north light

Month: February 2014

Answering Back

I leave in the mornings ten minutes early, to take photographs on the way to work.

Sometimes, a lot recently, the weather’s too bad and it’s not possible, but still, it’s a core part of my practice, something that’s deep ingrained.

Sometimes I try to figure out why –

It’s not really to do with taking a lovely photograph, although sometimes that happens.

To be honest it’s not really photography at all, more a way of grounding, connecting with the earth, a way of noticing, remembering, of tipping head back, saying thank you.

Reflection

Sometimes I think it’s a response, a defiance –

I read a lot in the mornings, wake very early and soak up a lot before I go,

I try to read selectively, with intention, I try to read poetry as well as the news, I try to read the words of real people (like you) as well as the processed fast food news of corporations,

And yet even so often times it’s a lot, overwhelming or depressing, nausea inducing or anger making,

Sometimes I just feel tired at the amount of energy you need to expend just to hold a line, to hold firm to your own point of view, your own way of being,

And somehow this practice, this ten minutes, this standing grounded eyes to the sky – it’s part response to that.

Affirmation, or defiance.

Some way to answer back.

Drinking Up the Light

I was back at Caerlaverock at the weekend.

Despite the general atrociousness of our weather recently: wild and wet, then cloudy, grey and wet,

and then cloudy, grey and wet again,

for a while: the sun came out.

sunlight

The landscape shimmered.

streaks of light

After days of grey, the world sparked briefly white, and yellow

swans

And it made me feel like this:

an early daisy

6 Winter American Sentences

wild red streaks on a pastel sky hang over Lidl, for the bagels

wind biting down by the river sunlight on the wing tips of a gull

mud frozen hard the path a cloud of steam rising round an old man’s head

across the street blue xmas lights flash a moth in the slats of the blind

his eyes droop against the way the rain runs down the window, morning train

too cold for sketching the line of oystercatchers suddenly rising

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