a plague o’ both your houses
Day two of The 100 Day Project.
Obviously inspired by the current situation but using a remix of plagues from past and present that are not directly related to the current situation.
Illustrations:
A physician wearing a seventeenth-century plague preventive costume
Château de Mehun-sur-Yèvre and Château de Chaumont by Albert Robida from La vieille France: la Touraine
something fishy this way comes
So, I'm having another stab at The 100 Day Project this year since I have more time on my hands than usual now.
My 'postcards from another's life' series will continue as and when I'm inspired, but this year's project is to create a digital collage each day, using a mixture of my own images and public domain illustrations or artwork, inspired by current events, personal feelings, film/literature/famous quotes/other popular culture, etc. Whatever inspires me on that day.
I started off with a specific quote in my head today, but couldn't find a public domain illustration to build the image around, so looked to my own collection of photographs to build upon instead which took me off in this direction.
It took me longer to get to the concept than to create the actual collage.
Not the worst result for my first attempt at this, but hopefully the results improve over time.
Illustrations:
All illustrations taken from Le règne animal distribué d'après son organisation, vol. 4 (atlas), 1836-1849
Orbicular batfish, rocksucker and scaly dragonfish by Jacques Reyne Isidore Acarie-Baron
beautyberry
They unfurled the blanket on the damp ground. The sun had appeared. The rain had stopped long enough ago for them to feel confident of a pleasant, warm spring afternoon. But the soil beneath their feet still held a lot of water. And, here and there, raindrops still rested on the leaves, flowers and berries around them.
The berries, in particular, caught their eye. A royal purple. A vibrant, saturated colour set off by the green of the leaves separating the bunches along the branches. The berries clustered in groups at regular intervals along the stem, like disordered regiments at ease on their tea break. Clustered but unorganised.
They talked while they unpacked their afternoon's repast. They laid out their plates, cutlery, glasses. The cheese, crackers, fruit jelly and wine.
The sun licked at their cheeks. Added an extra pinkness to their complexions; a gentle glow.
They kicked off their shoes and took a seat. They nibbled at the tasty morsels they'd gathered together. Feasted upon the cheese; drank deeply of the wine made from the berries that overhung their current resting place. It warmed them from the inside while the spring sun warmed their skin with gentle kisses.
They spread the jam - made from the berries festooning the clearing - across their scones. Placed generous daubs of clotted cream upon it. The sweetness was overwhelming and welcome.
Once they had eaten their fill - talking animatedly throughout - they reclined on the blanket and gazed up at the blue sky. The light breeze caught the berry bushes' branches and caused them to swing in and out of their line of sight.
She looked up at the berries and let her gaze drop in and out of focus. As she let her eyes rest and her focus soften, the berries took on the soft, blurred, bokeh appearance of lights photographed out of focus at night.
She reached a hand up and gently twisted a berry off the branch with her fingertips. The berry still held the last vestiges of the spring shower, causing its purple blush to stain her fingertips as she rolled it between them. She drew the berry under her nose to smell its scent of crushed leaves.
As she turned the berry between her fingers, they talked of immortality in all its guises. The banter between them outlined the potential pitfalls of an eternity of life. They lay side by side curled up against each other, lost in a comfortable silence.
Unbeknownst to each other, both their thoughts turned to how pleasant it would be for this moment to last an eternity. They both sank into this thought, unaware of the collective power it held over them. They closed their eyes and let the spring sun warm their skin as the thought warmed their hearts.
They poured more wine and drank it as they talked more with each other. Listened more to each other. They nibbled at the remaining cheese, sliced apple and beautyberry jam. They roused themselves enough to draw out the Scrabble board and laugh their way through a close game.
As the game ended, the sun's warmth receded. The light had dropped without them noticing while they were absorbed in letters, words, high scores and banter. They pulled their jackets about them, feeling the cool afternoon breeze caress their arms and cheeks.
They gathered up the remnants of their meal. Their belongings. They shook out the blanket. The beautyberries that had fallen onto the blanket as they sat and conversed, teased and taunted, and lost themselves in the moment and each other, scattered around them.
The purple berries settled into the damp grass around them. They unwittingly trampled them underfoot as they moved around the clearing gathering up the detritus of their picnic. As they packed away the last of their picnic items, the remaining morsels of food and drink, and bundled them up, a light shower started to fall.
They moved faster, now conscious the clouds coming in threatened a greater downpour, but they savoured the touch of rain upon their faces. Dampening their hair. They paused as they both reached for the picnic basket.
He paused to wipe away a raindrop from her cheek. She paused to taste of the sweet rain that rested on his lips. They shared one last moment that felt like an eternity before turning to run, pell-mell, for the car.
They reached the warmth and dryness of its interior as the summer rain started to fall with full force. Pelting the windscreen and obscuring them from view of the outside world.
leonine
She shook out her hair, giving nary a care, and glanced around at the flock
She arched her back, gathered her pack, and plotted the demise of the stock
She watched and she waited, anticipated, observing their comings and goings
She paced and she paced, assessed the enemy she faced, she watched for their weaknesses showing
The air was so clear their words she could hear, they drifted across on the breeze
She took it all in, their clamour and din, as it carried across narrow seas
She awaited their landing from where she was standing smelling their scent on the air
It seemed such a long time but in the meantime she prepared for their imminent scare
Meanwhile on the incoming boat her enemies they stayed afloat, oblivious to her presence
Their doe-eyes distracted, their future seemed fractured, but they clearly had no sense
Of what was soon coming, no hawing and humming, their future by her was well-mapped
She openly taunted, her strength it was flaunted, but meanwhile those sheep were well napped
As she yawned her teeth bared, they were suddenly scared, they saw from the boat their demise
Too late they foresaw the strength of her maw, too late their route to revise
She slavered and drooled, her hunger it ruled, her teeth gnashed together in anticipation
Her mind was intent, her appetite unspent, she eyed her incoming meal with elation
From the shore she surmised their growing surprise at the future that faced them on landing
It gave her great pleasure to enjoy at leisure their burgeoning understanding
They were cowed and they wavered, their lowing it quavered, their courage it turned to milk
They flocked together, as if by a tether, shimmering as though they were silk
The shepherds and crew, devouring their stew, continued oblivious below decks
They had not a worry for nought but their curry, but definitely not for their necks
The men would continue to strain every sinew and entertain each other
They'd chew on their gristle and emit a whistle and fantasise 'bout their lover
They drank deep, ate hearty, they dressed oh so smartly, they exhibited oh so much style
They sang and they jigged, their boat they had rigged, to carry them one further mile
Their journey's end was in sight, they continued to enjoy the night, oblivious to what may await them
They revelled in anticipation, experienced overwhelming elation, despite the oncoming mayhem
The sheep and the cow, alert at the bow, gazed upon her mane
The second mate and the drunk navigat-or revelled in their shame
The boat it did falter, its course it may alter, but none at the wheel were prepared
To change the ship's course, avoid all remorse, so lives of those creatures were spared
They bobbed on the waves, contemplated their graves, they lowed and they baa-ed until hoarse
The shanties below, sung by every young fellow, drowned out their sounds with such force
Meanwhile on the land, the lioness took her stand, she focussed on what was to come
She stifled a roar, surveyed the seashore, and wondered where had they come from
Her pack stood attentive, eager yet pensive, intermittently licking their lips
They paced and they wandered, their energy squandered, their eyes fixed on the ships
They maundered, meandered, their thoughts underhanded, victory certain as life
Their leader so strong but the boat's approach so long, their attention, it turned to strife
They fought and they tussled, their fur it was ruffled, they argued amongst one other
They were distracted with thought, they played and they fought, they pursued another's lover
In short, they grew weary, some grew teary, their minds moved away from the prize
They bickered and teased, they snickered and sleazed, they mislaid the element of surprise
As the boat drew up to the shore, she let out a heart-stopping roar, that made the boatswain faint
Her teeth bared, ferocious, her manner precocious, the crew all prayed to a saint
Quite clearly it wasn't the same one, as their salvation wasn't won, so their fate lay in the paws of the beast
Her mercy was not what they hoped, the weaker ones fell and they moped, as she came at them from the east
Despite her pack's distraction, the campaign gained much traction, they tore apart man, sheep and cow
The blood it flowed quite free, it coloured all the sea, the colour red still dominates it now
She watched her pack quite proudly, she expressed her gratitude loudly, they dragged the creatures one by one back to the den
She knows the outcome could have been different, though she's not one to be diffident, but this time it was simply a matter of when
tunnelling
He ran his fingertips along the wall as he walked toward the light. The surface of the wall crumbled away, falling to the tunnel floor as he moved forward. He raised his fingers to his nose, looking ahead into the light, not pausing for a moment.
The smell as he ran his fingers under his nostrils brought back so many memories. Days spent with his mother in the yard picking strawberries from the patch. Gathering blackberries from the bush out front of the house.
The damp, dank smell of the tunnel mixed with the dirt to bring back a sense of petrichor without the grass. There was no grass to be seen.
He felt it should have been an unpleasant smell, down here, but the mixture of scent and memory made for an overwhelming feeling of inexplicable nostalgia. Inexplicable because he had never been here before.
The light from the stone, glassless windows played on the wall. The wall's uneven surface glimmered a little in the sunlight. It brightened and darkened as the sun played over it, and as the clouds moved across the face of the sun.
He gently placed his fingers on a sun-kissed patch of wall and felt the warm clamminess of the soil forming it against his fingertips. It brought back overwhelming memories of days spent by the local creek on sweltering summer days.
He pressed his fingers into the warm, moist mud and watched the soil curve around his fingertips. He wondered if the sunlight ever dried the wall out, or if it just warmed the moisture like it was doing now.
He dragged his fingers down the wall with movements more deliberate and less tentative than those previously. The surface of the wall smeared and distorted with the movement of his fingers.
He left his mark on the wall but doubted it would remain. For he could see no evidence of another's presence here beyond the existence of the tunnel itself.
Clearly many had been here before him. No one man could have created this opening, this entrance, this channel, on their own. No solitary man was up to that task.
This was a collaboration. A mammoth task. But around him he saw no evidence of man. No evidence of those before him. The tunnel appeared untouched, but simply by its existence it could not have been. He was not the first being to have wandered through this darkened hall.
He moved forward. He was drawn forward without really knowing why. He just didn't feel that moving backwards was an option. A valid avenue to take. The light led him forward. The possibility of what was beyond enticed him. It scared him, but he was hypnotised by the prospect of what may lay ahead.
To be honest, he didn't even really know how he had come to be here. He felt he had some vague sense of 'before', but it was just that: vague. It didn't really make a lot of sense and was just a mixture of sounds, smells, lights, tastes and textures. Nothing solid he could put his finger on.
Not like the warm, earthen tunnel walls his hands continued to gently glide over as he moved forward.
Before he had felt smothered by the dark. Warm, cocooned, safe. But smothered. As he moved forward he felt less so. He felt the air thinning. Less choked with the musty, but homely scent he'd become used to.
He tentatively but optimistically moved forward. He noticed new scents. Ones he couldn't identify. Confusing. Fascinating. Terrifying. Enticing. He felt overwhelmed but knew that turning back wasn't the right way either. His curiosity overpowered his fear. Drove him forward, despite not knowing where it drew him.
The light grew brighter. He saw colours around him now, not just shades of black, white and grey.
He heard sounds beyond what he'd heard before. Previously they were always muffled. Calming, but unclear. A dull aching sound that he'd wanted to draw closer to and hear properly. Like listening in to a conversation through a wall that you can't quite make out.
The sort of muffled conversation that keeps you awake nights as you catch an exclamation, a cry, a sob here and there, but you can't quite make out the context. What it all means. Whether the people you hear are arguing or conversing, happy or sad, excited or angry.
But as he moved closer it felt like a lens coming into focus. A camera zooming in on the scene. It all became clear.
untitled #172
2019 was a mixed bag for me. It held some of the highest highs, and some of the lowest lows.
At its best, it was a year of exploring, discovery and love. At its worst, it was a year of heartbreak.
There were highs such as seeing one of my self-portraits, ‘where the light plays’, as a main spread in Shots Magazine.
There were lows such as saying goodbye to what remains of my mother for what was likely the last time.
There were myriad outings in and around London with my camera and my intrepid tour guide, Simon, discovering more and more of my beloved city and adopted country.
There was a whole month of me returning the favour for him in Australia, though a tour guide with a fractured ankle is not quite what either of us had banked on. We will have to have a rerun sometime. (And you’ll have to wait for the photos from this visit until the new year).
I finally made my Patreon profile live and added five instalments to my series ‘postcards from another’s life’ (many more personal than I had originally intended), along with publishing other previously unpublished work there early or exclusively for patrons. Thank you to those who have become patrons so far. I promise 2020 will see more activity over there now that I’ve been able to upgrade some of my equipment!
I laughed a lot. I cried even more. I shared moments with my Dad which were heartrending but which have brought us closer together.
I discovered the alien beauty that is Turkish hazelnuts.
I’m sure I could say so much more about 2019, but the past few months have been a bit like wading through molasses, physically and emotionally, and I’m just now surfacing, a little.
So I will leave you with a selection of the many photographs I took this year, and wish you and those you love a brilliant 2020 and a wonderful new decade xx
It was a year of previously unvisited gasometers:
untitled #75 [bromley-by-bow gas holders, bromley-by-bow, london, england, 2019]
untitled #54 [rotherhithe, london, england, 2019]
Of mills and domes:
untitled #80 [three mills island, bromley-by-bow, london, england, 2019]
untitled #14 [the o2, greenwich, london, england, 2019]
Of barriers and of dams:
untitled #33 [wapping, london, england, 2019]
untitled #73 [thames barrier, royal docks, london, england, 2019]
Of plants, animals and organic matter:
untitled #99 [coalhouse fort, east tilbury, essex, england, 2019]
untitled #132 [shoeburyness, essex, england, 2019]
untitled #47 [mersea island, essex, england, 2019]
Of manmade items marooned on the littoral:
untitled #125 [shoeburyness, essex, england, 2019]
untitled #70 [mersea island, essex, england, 2019]
untitled #69 [mersea island, essex, england, 2019]
Of darkness and of light:
untitled #40 [tilbury fort, tilbury, essex, england, 2019]
untitled #70 [tilbury fort, tilbury, essex, england, 2019]
Of filming locations, old and new (relatively speaking):
untitled #106 [binsey walk, thamesmead south, london, england, 2019]
untitled #55 [southmere lake, thamesmead, london, england, 2019]
of death and of resurrection:
untitled #49 [nunhead cemetery, nunhead, london, england, 2019]
untitled #49 [the cathedral and abbey church of saint alban, st albans, hertfordshire, england, 2019]
Of love:
birthday selfie taken by simon
And sometimes, just a waste of time:
untitled #33 [crossness pumping station, abbey wood, london, england, 2019]
crying in the shower
I mostly cry in the shower. Or more specifically, in the bath, because I can't currently stand to shower.
I could be all poetic and say it's because I can hide my tears, even from myself, in the shower. The tears mingle freely with the spray from the shower rose as I douse my head; rinse shampoo and conditioner from my locks.
But it's not that. It's just that they seem to come most freely in there. Where the white noise from the water and the exhaust fan drown out everything but my own voluble and constant thoughts. Thoughts I can no longer shut out.
Crying in the shower feels cleansing; even just for a day. Until my next shower; the next time I'm completely alone with my thoughts again, and they well up, unbidden, once more.
The shower might be where I find myself in tears the most often, but lately I find myself crying almost anywhere. Everywhere. I struggle to think of a day in the past couple of months where tears didn't catch in my throat, even if I somehow managed to stifle them from pouring forth.
The first time they came, despite my best efforts, when saying goodbye at the end of a heartrending afternoon to a woman who looked like my mother, but only briefly appeared to be her, in glimpses.
She knew me when I arrived. She greeted me with open arms and a hug, despite her confused state about almost everything else. That gave me hope for just a little while, but as she repeated the same questions over and over to the hospital staff and my father, that hope died a little each time. My heart broke when she wanted to leave with us, saying 'I just want to spend time with both of you', but we knew we couldn't take her with us for at least another day.
I tried to hide the tears from my heartbroken father over the coming days, but they choked me when I tried to speak more often than I could control.
When my mother told me in one of her lucid moments, 'Don't ever let this happen to you', I hid my tears over her shoulder as I hugged her close, and left the room as soon as she became distracted with one of her newfound obsessive rituals. Barely able to breath, the tears finally streaming down my face in the next room.
Since then, I've cried in shock, in pain, in frustration and anger. In fear and panic. For what I've lost; what I'm losing.
Through my life, I've mostly managed to go without crying much in public. Not unrestrained ugly crying, at least.
But I was crying in the airport as I turned away to go through Security after she asked me when I'd be back and told me to come back soon. I told her I would, knowing full well that by the time I return she'll be gone; one way or another. As I promised, I saw that she could see the look in my eyes, and she looked like she knew she should look the same but she seemed confused about what to feel; why I might have that look in my eyes.
And I ugly-cried in a light plane over Bass Strait. I didn't care that the stewardess could see me as she went through her safety demonstration. I didn't care that the other passengers could hear my sniffles and sobs. I couldn't have stopped it, even if I'd cared.
For about a week my morning ritual consisted of tears. Tears of frustration at myself and others for the things I couldn't do unaided. For shower roses out of reach. Over the inability to lower myself to the floor of the shower or raise myself to standing to get dry. Over being left alone to do things I would usually do alone, but I couldn't.
When my mind manages to drift away from family for a while, I've cried for things I wish to be so, and things I believe will never be. I've cried in his arms. I've cried because I can't be in his arms.
Every day I've felt sure I have no more tears left, but then I tell someone about my mum. I talk with my dad and watch the heartbreak wash over his face again. We cry together over Skype, and I cry later about being so far away when all this is happening. For not being able to take away the hurt, the frustration; for not being able to change any of this.
I cry because she's already gone. Even if she's not yet gone.
And then I cry some more.
a bird’s eye view
They talked of little things. Of big things. Of middling things.
The sort of things that stuck in their craw, or alternatively that made them sing. Not that seagulls are particularly known for their singing. If you can even call it that, and most don't. But sometimes, just sometimes, there were things to speak of good enough that they made them sing, even if they were the only ones to call it that.
To be fair, she talked more. He mostly listened. He interjected sometimes with an amusing quip or anecdote and then dropped into the background, letting her speak her thoughts aloud.
Sometimes the deepest thoughts. Sometimes simply gossip about the other birds roundabout. They had views on most things, albeit mostly a high level aerial view, with the odd deep dive into society and its mores. They were dab hands at picking up tidbits around and about, but getting clear of it all when shit went down.
Occasionally they fraternised with the other birds. Other seagulls and pigeons mostly. But sometimes they travelled further afield and crossed paths with blackbirds or magpies, or other smaller neighbourhood birds. Tits, robins, sometimes the odd starling. Though the starlings tended to be a bit too obsessed with flying in formation, which didn't make for much opportunity to just chill out and network together.
They squabbled with other birds over morsels left behind by the humans, or they talked about nesting and raising their young. Exactly how much they should feed their young through regurgitation? How young was too young for the hatchling to fly the coop, or the nest? You know, the usual, really.
Despite the draw of the seafront, they didn't really like crowds much. Their favourite place to perch was over the town square; the one with the church and its churchyard. It was more peaceful and less overrun by tourists - both on the ground and in the air - than the waterfront. The nearest pub was down the hill, so apart from the Sunday sermons, the area was quite quiet.
They liked to watch the humans congregate one day a week in fancy clothes. Occasionally they would swoop down to snatch a beribboned bonnet from a small child or a prim and proper lady, causing a bit of a ruckus, soon forgotten.
Something colourful for the nest was always lovely to have. Something to brag about to their neighbours. When the humans weren't looking, sometimes they took a stroll around the churchyard to gather up the colourful tributes left behind on the graves.
What good was a colourful ribbon, an evergreen plastic leaf, a shiny bit of tinsel, to one of their lost ones? Surely it should be enjoyed by the living? These things made for beautiful touches on an otherwise dull nest of twigs and dry leaves. Something shiny and colourful to brighten up one's home and make the newest member of one’s family feel welcome.
On Fridays they feasted on fish and chips like good locals. They weren't as keen on vinegar and ketchup as their human counterparts, but beggars can't be choosers, I guess.
Some of the local humans had put out bird-feeders in their front or back gardens around the square. Leaving seeds and such out for their feathered friends. Despite initial reservations, they didn't seem to mean any harm; and though the meals on offer were basic, they were mostly hearty.
In between times, the worms surfaced from the earth in the churchyard when the rain fell, and the bins overflowed with takeaway options. The square was a relative smorgasbord without the long lines and bickering to be had by the sea.
They watched from above; surveying all below. They knew all the humans' gossip, but there was little point in knowing it because they couldn't convey it to other humans, and other seagulls just rolled their eyes to hear it. And rightly so.
The humans would never change. They were lower beings. Why bother to observe their ridiculous comings and goings? As long as they left behind the odd scraps to feed on, or left enough fish in the harbour for them to catch their own, then all could live well enough together.
Things had become a little out of hand lately as the humans were leaving the ocean in a right state. Some fish not fit to eat because of pollution, plastic in their bellies, or any number of other reasons, but there was still just enough to go around for everyone. For now.
Meanwhile, the sun was shining. The sky was blue. What more could a seagull want? What a glorious day to go fishing.
encrypted
I don't remember when death was first explained to me. Strangely, because I have a lot of vivid memories from childhood and adolescence. I feel like it's something I should remember.
When did I first become aware of the fact that everyone dies? That my grandparents would die? That my parents would die? That I would die?
I, strangely, don't know. I don't remember that ever being explained to me.
I remember hearing that my grandpa had died. The first of my close family members to pass away in my lifetime. But what I remember most about that was that my parents decided that we children wouldn't go to the funeral. That my father would go, but my mother and the three of us kids wouldn't. I don't remember the whys or the wherefores, but I guess I was okay with that.
My parents had tried to keep us away from seeing him the way he was towards the end. A non-smoker dying of emphysema. A horrible way to die.
My younger brother insisted on visiting him in the hospital to the point that my parents finally relented, but I recall being told that all my grandpa could do was wink at him, as he would always do when he caught our eye across the dining table as we carried on playing in their lounge room while the adults talked around the table and drank tea.
I don't remember the explanation for death I was no doubt given as a child, at some point.
I remember the talk about making love, having sex, fucking. The explanations of puberty and menstruation. The books my mother borrowed from the library to help me understand what would happen to my body as I moved through that awkward stage between being a child and being a woman.
Those discussions, her openness and the books she gave me to read meant I didn't face those things with fear the way her mother had. It meant I could ask any question of her about those things that I wanted an answer to. But I don't remember asking her about death, ever.
I remember my mother telling my brother and me that one of my father's former co-workers in the Northern Territory had passed away from AIDS when we were both still in primary school after we'd moved to Melbourne. Her explaining homosexuality in a non-judgmental way and probably a vague explanation of AIDS; as much as we needed or wanted to know at the time. I guess I didn't ask many questions. I listened. I took it all in. I learned homosexuality wasn't bad from a young age, but I never really thought about his death as deeply.
Then, in 1992, at 14 years of age, I found myself in a cemetery in New Orleans. A cemetery many know from the film 'Easy Rider'. A cemetery full of vaults built above ground to avoid human remains draining off into the river.
I was fascinated. This was the closest I'd ever come to death and I found it intriguing. The way life and death was celebrated through these places. The way their graves were created in as elaborate a fashion as their homes.
They were beautiful, despite the death they encased. They were time capsules. Memorials to those inside. A fashion statement. A record. Bragging rights after death.
Even at that young age, I knew I didn't personally want to be buried, but I had fallen in love with cemeteries. With graveyards. With the art of the stonemason. With the ceremony. The ritual.
Over the years I found myself consuming books about death; documentaries about death and the places people are buried. About how our bodies are handled after we die. About burials. About graveyards. About cemeteries.
I've spent countless hours, camera in hand, wandering through churchyards, graveyards, cemeteries, crypts, and whatever other names you want to call those places where people are laid to rest.
Generally, I find them places of peace, of relaxation. Like parks, but with the remains of those who came before still present in them.
But I know they often have reputations of being places of unrest. Of disrespect to those interred there. Not all of these places are peaceful or have been peaceful in the past.
In the decades since my grandpa died, I've managed to avoid the realities of death. At 42 years of age, somehow, I've managed never to attend a funeral. Never to have seen a dead body. Never to have spent time in the company of someone in their final hours or watching them pass from this world.
I consider myself lucky, but I'm also aware that I live a closeted life by not having been exposed to those things. Death is, after all, a part of life. From the time we're born we're dying. This is a simple fact not even I can escape. And for someone who actively seeks out the final resting places of the dead, it's not lost on me that I’ve managed to evade being exposed to these things.
However, for as long as I can remember, I’ve had an overwhelming awareness of my own mortality. I’m conscious this impacts me in terms of my fear of falling, for example, but also my reluctance to get a driver’s licence. My fear of others around me dying. My fear of dying. And more specifically, my fear of dying alone and no one knowing or being nearby to prevent that.
I often choose a solitary life which means I’m more likely to be alone if something unfortunate happens. Best case scenario: my flatmate will find me hours after the fact, too late to change the outcome. Worst case scenario: he or someone else will find me weeks later, again, too late to change the outcome.
Even in my worst stages of depression, I knew I wasn’t a suicide risk because what was making me most unhappy was not living my life the way I wanted to live it. I’ve always loved life and been aware of how much more I want to do, so my depression has always been related to not being able to live the life I’d like. Not due to wanting to end my life. I count myself lucky again for that.
But it doesn’t lessen my fascination with death. With how we handle the dead.
Despite my fascination with graveyards, I don’t want to be buried. I’m an outspoken advocate for organ donation (and, in fact, donation of anything that can be donated) and, as an atheist, I don’t believe in the hereafter or reincarnation or anything that requires my body to remain whole after my death.
So, while I love the stonemasons’ artistry, and the pomp and circumstance of heraldic funerals and elaborate mausoleums, vaults and headstones, I’ll settle for returning to ashes and the earth when it’s my time.
Though I hope my time doesn’t come anytime soon.
a room of one’s own
She circled the brown wooden structure, running her fingers along the wooden slats on the side and the back of the building at waist level. Feeling the texture of the wood and the few remaining thin daubs of white paint worn away by wind, rain and the salty sea air over the last few decades.
To the left of the door, she ran her fingers down the canvas nailed to the wood. Revelling in the contrast of its texture to the wooden slats.
The door's peeling surface revealed layers of varicoloured paint applied over the years. A variety of browns with an underlying coat of dull yellow peeking through.
Despite the erosion of the paintwork, she marvelled at the fact this structure was so intact when so many similar buildings dotted over the shingle beach were in such decrepit states. Fishing nets haemorrhaging from broken walls. Doors sagging on hinges. Burnt struts exposed to the elements like skeletons.
She approached the door, running her fingers over the exposed door handle. Wondering at its seemingly bonelike colour and appearance. She curled her fingers around the doorknob and turned it, expecting resistance. Surely this small building was still in use and therefore locked, with its four walls, corrugated iron roof and door still intact, despite all the wear and tear from the elements buffeting it, placed so close to the sea.
To her surprise, the door creaked open with no resistance.
She almost stepped back in surprise.
The door opened outward. She pulled it toward her, hesitantly peering around the door jamb at what might be inside. She realised she had held her breath, unconsciously, and on becoming conscious of the fact, exhaled heavily then inhaled deeply; the smell of the ocean mingling with the musty smell of the interior of the building.
A strange mixture of nostalgia washed over her: one of childhood summer holidays by the beach mixed with memories of the storage space under the stairs of her grandparents' house. For a moment she felt lost in time, and the darkness of the interior she looked in on made her feel a little off-balance.
The day was overcast and a little hazy, so much of the interior remained darkened until she opened the door fully; and even then, her eyes took a while to pick out the details in the shadows not illuminated by the daylight.
She wandered in, letting the door close gently behind her. She had established that the door had no lock, so she didn't worry about being trapped inside, though she felt slightly apprehensive about what she may find in the darkness.
She turned on the torch on her mobile phone and shone it about her. The building contained a lot of the same contents as so many similar structures along the beachfront: nets, motors, rusted machinery, and implements she knew not the purpose of. Strange artefacts she wondered at and thought may make interesting decorations for her apartment.
Her phone, previously indicating plenty of battery, suddenly turned off. The interior of the building was quickly thrown into darkness, and for a moment she felt like she was blind. She stood stock-still, feeling a little off-balance again, but waited for her eyes to adjust to the darkness.
In a few moments, a small amount of light seeped through between the wooden slats. A tight polka dot pattern of light came through the canvas, albeit pale. She let her breath out, realising she'd been holding it again.
Despite her initial discomfort with the darkness, as her eyes adjusted to the low light she found the space quite calming. The sound of the sea reached her through the walls but was less overwhelming when filtered through the canvas and wood.
She moved toward where she thought one of the walls was, navigating the space slowly and carefully. She hesitantly reached out her hands at a forty-five-degree angle, expecting her fingertips to connect with the rough wooden surface quickly, but it took far longer than expected.
When they did connect with the wood, she ran her hand gently down and moved from standing to squatting, using her other hand to check for anything at a lower point. She skimmed the wooden floor of the building with the palm of her hands before seating herself between what felt like a reel of net and some paint tins.
She sat there in the dark, letting the distant sound of the sea wash over her. She slowed her breathing to match the speed of the waves as the water swept onto and away from the shore outside. She felt a strange calm. A peace she didn't often experience. In the darkness she closed her eyes and just focussed on the sound, letting it wash her away.
new york, new york
She'd walked these streets so many times.
Sometimes slowly, taking in the apartments along each block as they moved from utilitarian buildings to grand terraces. Sometimes quickly, dodging and weaving between the other pedestrians on the sidewalk; looking mostly at the concrete, or dashing out in front of yellow cabs, but not taking in her surrounds.
The sounds of the city washing over her. The various vehicles and people clamouring to be heard, but all of the sounds merging into a cacophonous melody that threatened to overwhelm her.
She'd meandered down long avenues of brownstones, wondering about the people who lived within their walls. Coveting their homes, their lives. She strolled through the Park watching the couples. Some engaged in affectionate banter, some in excessive displays of public affection, others bickering and verging on violence, if only in words.
She walked rapidly along the back streets at night, neon lighting up the rain-soaked streets; her head down, but her senses charged and alert for any potential threats.
She'd skipped quickly down the Subway stairs, making a beeline to the platform. Careful not to brush against others if she could avoid it. Focussed on where she was going and avoiding all eye contact.
Her lips and tongue competed with the sun to consume ice creams in the sweltering summer. If the sun won, she would only get the benefit of half of the icy treat. If she won, it would be some insurance against the fatigue the heat brought with it, but it would be scarce protection against the trickle of sweat that would wend its way down her spine, and no protection at all against the cling of her blouse to her skin.
She would gaze up at the skyscrapers, marvelling at the engineering. Admire their sparkle and shimmer in the sunlight, despite despising the ostentation and arrogance of their blocking out the sun.
She watched diners in the prestigious restaurants self-consciously ensuring they were being watched behind the floor-to-ceiling windows. Pinched women with tiny fluffy dogs on the end of leads or stowed in their handbags.
She circled the Square. Watched the advertisements a storey and more tall attempt to sell her a lifestyle she could never afford and probably didn't want anyway.
She visited with Travis, Susan, Patti and Carrie.
She absorbed the art oozing from the streets. Lurked in underpasses. Experienced clubs and bars and cafes, and listened to the music pour out of every orifice. Out of a basement record store. A passing car. A strip club. A busker on a street corner singing Simon and Garfunkel off-key.
She counted her way across intersections. Marking city blocks until she reached the intersection of First Avenue and 42nd Street. She only knew which way the sun would set by the Es and Ws on the street signs; and how far north or south she was by the number of the street.
As she walked through the streets taking in the modern buildings and street scenes, her mind flashed back to the 1970s and ‘80s. The memories of these places stowed deep in her mind from so much exposure. She heard the echos of stock market crashes and organised crime.
All of these visions and sounds washed over her. She lost herself in the moment completely.
For a moment she lost herself so completely that she forgot where she was. And then she remembered.
She remembered that she wasn't where she thought she was. In fact, she had never been there. She had never walked those streets. She had never smelled those smells; heard those sounds; seen that flash of yellow as the cab passed by. Never done her duck-and-weave trick through a sidewalk of people ten-deep between the shopfronts and the kerb.
She'd simply shared a collective dream. Tasted the concoctions and potions of the City mixed together by some of the best filmmakers and writers over the years.
Her memories were poor imitations of their realities. Their stories of a city that never sleeps. Of a city on the edge. Of people on mean streets on a dog day afternoon. Of a Broadway, a Manhattan, a Central Park and a Brooklyn she'd never stepped foot in.
She'd never smelled the Subway on a sweltering hot day. She'd never raised her voice to be heard over the clamour of car horns in the centre of the city at peak hour. She'd never stood on the 102nd floor and gazed out over the city.
She'd never climbed out an apartment window to sit on the landing of a fire escape and swung her legs back and forth whilst indulging in witty repartee with a friend over a bottle of fine wine or a cheap bottle of beer.
The sign above her, not yet illuminated in the afternoon haze of a warm spring day, spelling out the name of a place everyone dreamed of going to 'make it', was about as close to the Big Apple as she had ever managed to be.
Her eyes swept down from the sign to take in the flashing lights and squawking sounds of the arcade behind it. The children attempting to claw soft toys from the machines, and buffeting a puck back and forth in air hockey.
The sign overhead and the ‘Zoltar’ machine spitting out fortunes for a pound were about as close as she would get to New York for now.
[This project is being published as early access on my Patreon. If you want to enjoy new instalments a week before everyone else, become a patron].
untitled #24 [wilverley plain, new forest, england, united kingdom]
Just over four years ago I set up a Patreon profile but, for various reasons, didn't go ahead and launch it at that time.
Over the weekend I finally launched it, and I’ve started sharing previously unseen work and new work there.
I now feel there's enough of a beginning to go ahead and share it here in case you want to become a patron and support my photography and other artistic and writing endeavours.
To begin with I’m going to be sharing:
Previously unpublished images I’ve shortlisted for my interior/exterior book as patron-only, with the posts only becoming public when the book is published, or earlier if I decide the specific image won’t be included in it before publication.
The best of my new images or newly-edited images as early access - usually a week ahead of the posts becoming public and the images being posted to my other profiles. These may be self-portraits, landscapes, portraits, photos from my travels, or images of my various favourite things (see: graveyards, gasometers, pigeons, dead creatures, etc.). These images may be accompanied by a post discussing the image, my thoughts about creating it, information about what inspired it, or no text beyond the title.
New instalments of my postcards from another’s life project. These were originally being created as part of my 100 Days Project in 2018 and being posted to Instagram first, but I’m now making these available as early access posts for patrons only as I create them, seven days before publishing them to Instagram and my other profiles.
As I go along, more projects will likely appear as early access or patron-only. This is just the beginning.
Access to patron-only posts - some patron-only indefinitely, others early access - starts at US$1.50 a month, so it won't break the bank if you’d like to get the inside scoop.
There are more tiers if you want further benefits like print discounts, a postcard, the opportunity to be part of my creative process, or loyalty rewards for being a patron for at least three months. The current tiers are my first thoughts on what folk might appreciate, but I’m open to suggestion on how to improve them.
Thank you if you do decide to become a patron. And thank you for following my work if you don’t.
untitled #29
Two of my images are included in issue #94 of F-Stop Magazine, Animals.
‘where the light plays’ in shots magazine issue #142: fading light
After a really long and tiring day, I arrived home tonight to find the latest issue of Shots Magazine, #142: Fading Light, had arrived.
And, lo and behold! My self-portrait where the light plays, taken during my residency at Hospitalfield in 2011, has been published as the main spread!
[Apologies for the terrible quality of the photograph of the spread in the magazine. The magazine is much better quality and you should subscribe to it for all the wonderful work they include each issue.]
untitled #267 [shady rest]
Four of my images from the series ‘i’m not here’ are included in issue #93 of F-Stop Magazine, Alternative Portrait.
Belatedly, one of my images was also included in issue #92 of F-Stop Magazine, At Night.
untitled #216 [highgate cemetery - west side, highgate, london, england, united kingdom]
Here we go again… It’s the time of year, in these last remaining hours of the current one before we turn over into the new one, where I take my annual look back on how quickly yet how slowly this year passed; what I did and didn’t get done; and how many steps forward and/or backward I took.
All in all, 2018 was the best year I’ve had for a while, though it inevitably had its ups and downs, like any other year.
I did manage to improve two things this year: regaining a better work-life balance and posting more to my blog thanks to my 100 Days Project (which is still in progress, so not quite following the 100 consecutive days element).
so when the glitt'ring queen of night
And I even managed to take some ‘proper’ self-portraits like the ones I described in last year’s wrap-up blog.
Inevitably the most consuming part of my year, though according to my Sleep Cycle stats, the most stress-free and relaxing part of my year (my sleep quality during that period increased to 80% from an average of 59%, and my time in bed increased to almost 7 hours from an average of 5 hours 48 minutes) was visiting the South Island of New Zealand for the first time to be a bridesmaid for my friends Erin and Nick; and returning to visit friends and family in the North Island of New Zealand, as well as Melbourne and Tasmania.
erin & nick’s wedding, photo by grace bolton photography
Apprehensive but excited about being a bridesmaid for the first time, I was lucky Erin and Nick were so organised and managed the whole intercity coordination of the bridal party so well. Apart from looking hilariously wobbly walking down the grass aisle in heels first ahead of the bride, I think I managed to carry out my duties fine and it was wonderful to see two of my friends tie the knot after so many years. It was also a chance to make good friends with the other two lovely bridesmaids, Liz and Kirsty, and get to know Erin and Nick’s families a little.
untitled #26 [rakaia gorge, new zealand, 2018]
Though the schedule and long distances of travel required for the wedding (zipping between Christchurch, Timaru, Hanmer Springs and Windwhistle) didn’t allow for too much sightseeing in some respects, I did see quite a bit of countryside along the way. Enough to know I need to pop back to the South Island sometime for more exploration!
untitled #49 [wellington, new zealand, 2018]
The few days I was able to stop over in Wellington were also a lovely chance to catch up with new and old friends and catch Wellington at its signature blustery best. It was wonderful to fleetingly catch up with Hugh and meet Kenno and Janno over a delicious dinner discussing robots and filling in blanks between cryptic Facebook updates.
monty birch
Similarly, catching up with Debbie and her family was a nice relaxing interlude after the wedding, full of wine and late night nattering over old times. Waking up to my new, inquisitive friend Monty was also a joyful way to start the day. I seriously considered popping him in my suitcase…
nighthawks [collingwood, victoria, australia, 2018]
Despite moving around so extensively during my life, the place I’ve lived longest so far has been Melbourne at a cumulative count of about 18 years. I’d not been back even for a visit since June 2010 but, suffice to say, if I were to feel homesick for Australia I figured Melbourne would be the place I would feel it.
But sorry, Melbourne, I didn’t. It was lovely to visit old haunts, discover new haunts, and more importantly, reconnect with many friends I hadn’t seen face-to-face in too many years, but I only felt a fond affection, no longing, for the city I spent so many years in. Once more my affection for London as ‘home’ was reinforced.
‘mass’ by ron mueck [ngv triennial, national gallery of victoria, melbourne, victoria, australia, 2018]
Having said that, Melbourne was, unsurprisingly, wall-to-wall with catch-ups, which was wonderful. I squeezed as many people into my time there as I could (and squeezed them, when I could), and managed to fit in a dance at an indie night; a couple of exhibitions including the NGV Triennial; a friend’s gig; and visits to old and new haunts.
untitled #147 [redwood forest, east warburton, victoria, australia, 2018]
Thanks to fellow photographer, Anthony Schroeder, I also managed a day trip out to the redwood forest in East Warburton with two lovely ladies (one heavily pregnant at the time), Jess and Preethi, and a stop-off for a pub lunch with Chris and his now-fiancée, Helen. The day out provided just the right level of calm amidst a frantic sea of brunches, lunches, cheeky pints, dinners and nightcaps.
untitled #212 [burgess cove, tasmania, australia, 2018]
After only a week in Melbourne I popped down to Tasmania to visit with my parents and catch up with my Uncle John and his partner, Verna, who timed their visit to coincide with mine.
My parents had sold their home in Redland Bay, on the outskirts of Brisbane, just as I was finishing my last visit to Australia in mid-January 2013, so it was my first time in their new home and only my second time in Tasmania, in a different part of the island to where I had visited in 2002, shortly after my return to Australia.
untitled #73 [rainforest walk, cradle mountain, tasmania, australia, 2018]
Though lengthy wandering was not on the cards with my Mum’s reduced mobility, my Dad and Uncle ensured I saw quite a lot of the countryside while I was there, and we were lucky to see quite a lot of wildlife.
My camera got quite an extensive workout while I was in New Zealand and Australia and I’m still working through the photos from my trip.
Thank you to everyone who managed to make time to meet up with me in both New Zealand and Australia, whether the odd one-to-one or the cluster of friends descending on a bar, pub or cafe in various parts of Melbourne. Thank you to Erin and Nick for inviting me to be part of their big day, and thank you most of all to my Uncle John for making my visit possible. I may no longer call Australia home, but it and my friends there still hold a special place in my heart.
As if a one-month trip to New Zealand and Australia weren’t enough for one year, I managed to sneak in day trips and weekend trips with friends and/or to visit friends in:
untitled #2 [southend-on-sea, essex, england, united kingdom]
Southend-on-Sea,
untitled #23 [wilverley plain, new forest, england, united kingdom]
the New Forest,
untitled #73 [durdle door, dorset, england, united kingdom]
Durdle Door,
untitled #9935 [west pier, brighton, england, united kingdom]
Brighton (times two),
untitled #13 [cambridge, cambridgeshire, england, united kingdom]
Cambridge,
burgers & dogs [dreamland, margate, kent, england, united kingdom]
Margate for ‘Screamland’ at Dreamland,
untitled #8 [river great ouse, bedford, bedfordshire, england, united kingdom]
and Bedford.
I gladly took my camera along for most of those trips, so have plenty of photos to work through.
This year was not just one of meeting up with old friends, but of making new ones, and I also finally emerged from a bit of a stasis to entertain the idea of ‘a serious relationship’ again.
simon
Enter Simon who has an uncanny sense of the sort of things I love that he can show me in and around London and beyond, including:
‘secret’ nuclear bunker [kelvedon hatch, essex, england, united kingdom]
a ‘secret’ nuclear bunker in Essex;
untitled #20 [parkland walk, london, england, united kingdom]
a parkland walk following an old railway from my neighbourhood to Highgate;
love sweet love [god’s own junkyard, walthamstow village, london, england, united kingdom]
a neon heaven in Walthamstow;
notice [chislehurst caves, chislehurst, london, england, united kingdom]
chalk caves in south London;
untitled #1528 [holly lodge mansions, highgate, london, england, united kingdom]
a 1930s mock Tudor council estate I somehow missed just nearby to Highgate Cemetery (which I became a Friend of earlier in the year); and an endless list of gorgeous pubs.
I’ve also spent far more time in the ‘great outdoors’ this year than previous years.
untitled #3 [trent park, cockfosters, london, england, united kingdom]
Wandering through woods and parks;
untitled #65 [lumiere london, kings cross, london, england, united kingdom]
enjoying the lights at Lumiere London;
untitled #79 [albert road gas works, new barnet, london, england, united kingdom]
and finding or being introduced to new gasometers before they are inevitably removed from the London skyline.
So, here’s to 2018, and here’s hoping 2019 continues the upward trajectory I’ve been on the past couple of years.
Here’s hoping it’s also onward and upward for all of my family, friends and any lovely people reading this. I raise a toast to you all x
untitled #708
Oh, and I also took a load off my shoulders, finally.
fairy stories
As she flicked through the brightly coloured pages, the smell of the paper, the ink on paper, wafted into her nostrils in great waves. It drew her back. Back to the sunny front room of her family's home in Aspley. The sun falling on the pages of the book of fairy stories her grandparents had given her for her sixth birthday. She lay on her belly, propped up on her elbows on the green and black mattress of the stacked beds in her mother's sewing room. She was utterly engrossed by the tales of witches, evil stepmothers, princesses, princes, cats, wolves, frogs, soldiers, giants, pigs, bears, genies, elves, dwarves and birds of many varieties.
Since learning to read she had devoured books. She completely lost herself in the worlds they created. Even when there were no pictures to accompany the words she could see the imaginary worlds in her mind's eye. The faces of the characters, the houses they resided in, the cities they inhabited.
At six years of age, of course the concept of princes and princesses was alluring. She asked her mother how you became a princess. Her mother told her you had to have blue blood. She pressed her fingertips against the veins in her arms and swore the rivers that flowed below the skin were blue, but whenever she grazed her knee in the yard or the doctor took blood it was always, disappointingly, a deep crimson colour. Not blue at all. She had not been born to be a princess.
As she grew older she learned more about fairy stories. Their origins as warnings to children about the dangers of nature, of predatory adults, of greed, sin, pride and such. She learned the stories she grew up with were sanitised, censored, made palatable for consumption before bed without driving small children to nightmares, though originally they were intended to strike fear to the very heart of children to keep them close to home and out of danger. The darkness that inhabited the original fairy stories was muted to a dark grey, instead of a deep, deep black. Gruesome endings became happy. Good conquered evil, always.
As she grew older she grew to prefer the darkness of the original stories. There was more reality in the original stories, though they were often heartbreaking. The darkness of the stories drew her in much more than the saccharine, over-bright palate of the stories she read as a child.
She wanted less and less to be saved by a handsome prince, and more and more to save herself. Or be an intelligent woman and avoid any of the traps that befell those princesses in the first place.
She grew up to learn the reality of princes and princesses was one of decisions made for them by others. Everything was strategy and allegiances; not love. For all the romantic stories she grew up on, history told her those were just stories. The realities were about diplomacy, alliances, war, peace, and cold, hard cash. Most princes and princesses were puppets without the free will to choose their love, to choose their lovers.
And yet, the myth of the perfect, all-encompassing love continued to endure in her mind. It pervaded everything, blinding her to the realities of this imperfect world she inhabited. A world that shared more in common with the original brutal fairy tales of the Grimm Brothers and their compatriots. A world not easily drawn into the whims of a ceaseless romantic who truly should have outgrown this fantasy world well before now.
And yet. And yet she grasped onto this ideal with white knuckles.
She built a castle around herself. She secured the moat, drew up the drawbridge, surrounded herself with soldiers to keep this ideal safe away from the bruising realities of life. Perched on a mountain top, she surveyed the lands around and wondered from which direction this one true love would emerge. She gazed across the lands around her, wondering when it would emerge. She waited. And waited.
And still, somehow, the cynicism that drew her away from dreams of princes and princesses and fortunes and kingdoms and all of that pomp and circumstance didn't seem to dim her belief in something she had still yet to see or to have known to even be sure that it existed. Her belief in logic, in fact, in truth; that all took a back seat to her undying belief in something more when it came to love. Despite her better judgement.
nesting
She stumbled toward the edge of the forest. Broken, bewildered, disoriented. She wasn't sure quite how she got here or quite how she was going to get home. She wasn't really certain of anything, of anyone. Of herself.
As she entered the forest, the birds gathering on branches above her called to one another. An insect hum provided a white noise bass line to their melody. The snap and crack of branches underfoot as she walked further into the forest created a syncopated, faltering percussion.
As she walked by one of the redwoods, she stumbled, her bare foot catching on a fern frond curling across the forest floor. She reached for the strong, thick old trunk of the tree; grasping it to catch her fall. Though the bark of the tree scraped skin from her forearms as she embraced it to stop from falling, she held it tighter as she regained her footing, as though her life depended upon it (and maybe it did).
She turned and leaned her back against the tree’s trunk, listening to the sounds above her. She closed her eyes and let the sounds - primarily the birdsong - wash over her. She became vaguely aware of the sap from the redwood’s trunk dripping at a seemingly glacial speed onto her shoulder as she stood, mesmerised by nature.
She shook her head, brushed her wild mane of hair back from her face, opened her eyes and looked around her. Eyes lingering on the eternity of trees stretching out in front of her, then the glimpses of sky through the canopy overhead, then falling on a cluster of mushrooms at the base of the trunk of the next ancient, towering tree.
She wove her way through the forest like a somnambulist. Dazed, her eyes unfocused. She felt like she'd somehow ended up being the last person on earth. She felt isolated, yet liberated. Free from other people, the crowds, the harsh sounds of the city. Surrounded by creatures possessed with the gift of flight, of music; self-sufficient in nature, without any need of humans.
She watched as a squirrel scurried across the forest floor and ascended to a branch to hoard its findings. She watched ants moving in armies up and down the length of a tree trunk, carrying morsels from the undergrowth into a knot in the wood. She envied them the simplicity of their lives. The ordered way in which the ants collaborated and cooperated. The home the squirrel had made overhead.
As she walked, she stooped from time to time to gather up some of the larger fallen branches until her arms were full. She moved toward a nearby clearing and carefully arranged the branches on the ground. She gathered more branches, not really thinking closely about what she was doing, just following some sort of instinct; a calming instruction sent directly from her mind to her limbs. She moved back and forth between the trees; selecting, collecting, depositing, nesting.
After a time the branches took on a form; a circular, welcoming shape that drew her in, made her feel more calm, more settled. At home. She continued adding to her construction, not thinking, just doing. Like the ants, but alone. The placement of the branches methodical, precise, yet appearing haphazard. The curve of the branches raised on one side and lower on the other; like some sort of pottery dish moulded by an amateur not yet skilled in the art of ceramics.
She paused as she approached her construction. Surveying it to assess whether it needed anything further, or was it complete? A gentle smile touched her lips as she decided it would do perfectly.
Her bare feet raw and stinging from walking back and forth across the forest floor; across twigs and branches and the odd soft cluster of fallen leaves and scattered fern fronds. Her shoulders and back warm with a satisfying ache from bending, lifting and carrying. She stepped into the circle of branches, bent her knees and gently placed her arse, thighs and lower back against the curve of the side of her construction, and leaning to one side, moulded her spine along the wall of the nest. Her hair tumbled over her face, obscuring her vision as she closed her eyes and the sound of the birdsong seemed to lift in her ears. She wrapped her arms around herself, embracing her aching body.
As she lay there in the forest, the thick smells from the undergrowth seeped into her nostrils. The smell of the wood, the soil, the musty smell of the mushrooms growing nearby. In her ears the continuing call and answer of the birds overhead, the hum of insects echoing across the space.
As she curled into herself further, one sentence gently circled in her mind: I am home.
so when the glitt'ring queen of night
"So when the glitt'ring Queen of Night,
with black Eclipse is shadow'd o'er,
the Globe that Swells with Sullen Pride,
her Dazzling Beams to hide;
does but a little time abide,
and then each Ray is brighter than before."
'so when the glitt'ring queen of night' from
'the yorkshire-feast song' - henry purcell
the disposition of the linen