2/2 Photograph depicts the Kincardineshire coast. (Continued from previous post)....Across the way ahead lay a slick mute of deadfall, and no way around or between. He parked the car in a phantom lay-by, snuffed out the engine's ache and listened.
He fancied he heard great consumptive gasps, agonised retching, terrible wheezes and panting. He fancied too that he heard great accusatory steps from some distance behind, that echoed through the black firebreak. There was a hideous amusement inherent to that sound too, suggestive of a degree of self- loathing in depth he had never known. Impossible age, and abhorrent progression of disease indicative of incredible suffering , the skeletal remnant of a titan, a living bog body, a necromancer devilled from his plot for eternal life.
Such an advanced state of corrosion, a mess of vampirism and lycanthropy, a moth skull in a petal suspension, a grey leaden mind that syphilis had long since taken to a surrealist realm, but none had painted lest it were in blood and shit. Ten thousand years of plague and the nucleus of him still squirmed like vermin must to escape the slime of the egg.
Yet, all at some distance, and consequently fading presently to silence, where only the wind spoke, a comfort of purrs in woodsmoke, dark earth, sea salt. A comfort in valiant mirth, at some juncture, if only the car would steer him home. Guy Fawkes on the barrow looking for roubles, Charon trawling the sinuous river wind. The Styx in spate, narrowed like an eye against a fog of visions. Then, incredibly perhaps, Sleep.
-Jan . . .
Northern Lights | 12th April- 12th May⠀
In issue 255 of @ceramicreview there is an article which looks at the paths taken by Scandinavian ceramists Marie Beckman and Jussi Ojala. We currently have one display copy but will be receiving more copies soon. The article gives a beautiful insight into Ojala's work. ' There is much to experience in the mysterious world of glazes that can seem like enchanted forests, cloud formations, or satellite images of the arctic ice breaking up.' Petter Ecklund CR255⠀
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1/2 Photo depicts a drop on the coast of Kincardineshire, observed last night (what exactly is a "drop", you might not unreasonably ask. It's where you perform a Coup de Grace) You walk out there, you have a scuttle about, you trundle home in the rich light of gloaming, the most soulful light there is. You muse upon your current climate, imagine scenes rolling, ticking-by behind the eyes, as with a distinctly feminine grace, nightfall softly slips on your blindfold:
An odyssey, that's the coast he said, I've swallowed years adrift in spools of tract and followed the night here, to tell you before I'm gone.
His was a face that had worn the grave, and empathic concern, as explicit as voids of night in the clear blue sky.
He had walked abroad, too far, too hard, on a pebble scar that traced the estuary mirror, sketching through impenetrable forest. The shadows had grown too long, their black bladder-wrack coat tails had begun to swarm and shift like spawning eels, dredging imprints like fossil ghosts in the macabre dapples of light that languished round the hedgerows.
He drove over a shadow head, he said, a shadow head from whence sprung shoals of pursuant shadows, that drew themselves to the car as it struggled to broach the surface tension borne of an unnaturally dense darkness.
Presently, his headlights picked out the wild eyes of supping does in brilliant reflection, the haunted stares of farm cats at murder, then at long last eyes that flew just below the forest canopy, the swarm of forest that the road had laid....(continued overleaf)
-Jan . . .