. a neighbour’s budding magnolia. fuzz, tepal, whorl. waiting for april, all of them. or early may. well. i am too. petals falling to the pavement on a springtime day. i close the rusty garden gate. it swings shut behind me. 2- the steps to the beach are steep and mossy. approach cautiously. solsbro. seaway. 3- i’m the sort of person that sees signs everywhere. spirit, salt, sailor. a compass on the pavement. sacred, sacred, sacred, and why shouldn’t i believe in magic? 4- the Grand Hotel is grey and ghostly with its tearooms and towers and spiral staircases. disused, mostly. i’ve a fondness for near-forgotten, or faded places. there’s a rainbow over the railway bridge. stories untold. 5- i make it to the beach, and the wind is sweeping seaweed like it’s tumbling russian thistle and i’m watching waves crashing and exploring little rock-pools, i’m looking for crabs, sea glass, oyster shells too (a pearl or a chest or a leviathan or two) but there are three men, better prepared …
the sun sets. digitalis obscura into forget-me-not blue. whilst all above you, the stars are five-petalled, pale yellow and scattered a little like wildflowers about an eternal woodland meadow. it should be enough, that the heart blossoms, breaks, and blossoms, in love.
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)
there is a whole world built in mystery, from sulfur, salt, and mercury that hides between the ones you see in cyclical exultancy. perihelion, so perfectly, for a moment, it comes close to me, so said the starlight, to the sea, do you know where all rivers lead? christmas evening, everyone is sleeping, and i just found a rocky mountain columbine, petals torn and pressed between the pages of an old, abandoned, sketchbook. i’m reading an article about how the correct topology of cyclic cosmology might in fact be circle in circle, and i think i like the idea. that way, everything begins at the end, and there’s not a beginning at all. i’ve drunk far too much champagne.
this is where the hope is, winter solstice, cold moon, ursids. reflect, take a deep breath, and then look ahead, these are the memories that will sink into light. and i’m breathing cloud into the evening, as around me, the finest rain is falling, radiant and reflected flecks of gold and amber, barely even there, suspended in mid-air. (i’ve three candles burning, beeswax, i’m learning, and chamomile crushed in a cup). 1. may every day touch upon that trembling genesis of inspiration. 2. may the star-shaped sequins that have spilt themselves all over the floor form a trail. 3. may the pine needles please not drop all at once. 4. may the coming months bring me stormy days in misty and mossy places, watercolour paints, and sunday tea breaks, with cake, of course. 5. may those who have come before, and those who will come after, move tangibly, watch over, guide, me. 6. and, may the chestnuts i’ve been peeling, boiling, soaking in vanilla syrup, actually be worth eating.
there is a flowing light, a numinous beauty, that brightens and stills everything around me its gaze holds for a moment, then opens up something, incommunicable, eternal, anchoring in this city, everything is exaggerated. it’s monsoon season, dizzying humidity (even silk and air conditioning isn’t enough for me), and every other evening, the 17-years-asleep cicadas singing in the rosewood shade tree, the one that so very kindly casts its shadow on my burning concrete balcony, are silenced only by the rumbling sounds of another approaching thunderstorm. we are forewarned. could i slip away, quiet? keep myself as a secret? a long drive in the desert … it will all arrive, soon enough. sweeping 60mph winds, southerly, gathering waves or a wall of dust, to rain down upon, or near-suffocate, all of us. lightning will split the sky in a dozen places all at once, and i’ll draw back the blinds, fill the kettle, light a candle, carefully position the most comfortable cushion on the cold and cracking white-tiled floor, and watch. even the neon will …
at starcross station, sometimes hidden rivers looking like silver ribbons surrender themselves to the ocean. it’s an ancient conversation, saltwater, and stone. there’s a sonorous space in me. in fact, it spills over everything, and i’d like to seperate it. write songs for the sea! strange, back and forth melodies. haunting, or holy? i think the waves might be decorated time. we are surrounded by stillness. deep breath, then, dive. there’s dust dancing in the sunlight, that’s pouring through the window.