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 …
in a dream i watched time pass, as silver stars through an hourglass. and once the light had all poured through, i’d flip it over, start anew. (there is a dark bright, a gathering gold, that collects at the opening gap of the world.)
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.
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.
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.