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. Advertisements
i crossed the great western deserts to get here, and now i am standing on the shore of some semiotic, or synodic, sea. veiled grey horizon, fine mists rising and separating me from the sonorous. there’s a scattering of sandbanks, shoals, islets, atolls. and something’s hiding, behind them, it’s not all oceanic expanse. i think sound is emergence, it urges a certain sort of person to dip their toes into that primordial water.