Seeing the green line ...

It has been said, and I am sure to have mentioned it here before, that, on clear days, as the sun sets a green line can be seen on the horizon in this part of the world. Tis true that I have seen many a setting sun and it is not green. The sun sets and sets very quickly, especially at this time of year - it being winter and all. And, do not contradict me for it is not a fact but a subjective poetical whimsy.


The wind rises at this time of year and the south of the island is a blustery as a good day at Portland Bill. Fortunately, there is the sun, which sets. A couple of days ago whilst taking yet more photos of sunsets that are always different and often better than the last I saw it. The green line that is, not the sun. In fact it is not a green line but a flash of green like that of a port side lamp on a storm-tossed galleon - the Flying Dutchman obviously. That's it. A flash of green.


A flash of green. After spending all those years staring into sunsets I am not too sure if it actually exists or if it is a precursor to blindness. Surely there is a moral there somewhere - a metaphysical metaphor about the humbling nature of existence, the weight of the soul or the stupidity of staring at the sun. It is bright, the sun not the starer.

For I have seen seabows off the gates of St Pierre ...

The pleasures of early Sunday morning as the sun rises and chases the wee folk of the night skittering and dancing into the sea.



Intense the experience if one were only to allow one's emotions to promenade with the eyes seeking greater depth and feeling with all that one beholds.


An awakening suitable for early hours solitary walking. Try it ...

Landscapes of the mind ...

Funny things minds. You take them out of themselves into the great wide world and they construct hitherto unknown Boschian realities that feed on themselves.


So be it. This is a moment for quotations not sucking up the flotsam of the psyche through the navel.

"That I am I.
That my soul is a dark forest.
That my known self will never be more than a little clearing in the forest.
That gods, strange gods, come forth from the forest into the clearing of my known self, and then go back.
That I must have the courage to let them come and go.
That I will never let mankind put anything over me, but that I will try always to recognise and submit to the gods in me and the gods in other men and women."

-- D.H. Lawrence: Studies in Classic American Literature, Benjamin Franklin

Words accrue ...

Should words accrue around meaning, I am not too sure what accrues around images. There is a certain depth in a good image into which one falls.







... and falling is a dangerous liberating thing. A thing of which it surely cannot be because it is an action. Too much waffle.

“I cannot cure myself of that most woeful of youth's follies--thinking that those who care about us will care for the things that mean much to us.” D.H.Lawrence

Something in the way she ...

The anthropomorphication of the abstract in Nature

Found Bosch and Dali looking for sand on the beach. Well at least Hockney wasn't there.





... and all this next to a great steaming pile of lava ...

The end of the road or a jurassic lark ?

The great, wise dialectical endormi has had plenty of time to meditate at the moment. It is raining and it has been raining a lot. So much so that the beaches have been turned to mud and are closed due to pollution. Pollution ? The papers say it is caused by all the vegetation and mud washed down out of the ravines that abound. The truth is more likely all the crap that people throw in the ravines. Whatever, I shan't be going to the beach as the road has got there before me and is adding to the debris ...


Still, it is interesting to be reminded that at least we cannot control everything and Nature reclaiming a bit of tarmac seems just.


I was wittering somewhere about photography and light. Thinking aloud that water is perhaps light and Thales is a candle.


Whatever, the endormi is making a great effort to cross the mudflats ...