tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-53654141877742985472024-03-14T08:15:49.928+01:00 RivertrainA blog about writing and travelling. Text and images © Morelle Smithdritanjehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16025213970107184429noreply@blogger.comBlogger399125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5365414187774298547.post-17242116409564537382024-03-04T17:00:00.001+01:002024-03-04T17:37:29.883+01:00Albania: history, geography & writers<p><span style="color: #0c343d; font-size: large;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxb6_uL-R8PDJ3paXiZ0m8M-B5yR45KxLeMVLIRoH_G5VizHHCXBuXbuBJLc2zO9PKX9KPhEa-qk2AmWyDGHVar7XCc1Vt0aNcbaLCL1xDviSsyTaRmQaNf-6bxmqRe4LI_MxADF_qAowa2NgoGwbNvpi-_t4EHBgtyiojnWjH4RYLtsNVnk0kmjtpS18/s1296/KINDLE_CAMERA_1572533670000%20b&W.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1296" data-original-width="808" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxb6_uL-R8PDJ3paXiZ0m8M-B5yR45KxLeMVLIRoH_G5VizHHCXBuXbuBJLc2zO9PKX9KPhEa-qk2AmWyDGHVar7XCc1Vt0aNcbaLCL1xDviSsyTaRmQaNf-6bxmqRe4LI_MxADF_qAowa2NgoGwbNvpi-_t4EHBgtyiojnWjH4RYLtsNVnk0kmjtpS18/w250-h400/KINDLE_CAMERA_1572533670000%20b&W.jpg" width="250" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">cat on house balcony in Tirana, Albania<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /> </span></p><p><span style="color: #0c343d; font-size: large;">I’m giving a talk to the <a href="http://www.sauniere-society.org/">Sauniere Society</a> at the Musical Museum in Brentford, London, March 16, 2024, so I’ve been going over notes and making a photo presentation. The talk is about Albania’s history as a background to my book <i><a href="https://www.readfictiondirect.co.uk/new-books-from-fiction-direct">Beyond the Lion Gate</a></i>. Beginning with the Ottoman Empire, I’ll look at Gjergi Kastrioti aka Scanderbeg, Ali Pasha, hero and tyrant, Lord Byron, Edward Lear, Edith Durham, the communist era, and its eventual demise. Moving to this century, there are quite a few books & memoirs written about life in Albania in the communist days and later. I could mention some authors of books that I would thoroughly recommend – Bessa Myftiu, (<i>Confessions des lieux disparus</i>) Blendi Fevziu,(<i>Enver Hoxha: the iron fist of Albania</i>) <a href="https://rivertrain.blogspot.com/2009/08/loose-threads-on-fringe.html">Fatos Lubonja</a>, (<i>Second Sentence; The False Apocalypse; Like a Prisoner</i>) Ornela Vorpsi (<i>The Country where no-one ever dies</i>)<br /><br />I recently read a couple of articles on <a href="https://balkaninsight.com/2022/11/17/albanian-writer-chronicles-years-in-communist-political-prisons/">Balkan Insight</a> website about Albania today – how the files kept by the sigurimi will not be opened to the public, and how the nation cannot reconcile itself to its past or go beyond it or whatever the right relation with past is supposed to be, as long as these archives are kept sealed. <br /> </span></p><p><span style="color: #0c343d; font-size: large;"><a href="https://rivertrain.blogspot.com/2010/11/symbolism-of-empty-chair.html">Fatos Lubonja</a> has written about his experiences as a political prisoner <i>(Second Sentence; <a href="http://istrosbooks.com/product/like-a-prisoner/">Like a Prisoner</a></i>). Fatos has continued to write articles & essays & produce visual artwork, and he is now an award winning writer and prominent political critic. He has exhibited his art work, along with Ardian Isufi, another artist, in the Spaç prison and labour camp where he spent several years of his life. You can see pictures of <a href="https://balkaninsight.com/2023/02/27/ex-prisoner-of-albanian-communist-regime-exhibits-art-at-former-jail/">his art and the prison</a>. </span></p><p><span style="color: #0c343d; font-size: large;"> </span></p><p><span style="color: #0c343d; font-size: large;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-zcfq55uEjMF1IAS54G8z8QiQr1R8Fb7Iymp2dtWGNVU-KW16kOonYsavHw0iNpRTEGOOrDcBMsA0PeCdZuRD6_96DKK2fscWP5E-dhP3UHdaR4Ew-zN_QPNs0AOSklBsb4OtNvj1G4J7nIVjaxu-GKl9L1mwHIBgbc9SnmPu-wKkftWhyesr9AwVH6M/s3664/038%20Vjosa%20river.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2748" data-original-width="3664" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-zcfq55uEjMF1IAS54G8z8QiQr1R8Fb7Iymp2dtWGNVU-KW16kOonYsavHw0iNpRTEGOOrDcBMsA0PeCdZuRD6_96DKK2fscWP5E-dhP3UHdaR4Ew-zN_QPNs0AOSklBsb4OtNvj1G4J7nIVjaxu-GKl9L1mwHIBgbc9SnmPu-wKkftWhyesr9AwVH6M/w400-h300/038%20Vjosa%20river.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Vjosa river, south Albania<br /></td></tr></tbody></table></span></p><span style="color: #0c343d; font-size: large;">A third article is about<a href="https://balkaninsight.com/2024/02/28/even-bees-will-die-river-diversion-threatens-albanias-shushica-valley/"> the river Shushica </a> a tributary of the river Vjosa. There is an attempt by villagers, backed by an NGO Eco Albania, not to let the water of this river be diverted to serve the coastal areas, where an increasing number of Tourist apartments and hotels are being built. The inhabitants of the valleys through which this tributary has always flowed, they need the water, to sustain their smallholdings, their vegetable gardens and their orchards as well as their daily needs. And as part of a protected National Park, other flora and fauna would be affected too.</span><p><span style="color: #0c343d; font-size: large;"><br />Edi Rama has been Albania’s prime minister for some years now but back in 2000 when I first lived there, he was in the running to be mayor of Tirana. He described the city as being like ‘a medieval tavern’. Once he became mayor he began immediate improvements such as painting the exteriors of the apartment blocks ‘lurid colours’ (quoting <i>Tirana in your pocket</i>), demolishing illegal buildings such as the ones on the banks of the river Lana, and planting trees in their place. </span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkjrdbHi_Yo63XtRZ2g2tJAh9S-cWwGxWS4P8xTy3X5Gu6BznzPGIkswwFHoIKRZ1rF5uBQghwvPTN_sQU4VrEmAqGaTEYxWEeA90PQGKGNqnH2nE6-nnb9jG79KsBx8M_fP0l6IQ16H8jSmkH8ipcZif1OC5dM8rr9NXhsXdAHUQ6ZZD1xwkm1Y9xJfM/s3334/Lana%20river%202000%20and%20today%20text.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="3334" height="144" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkjrdbHi_Yo63XtRZ2g2tJAh9S-cWwGxWS4P8xTy3X5Gu6BznzPGIkswwFHoIKRZ1rF5uBQghwvPTN_sQU4VrEmAqGaTEYxWEeA90PQGKGNqnH2nE6-nnb9jG79KsBx8M_fP0l6IQ16H8jSmkH8ipcZif1OC5dM8rr9NXhsXdAHUQ6ZZD1xwkm1Y9xJfM/w400-h144/Lana%20river%202000%20and%20today%20text.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lana river in 2000 (left) & 2019 (looking in the other direction)<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p><span style="color: #0c343d; font-size: large;"><br />Another reclaimed green area was turned into a park, trees were planted, paths were created, with benches at the sides and litter bins nearby. These metal bins were more delicate than practical, easily wrested away from their poles; they were also tiny, and quickly overflowed. (Much more robust bins are provided nowadays). Festoons of street lights were also placed in the median strips of the main roads. And though some criticised these changes as being superficial, they did make a difference, the start of much bigger changes. Tirana is now a modern lively city with busy restaurants and cafes, smooth and decorative paving stones on pavements, and equally smooth surfaces on roads, full of traffic. And some enormous tower blocks, and glass covered frontages of buildings, mainly banks. There is plenty of wealth here now. For a few.</span><br /><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgY5WYJuwi4xHYMzU6QXjwyXhyctyiKwndJrQLedLsx4uI5rt-iZP61rR3uyoJD0oVYNx2ivm2V90whew1UiWSCZlxzCDG5AeywAg_52fLEXUMKPeIfkrF7GlGJXcHcNFqhmlVBqYLNuh0R0MMY6Hc6-n3y-SAhLjHCb9neYhb3Di4uPetuqZ4J1UMtU9A/s2155/bike%20stalls%20then%20and%20now.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1154" data-original-width="2155" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgY5WYJuwi4xHYMzU6QXjwyXhyctyiKwndJrQLedLsx4uI5rt-iZP61rR3uyoJD0oVYNx2ivm2V90whew1UiWSCZlxzCDG5AeywAg_52fLEXUMKPeIfkrF7GlGJXcHcNFqhmlVBqYLNuh0R0MMY6Hc6-n3y-SAhLjHCb9neYhb3Di4uPetuqZ4J1UMtU9A/w400-h214/bike%20stalls%20then%20and%20now.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bike stall in Tirana, 2000 (left) and 2009<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br />dritanjehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16025213970107184429noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5365414187774298547.post-17405083400057122472024-02-21T22:21:00.000+01:002024-02-21T22:21:15.698+01:00Film of the day - black and white<p><span style="color: #0c343d; font-size: large;"><i> Every day, starting out, may not feel like a film, but we can make it into one. </i>Stanisław Nadedzny.<br />Film of the Day <br /></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDvVtpSsR6QKy5U0HTSUky_9DCtaZXWy-qLG8yStbv5DJPDyglfwPVqKgvkk3ZXbKh0d8QKYHf1W89KQYSTpXv6WURj688UvKUN94XWow0q1XeDauy2q-NuxXa-IIp8kDcATaxi6ezn-T9sLDf4vf0ojDWXcrMBeDtPH_ezEDxXnGG-wIgS355zT9OEDU/s3910/IMG_20240213_124216%20catkins%20b&W.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2255" data-original-width="3910" height="231" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDvVtpSsR6QKy5U0HTSUky_9DCtaZXWy-qLG8yStbv5DJPDyglfwPVqKgvkk3ZXbKh0d8QKYHf1W89KQYSTpXv6WURj688UvKUN94XWow0q1XeDauy2q-NuxXa-IIp8kDcATaxi6ezn-T9sLDf4vf0ojDWXcrMBeDtPH_ezEDxXnGG-wIgS355zT9OEDU/w400-h231/IMG_20240213_124216%20catkins%20b&W.jpg" width="400" /></a><span style="color: #0c343d; font-size: large;"></span></p><p><span style="color: #0c343d; font-size: large;"><br />Today had a special quality right from the start, a numinous energy. For so long, the weather has been wet or cold or with a strong wind blowing or some combination of these. Today there was sunshine, stillness, birdsong. And so it did not matter that I was not quite sure where I was going and had not decided on how I was going to get there, for it was warm enough to make choices as I went along, and in the end, I walked a short way down Edinburgh's High Street, but Carrubbers Close was blocked off at the far end. This close links to family history of philanthropy in setting up Carrubbers Close Christian mission to help the poor. <br /><br />I walked a little further and eventually came to a close that looked as though it too had turned into an impasse near the far end but I decided to try it anyway. Usually you can see trees or vegetation over the tops of walls as you go down the closes but now, there are tall wooden hoardings blocking off any view. And there was the enjoyment of exploration, not knowing what would be at the end, if there would be any exit onto the street at the bottom, or not. But there was, a passageway leading to a kind of tunnel which went between two parts of a glitzy hotel. <br /><br />The unhurried pace, the unaccustomed warmth, the boarded off closes, explorations and discoveries, all contributed to the dream-like quality of the day, a combination of strangeness and familiarity. My mother came to mind, as if this place, if not this time, was familiar to her, formed part of her early memory, the kind that shapes our bones as well as our imagination. <br /><br />In this film I spoke to a man in a hard hat who was standing beside the wooden closed off entranceway and asked him what was going on, why Carrubbers’ Close was blocked off to pedestrians. He said that they were building a lift for the hotel, but as there was no room inside, it had to be built on the outer wall of the hotel, another modern swanky construction, and the close had to be closed off, it would be too dangerous for pedestrians to be walking past a building site. It could take months he said, but it would be opened to the public again once the lift was built. These closes are very narrow and I did wonder how much of it would be occupied by the hotel lift, leaving even less space for passing pedestrians.<br /><br />I went on to Waverley station, which I was going to walk through, as a shortcut to the road that leads on to Leith Street. In the centre of the station, there was a crowd of people, and a piano. I thought they were installing a public piano, even though there is another one in a less busy part of the station. A few moments later, a diminutive person came up to the piano, sat on the edge of the stool, so that he could reach the pedals – and started playing the most wonderful and accomplished piano pieces. </span></p><p><span style="color: #0c343d; font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #0c343d; font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1Dpo5pgRWSeBo2CsTaURhVkfNlkB1f7pEjdHAqGjMAP4g9Xrh5QEqjhyrbG9YSOJs8emh93Bszoudu8Tvn6rkTWN8Fj7XsWbpsSJLJ6xvqXyrTH7kSbMHzyzrOYrQ0MOO48Qmf-xKRsZQvhO5Lcmsl2orxg63hkYh2GCR6_4ExBDFh_b5ppjMoHH7nq8/s2466/IMG_20240216_202612%20young%20pianist%20B&w.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2466" data-original-width="2272" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1Dpo5pgRWSeBo2CsTaURhVkfNlkB1f7pEjdHAqGjMAP4g9Xrh5QEqjhyrbG9YSOJs8emh93Bszoudu8Tvn6rkTWN8Fj7XsWbpsSJLJ6xvqXyrTH7kSbMHzyzrOYrQ0MOO48Qmf-xKRsZQvhO5Lcmsl2orxg63hkYh2GCR6_4ExBDFh_b5ppjMoHH7nq8/w369-h400/IMG_20240216_202612%20young%20pianist%20B&w.jpg" width="369" /></a></span></div><span style="color: #0c343d; font-size: large;"> We all applauded when he finished. He was then congratulated by a famous figure, the pianist Lang Lang, who presented him with a book. Later I spoke to one of the many people dressed in black and white with lanyards round their necks, and found out that the film crew were from Channel 4 which is making a documentary on young pianists playing in train stations in cities throughout the UK. <br /><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="color: #0c343d; font-size: large;"></span></p><p><span style="color: #0c343d; font-size: large;"></span></p><p><span style="color: #0c343d; font-size: large;"></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU_EUjFnhzJMkz0IG592A5TD9B9cFBk94JcklMlU_C8yxZoMaZ3ACWTm4wn4LB2DUarg1HM2TFsJidAwfzevpOjnaCWz4DIMYvz19Fl212236_TfO0vucgpL6J9PKUcw83SdwnZnlKqOmK-UH5RarGFlvW5ds06P9uqTTafv63WTomem_moVy-VEwpnd4/s4608/IMG_20240216_120625%20Lang%20lang%20b&w.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4608" data-original-width="2272" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU_EUjFnhzJMkz0IG592A5TD9B9cFBk94JcklMlU_C8yxZoMaZ3ACWTm4wn4LB2DUarg1HM2TFsJidAwfzevpOjnaCWz4DIMYvz19Fl212236_TfO0vucgpL6J9PKUcw83SdwnZnlKqOmK-UH5RarGFlvW5ds06P9uqTTafv63WTomem_moVy-VEwpnd4/w198-h400/IMG_20240216_120625%20Lang%20lang%20b&w.jpg" width="198" /></a></div><br /><span style="color: #0c343d; font-size: large;"><br />Through the station, to Leith walk, on to Elm Row, to check out the pigeons. Elm Row has recently been renovated to make more room as far as I can see, for parked cars, but less room for shrubbery and greenery. But at least they have still kept a line of trees. <br /></span><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhD1FUzRyl1zo7_CWsO0Zn0BXUnWdEQmx5c8F-gIF_kPEZk-Ieg5_N-WgcgY1JSKjSnpSVld2ta9mnk4pASbmgg2tSOrq8fyQeIi1mcJPQwDUbRUOfrhQl8CD3v1_j-2pNpE2PDxIPOgqhiAEuACl0TIEzIHrLOIpwIWA8NIhhzjzBpIZ-b_lB8dps2Td0/s4005/IMG_20240216_202747%20pigeons%20b&w.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2272" data-original-width="4005" height="228" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhD1FUzRyl1zo7_CWsO0Zn0BXUnWdEQmx5c8F-gIF_kPEZk-Ieg5_N-WgcgY1JSKjSnpSVld2ta9mnk4pASbmgg2tSOrq8fyQeIi1mcJPQwDUbRUOfrhQl8CD3v1_j-2pNpE2PDxIPOgqhiAEuACl0TIEzIHrLOIpwIWA8NIhhzjzBpIZ-b_lB8dps2Td0/w400-h228/IMG_20240216_202747%20pigeons%20b&w.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><span style="color: #0c343d; font-size: large;"><br />The day’s last participants were at dusk, walking home, the peaceful hour, the darkening hour, and so many birds singing, not a grand orchestra, but different instruments and melodies, echoing between the trees. </span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><p></p>dritanjehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16025213970107184429noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5365414187774298547.post-66674982021887303682024-01-06T21:00:00.001+01:002024-01-06T21:22:27.319+01:00Unexpected Airports <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3j2NA-XA0s-y9llO3WuBOacJbOLKwFtYxnoeWxr25RkRUil3pxK_WqSzu7p-2vt9X9TlT6UcTFuiowsmvstCdk08YoQt8oHd0Dl_BBZ6k3-52YeSdij_j5Dwjsm6Vp_jM6DJ-2dlBACrPVDfwi3dS3q9GZRYq7l2Kd4qhK84Vav8Pv7oG1snvccgS298/s4608/IMG_20231221_132441.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2272" data-original-width="4608" height="316" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3j2NA-XA0s-y9llO3WuBOacJbOLKwFtYxnoeWxr25RkRUil3pxK_WqSzu7p-2vt9X9TlT6UcTFuiowsmvstCdk08YoQt8oHd0Dl_BBZ6k3-52YeSdij_j5Dwjsm6Vp_jM6DJ-2dlBACrPVDfwi3dS3q9GZRYq7l2Kd4qhK84Vav8Pv7oG1snvccgS298/w640-h316/IMG_20231221_132441.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /> <span style="color: #0c343d; font-size: large;">There used to be a small US airline called Piedmont and my friend Gray called it the Puddle jumper. Or hopper. Not only were they short distance flights, their small aircraft had propellers. I'm reminded of it now, as I have hopped across the Irish Sea in a small plane with propellers, then early this morning we crossed the English Channel or La Manche as those on the other side call it. <br />Such a good feeling, a remembered pleasure, as the plane made contact with French soil, or tarmac, as we landed, very smoothly I have to say. I had forgotten how good it feels being in France. Even if it’s only at the airport it still feels like France. </span><p></p><p><span style="color: #0c343d; font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #0c343d; font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFF7QZwyPEwtQEawX18ZnV9ry0ctt3BI2qrkebXehx8swcqBz3JUqC19O2vUDa9Kt1NFkZIDAR2OtfmlLVHR4iL7dzzSFdppoRWvTnJwkiheo8THjn7zNnp7MW4hd6YJHQbS6OFBKvtJTbWwdyi32LYHzv7ElRHBMGUZPu7Ka4pZPugi7jsUWyR14n6J8/s4608/IMG_20231222_083628.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2272" data-original-width="4608" height="316" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFF7QZwyPEwtQEawX18ZnV9ry0ctt3BI2qrkebXehx8swcqBz3JUqC19O2vUDa9Kt1NFkZIDAR2OtfmlLVHR4iL7dzzSFdppoRWvTnJwkiheo8THjn7zNnp7MW4hd6YJHQbS6OFBKvtJTbWwdyi32LYHzv7ElRHBMGUZPu7Ka4pZPugi7jsUWyR14n6J8/w640-h316/IMG_20231222_083628.jpg" width="640" /></a></span></div><span style="color: #0c343d; font-size: large;">I hadn’t intended to go this way, but to fly from Dublin on my scheduled flight, to Chicago. But there were bad storms, the plane from Edinburgh was late and I missed my connection. I was put up at the Carlton hotel, courtesy of Aer Lingus, and was rescheduled on a United Airlines leaving from Charles de Gaulle. So I was up at 4 am to get back to Dublin airport in time for the connecting flight to Paris.<br /></span><span style="color: #0c343d; font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7yVdyowVXBRyzL3-Y-K-NFC7OX5YXcUZFtwH-D0nxXNDpw9MIzOyIW5S5-6rCNVOLoclWW9DTteVpiXPmlrSq_eOU3hCSsbf4ljiybaRehEfOtKJFQMLaa9vhkpUHUl96fbPMTTbdSnHm-g1QfsnhBsfH4hIs371hAirxljXjKTJ3khMlThfWk0hx3Uk/s4608/IMG_20231222_210409.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2272" data-original-width="4608" height="316" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7yVdyowVXBRyzL3-Y-K-NFC7OX5YXcUZFtwH-D0nxXNDpw9MIzOyIW5S5-6rCNVOLoclWW9DTteVpiXPmlrSq_eOU3hCSsbf4ljiybaRehEfOtKJFQMLaa9vhkpUHUl96fbPMTTbdSnHm-g1QfsnhBsfH4hIs371hAirxljXjKTJ3khMlThfWk0hx3Uk/w640-h316/IMG_20231222_210409.jpg" width="640" /></a></span><br /><span style="color: #0c343d; font-size: large;">The young woman serving in the Carlton hotel restaurant last night said she had just sat an exam. She's a student. What subject? I ask. Sports media. When she finishes she'd like a job in Germany or USA or England. I ask if they are particularly busy this evening. Yes she says, I was walking with my friends after the exam and it was so windy I said I bet we'll be busy tonight, there will be lots of people sent here from the airline because this weather will delay flights and people will miss their connections, there will be a stream of discomfited passengers. <br /><br />But she didn't say discomfited, that’s my word. She was reassuring and friendly as were all the reception staff who probably specialise in dealing with morose or annoyed or even ill tempered passengers manqué, trailing their baggage and their disrupted plans, but probably mostly looking vague or slightly absent, looking around them and waiting to be told what to do. </span><br /><p></p><p><span style="color: #0c343d; font-size: large;">And they will be. They will be hugely accommodated and fed, at the airline's expense. Because, well, the reason for delay in flights, just as the Irish student predicted, was high winds. But I think it was trickster Mercury shaking his coat of clouds or flicking his winged sandals to shake up the stratosphere a little, get those winds hurrying across the skies as if they had a vital rendezvous which they do, well of course they do, it's just that they didn't tell us about it.<br /><br />So many everyday miracles, regular tricks and wizardry and sleights of hand. Especially when landing and taking off. <i>On a atterré. </i>Returned to earth. <i>On a décollé.</i> We have unstuck from our usual close connection with the earth. We are weightless, we have taken off, we are between earth and deep space we are moving at speed between our beloved solid ground and the home of stars beyond gravity, and that is why they twinkle so magnificently, shivering with curiosity, watching us hopping over ponds and oceans somewhere at least in my case, between believing and not believing that I am really in the air above earth, that this is really happening. It has been a little dream like for some time.<br />Some of us flit about the earth in these extraordinary silver cigar shaped machines and others look up to machines in the sky which drop bombs on them. <br /><br />Early this morning I was waiting in quite a long line for coffee, before boarding my first flight. I needed a coffee and I was grateful that there was a café serving coffee at 5.30 in the morning. It took a while though, this was no Starbucks with lots of baristas, there was only one young woman, to serve everyone. A family of Americans is behind me. The teenage girl says to her father, why is there such a queue? They've just opened, he says. Why didn't they open earlier? she asks. I mean what if I had flight at 3 am and I needed, she pauses, a service? Her father does not reply at least not audibly. I marvel meanwhile at a generation who assumes that one should get whatever one wants, at any time. At least in an airport. But they have come to expect that, because mostly that's how it is. And, if there are winds and storms, floods and volcanic eruptions, if there are snow storms and ice storms, dust storms and sand storms, your airline will put you up, will find another flight for you, will re-book you, will feed you, will ensure you can get to your accommodation, can get back to the airport, can get on to your new flight. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #0c343d;">And for all this too, I feel immense gratitude: we have come to expect that airlines are really stand ins for the divine powers of weather and serendipity and for those acts of God which no one can predict and even if you could, you would be powerless to prevent their effects on our fragile systems, our delicate metal tubes buffeted by the air streams that flow around our planet. The effects ranging from slowing down the transport tubes (like those vacuum canisters that used to travel around a connecting network of tubes, a kind of delivery service bringing mail, within a city, or receipts, within a large department store, or even an underground service of trains, shuttling people from one part of the city to another) from slowing them down to bringing them to a complete standstill, to grounding them you could say, preventing any more unsticking from the ground, leaving one in that oh so familiar relationship to earth, your reference point, the place you return to, even if you do briefly manage to lift your feet from the ground it is always always with a view to coming back down. <br /><br /></span><br /></span><br /></p>dritanjehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16025213970107184429noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5365414187774298547.post-27593826292757305412023-12-20T19:41:00.000+01:002023-12-20T19:41:46.755+01:00Root path, stony path<p> <br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6Ct5j5id1LZYTR0cJAkfIvlMZi_7p6L7eGzqAiVAnx3ro8tjLhIdGt977VImafQAV5_1ZOIU2NRoUUM1GQCKiRACBNnUCXgL0JfBXohMYVdVn4AVXeZPZyvPe9RM_7KpFjdNB8TcFmXi0iuiASaW-aX48l_QygzXybIWKgy77TJlYyVB1TO3z6DtRMqs/s4608/IMG_20231205_144726%20root%20path%201.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4608" data-original-width="2272" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6Ct5j5id1LZYTR0cJAkfIvlMZi_7p6L7eGzqAiVAnx3ro8tjLhIdGt977VImafQAV5_1ZOIU2NRoUUM1GQCKiRACBNnUCXgL0JfBXohMYVdVn4AVXeZPZyvPe9RM_7KpFjdNB8TcFmXi0iuiASaW-aX48l_QygzXybIWKgy77TJlYyVB1TO3z6DtRMqs/w316-h640/IMG_20231205_144726%20root%20path%201.jpg" width="316" /></a></div><br /><p> <span style="color: #073763; font-size: large;">Slippy underfoot, the leaves half mulch half maple colour, roots wild and twisting as a Chinese painting, dragon dawdling round and up and underneath, the trees acting like they've no connection to the knobbly turning round and round roots that border and hem stitch the surface of the path.</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763; font-size: large;"> <br /></span><span style="color: #073763; font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_TJPJRnp2QW_KmS_wR-xkivIFWpHaFTt3M-AzbFNscf33D_gbt90z9LfxknfQ8s8EBSUrfvQxDM2XToTCL-um4-pcZFJx8uHAsvBKY7Qs0xqgRiPTwkt3Jwbs8JhyphenhyphenyzI2HcBRRObo8M1NlH13bI6JlAPp-fSksnSUqa1FVp4089I7iv5jrwaELhGcZWQ/s3208/IMG_20231205_144831%20root%20path%202%20small.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2255" data-original-width="3208" height="450" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_TJPJRnp2QW_KmS_wR-xkivIFWpHaFTt3M-AzbFNscf33D_gbt90z9LfxknfQ8s8EBSUrfvQxDM2XToTCL-um4-pcZFJx8uHAsvBKY7Qs0xqgRiPTwkt3Jwbs8JhyphenhyphenyzI2HcBRRObo8M1NlH13bI6JlAPp-fSksnSUqa1FVp4089I7iv5jrwaELhGcZWQ/w640-h450/IMG_20231205_144831%20root%20path%202%20small.jpg" width="640" /></a></span><br /><span style="color: #073763; font-size: large;"> </span></p><p><span style="color: #073763; font-size: large;">So you focus and you're careful while the hard uneven roots lift you up and land you in another time though you can't quite say what time, no specific memory, but a rolling time you travel on the surface of, an every time, you recognize the bony hard surface so uneven it could trip you up, so you focus hard and love it harder and that's how you recognize this bony path, like stony path, every hot stony path you have ever walked on. </span></p><p><span style="color: #073763; font-size: large;"> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7OBL_-U2rPiWhBzQBtgB-3v0MYdvtKe9fzMJ9a7WQvTdNAIqWKqDhHzLcY7V7T3VoTtMrCGQY2RXAe_gB4qrMhKfRv0Q7C6AvdJNHGnN4Dn9OdvXUOIVI6TpR3483Grkawi6KTrDXFJmGCKJvfpCvVElUhU2sK4UBALrfafAOtk9H_1Wdyn6-Zudivf8/s3664/004.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3664" data-original-width="2748" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7OBL_-U2rPiWhBzQBtgB-3v0MYdvtKe9fzMJ9a7WQvTdNAIqWKqDhHzLcY7V7T3VoTtMrCGQY2RXAe_gB4qrMhKfRv0Q7C6AvdJNHGnN4Dn9OdvXUOIVI6TpR3483Grkawi6KTrDXFJmGCKJvfpCvVElUhU2sK4UBALrfafAOtk9H_1Wdyn6-Zudivf8/w480-h640/004.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Near Agios Stefanos, Corfu<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #073763; font-size: large;">Especially with a river you can overlook or best of all, a green ocean far below, a steep drop from the curving path of roots you stand on, steep and sheer, impassable to the water down below. </span></p><p><span style="color: #073763; font-size: large;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXA4KDRlBvtDmdp2qexsA-jsbrPBcW4_SJmOiDjSejKMeI8iVfib5LPab8YEF14hMuOV9HAnxgU6PijGJN6PrIV9oI8GrXni6oC-8idegmZHSxESptk5_rJ3WQ14ufYoqG9ZTBPNp9RLQlfTjdndo_5d-CocC-84d7OzsN2VIKx1k8Nu7Az_mKIYfPX00/s3664/182%20Porto%20Timoni.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2748" data-original-width="3664" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXA4KDRlBvtDmdp2qexsA-jsbrPBcW4_SJmOiDjSejKMeI8iVfib5LPab8YEF14hMuOV9HAnxgU6PijGJN6PrIV9oI8GrXni6oC-8idegmZHSxESptk5_rJ3WQ14ufYoqG9ZTBPNp9RLQlfTjdndo_5d-CocC-84d7OzsN2VIKx1k8Nu7Az_mKIYfPX00/w640-h480/182%20Porto%20Timoni.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Looking down from a stony path to Porto Timoni, Corfu<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /> </span><br /><br /></p>dritanjehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16025213970107184429noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5365414187774298547.post-42156066747550295872023-12-08T18:01:00.000+01:002023-12-08T18:01:41.669+01:00Sun into Sagittarius<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir0Q78EzjlH4TrOCMjucHcJEzLg7ymSKaOqDaVyWuEgq18_ShlO0yY3gyU6SdHm_TbeFryv9ZKVE8nD1YEuzj1L0Y9-AT971g242vcZuRRRIyBEHFmZRZlmo4p8JMXskosY5EmuPjTLFDJbl9YaBTF1cf9pSAsi8BkNVE0FRIelhIeSUQaw9fLuRm8PlM/s3280/IMG_20231130_103228%20birds.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3280" data-original-width="2249" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir0Q78EzjlH4TrOCMjucHcJEzLg7ymSKaOqDaVyWuEgq18_ShlO0yY3gyU6SdHm_TbeFryv9ZKVE8nD1YEuzj1L0Y9-AT971g242vcZuRRRIyBEHFmZRZlmo4p8JMXskosY5EmuPjTLFDJbl9YaBTF1cf9pSAsi8BkNVE0FRIelhIeSUQaw9fLuRm8PlM/w274-h400/IMG_20231130_103228%20birds.jpg" width="274" /></a></div><br /><br /><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: #073763; font-size: large;"> </span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: #073763; font-size: large;">It’s that time of year, at this high latitude, where there is not true full daylight. The sky colours are of an extended dawn, pinkish purple, dark blueish purple, turquoise, and it is almost midday by the clock. <br /><br /> </span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: #073763; font-size: large;"> </span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: #073763; font-size: large;"> </span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: #073763; font-size: large;"> </span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: #073763; font-size: large;"> </span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #073763; font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaDqqMSjhdfPxO6yQPZ5umADvSAmnPO8mAckfQ8UTEt9pGepkAG-HpssWJiRZVNiXU3VvU9zbZUviUh_xEIqIx0MkwWyAHMZypxSkakC1oSL2gH4-2VmekiNkq6duDqKGQ4BaRYQNrJd2VZ-6w3bb-tO6KyGTnybpjMSjsT5KhCXBHP6m5qMkBSHQflBw/s4608/IMG_20231130_103649%20morning.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2272" data-original-width="4608" height="317" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaDqqMSjhdfPxO6yQPZ5umADvSAmnPO8mAckfQ8UTEt9pGepkAG-HpssWJiRZVNiXU3VvU9zbZUviUh_xEIqIx0MkwWyAHMZypxSkakC1oSL2gH4-2VmekiNkq6duDqKGQ4BaRYQNrJd2VZ-6w3bb-tO6KyGTnybpjMSjsT5KhCXBHP6m5qMkBSHQflBw/w640-h317/IMG_20231130_103649%20morning.jpg" width="640" /></a></span></div><span style="color: #073763; font-size: large;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: #073763; font-size: large;">And so the evening sky is already here too. Different times all at once. And when the snow comes there's the darkness of a cover, of the sky itself dissolving into tiny white damp particles that wrap everything, yes even you, they bring the air in close to you, then crowd it, drench it, that area that makes up your whole world, that band of air and light between the earth you walk on and the vast and faraway and seeming close enough to touch and hold your hand, that blue that we call sky, it vanishes as you breathe in air that's wet against your skin. The world becomes an unfamiliar place, no longer the streaming- towards-you, life-upholding and caressing one. And that hint of possible danger is so uplifting, so desirable, so to be sought-after, a glint of gold. <br /><br /></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuEJV25gg_L2KFpwMZ-U-9r_ZOUPklIXpgZ6yzLBvSN2l0GNE8vz3_5cfBrHzvcpCchyphenhyphen-u3UydNpmMuXknBP1A6NipbtCd_GE0v2lBSh2nGMZPfpMvyAm4qfkrBN90PBR8Y5IC_BXdtNaxDjb6f10MMwFoIu0mrPLujjuO9G4yRRPZb4i6TIGR0pHoxwU/s4608/IMG_20231130_110229%20snow%202.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2272" data-original-width="4608" height="316" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuEJV25gg_L2KFpwMZ-U-9r_ZOUPklIXpgZ6yzLBvSN2l0GNE8vz3_5cfBrHzvcpCchyphenhyphen-u3UydNpmMuXknBP1A6NipbtCd_GE0v2lBSh2nGMZPfpMvyAm4qfkrBN90PBR8Y5IC_BXdtNaxDjb6f10MMwFoIu0mrPLujjuO9G4yRRPZb4i6TIGR0pHoxwU/w640-h316/IMG_20231130_110229%20snow%202.jpg" width="640" /></a></span><br /><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: #073763; font-size: large;"> </span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: #073763; font-size: large;">Then travelling back, out of the city, just 3 hours later, the sky is pink again, not just on the horizon but spreading across half the sky, yellow pink, it gets bigger and bigger and now it has reached down, turning more blue grey, and blows across the road, delicate rose tinged cloud, a mist that has turned to snow and then has turned around and headed back. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoSsTMy78Tju6Vq4lQXsB-2fEcDmLxC5ws60fg1Uq5-xtA1bLdLy9G2I687sNx7n21mg_oGL8eM9nXeJV_6o2tafaFageA874bclmQte1CVkleJHuah69k0xSqMILLJmIyFUnY4JNJn_MQQqgZgTWg8gbgQg87wYIqTa6ITaG7RX0G1pmPdgQhARtw8so/s4608/IMG_20231130_153210.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2272" data-original-width="4608" height="316" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoSsTMy78Tju6Vq4lQXsB-2fEcDmLxC5ws60fg1Uq5-xtA1bLdLy9G2I687sNx7n21mg_oGL8eM9nXeJV_6o2tafaFageA874bclmQte1CVkleJHuah69k0xSqMILLJmIyFUnY4JNJn_MQQqgZgTWg8gbgQg87wYIqTa6ITaG7RX0G1pmPdgQhARtw8so/w640-h316/IMG_20231130_153210.jpg" width="640" /></a></span><br /><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: #073763; font-size: large;"> </span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: #073763; font-size: large;">And now the sky is ablaze with hazy light and in the west on the horizon, there is torchlight where the sun once was. </span></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3J6gs3MpHPLv6qiXQ9ZPzGqvHIHC6NaWsFoPDo-GJj8ycNaCPyk9_WxE3Pt4SG956Q9rz7aduID6sN9OxrE7dn5kjRnQaLJC4qCRlE0sn9FsvkWAELTG8u3KCFC5FD929i5y7BrL29Kgi9yYL14wVOm6yKjnkZVPnP3ut8bnf8YclD2L9jxv3fUpuR8A/s4608/IMG_20231130_153251.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2272" data-original-width="4608" height="316" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3J6gs3MpHPLv6qiXQ9ZPzGqvHIHC6NaWsFoPDo-GJj8ycNaCPyk9_WxE3Pt4SG956Q9rz7aduID6sN9OxrE7dn5kjRnQaLJC4qCRlE0sn9FsvkWAELTG8u3KCFC5FD929i5y7BrL29Kgi9yYL14wVOm6yKjnkZVPnP3ut8bnf8YclD2L9jxv3fUpuR8A/w640-h316/IMG_20231130_153251.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: #073763; font-size: large;"><br />We are heading back into forests and fields, all thick with snow. And the sky, the usual colours of blue green, yellow pink and purple grey blue, watches everything. Strips of coloured cloud against a green sky, such safety, this colour, this sky, that's how this dazzling world is now. <br /></span><br /><br /><br /></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrtLbt9Ezz51S4kpaOkM95zB8yf1ETFphzQOWxqhmoWbnY9OImyctAb1YjlftOiyxJ2su-Lh55tZ2xwvajWICHV13OD63Oq64EmOkEYw1MA5xPtg6Yw5RPsiVn2HrWb9qrsv09Rzd6QmGQu4l7KKHs2QFoO8uYKw_xn4vcY-yNe-SwoW400YRxYpEN2EQ/s4608/IMG_20231130_153244.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2272" data-original-width="4608" height="316" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrtLbt9Ezz51S4kpaOkM95zB8yf1ETFphzQOWxqhmoWbnY9OImyctAb1YjlftOiyxJ2su-Lh55tZ2xwvajWICHV13OD63Oq64EmOkEYw1MA5xPtg6Yw5RPsiVn2HrWb9qrsv09Rzd6QmGQu4l7KKHs2QFoO8uYKw_xn4vcY-yNe-SwoW400YRxYpEN2EQ/w640-h316/IMG_20231130_153244.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p></p>dritanjehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16025213970107184429noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5365414187774298547.post-85117148732407338752023-11-27T14:03:00.000+01:002023-11-27T14:03:30.830+01:00Edges, Sea, John Muir Trail<p> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPK2lE33eagBuqFvqgXdkFgRoC0RnlA65idWJ9tBeHmihvN6n_h_nzumAEIKyYm4j0GNAZpKpa4PIROpCxX9F2aD9_ewbDVvhtdClPFMA5ysmIKP_LlBB-sHPSUGoGpQBuPYmJ2U0D1PYPM7axZX0cNPQVP8WaRN_XpXgUOVIpAi8t8B3e8soe4tvnf6Q/s4608/IMG_20231121_120855.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2272" data-original-width="4608" height="317" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPK2lE33eagBuqFvqgXdkFgRoC0RnlA65idWJ9tBeHmihvN6n_h_nzumAEIKyYm4j0GNAZpKpa4PIROpCxX9F2aD9_ewbDVvhtdClPFMA5ysmIKP_LlBB-sHPSUGoGpQBuPYmJ2U0D1PYPM7axZX0cNPQVP8WaRN_XpXgUOVIpAi8t8B3e8soe4tvnf6Q/w640-h317/IMG_20231121_120855.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rock formations and colours in Cove Bay, detail<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #073763; font-size: large;">Then just for a moment, as I sit down at the table outside the cottage, a burst of birdsong, catching the last of the evening light. Time, light, is a substance to be acted on, gathered, garnered. <br /><br />In the wood, on the approach path, there was one pheasant, then one crow and just after that, one dark deer crossed the path, jumped over it, without a sound. Further on the path narrows, becomes a ridge, and there is a sheer drop, a cliff-edge drop to the river below, but it is lined with small trees, saplings, bushes, undergrowth so you might never know until it’s too late, that there is nothing for your feet to hold onto once you’d stepped out. On the far bank there are slabs of red stone, like shafts or walls, hiding the interior of some guarded kingdom. <br /><br />Further on still, there’s the old bridge, yellow stone, just a little crumbling at the edges, that James VI crossed on his way to London in the 1600s, so I’m told. The mid-section of the bridge is draped with ivy, a green shawl and the yellow stone glints in the last of the light as the sun goes down, in the afternoon.<br /><br />It has been a day of edges, the clifftop path, looking down over the edge, to the sea, on either side of Cove bay, a natural harbour. Lines of rocks curve round gently from the shore like giant ribs. Or maybe the rim of some ancient crater from an underground volcano’s eruption, in some unimaginable aeons ago. Or maybe last week in geological terms. You could imagine those lines of curving rocks rising and falling with the tides, moving slightly with in-breath and out-breath.<br /><br /></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJyqcQJoTUpe_QgKFvxR6ycjciKOEL3GisfV4w4drFm4z1MY3qae_BhV35vdKZ8Bhb9c4GLq3Uq9WYZwE1EKVoZgMcN5AIo8jVzUcYBXKHwejhH9LuKcHigCNeGbJpQ-juv7lcA9dhrVrFeh-Zx8Vl_rBsf0u7IDJC8vjxDkVKU9oLlttDU0Pkswu_XNU/s4608/IMG_20231121_131126.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2272" data-original-width="4608" height="316" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJyqcQJoTUpe_QgKFvxR6ycjciKOEL3GisfV4w4drFm4z1MY3qae_BhV35vdKZ8Bhb9c4GLq3Uq9WYZwE1EKVoZgMcN5AIo8jVzUcYBXKHwejhH9LuKcHigCNeGbJpQ-juv7lcA9dhrVrFeh-Zx8Vl_rBsf0u7IDJC8vjxDkVKU9oLlttDU0Pkswu_XNU/w640-h316/IMG_20231121_131126.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #073763; font-size: large;">The sky separates into two. On one side, blue and bright, on the other, a film of grey approaches. Underneath it, the sea turns dark as unpolished silver. The two skies, two seas, two worlds – one lit up, the other shrouded. How different these moods make us.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6-4cD_J7NlT4Qj_q4JQ0C0chi50dCO9oiPpOKPcTIzsul7Cglc82qlFunVqiiXreTD12BTnav8fNN_LIy7K6qvccGTirpfJOCHg0KNViMtpmg3KavgqHVv4NnWDT109RpgtlDQk_thnvJSV6rJRXEAX1dl8IZejwczax8ye_pWuW74boEjPouFT5NPws/s4608/IMG_20231121_131818.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2272" data-original-width="4608" height="316" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6-4cD_J7NlT4Qj_q4JQ0C0chi50dCO9oiPpOKPcTIzsul7Cglc82qlFunVqiiXreTD12BTnav8fNN_LIy7K6qvccGTirpfJOCHg0KNViMtpmg3KavgqHVv4NnWDT109RpgtlDQk_thnvJSV6rJRXEAX1dl8IZejwczax8ye_pWuW74boEjPouFT5NPws/w640-h316/IMG_20231121_131818.jpg" width="640" /></a></span><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #073763; font-size: large;"> </span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #073763; font-size: large;">Right now, with darkening sky, and the sound of the river a few metres away, as it moves towards the sea, I’m waiting in twilight for the stars to come out. A loose wave of geese fly overhead, way high up. And on the clifftop path, looking down on Cove Bay, a flock of oystercatchers moved across the sky from one jutting out headland to the next, crossing over the sea, as if on a tightrope or held in a string bag, intent on herding home the afternoon light.<br /><br />Another skyline, closer to evening, on the last part of the walk back – was of straight bands of purple cloud, and evening turquoise blue, all above a squint horizon. Which is impossible to capture on a photograph, as horizons often tilt when I take photos but this one leaned from west (a clump of trees) to east (another headland) with complete insouciance. I pointed out this phenomenon to C, who agreed that the horizon had slipped a little, showed its leanings and its longings towards the east and south.<br /><br /></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC9iHDzULOCcK0QNZKyYSaDlVHycmHpoSXb4pHAXTy9M4C5wRHv-TJSGQjVTyWe9gUpt8Xkf959WQHbQrK0nQuoP1C4GXPwr_bOQPPrv6ncZaHnKRTaH0felttRys8psr6qWuthalqV3RJrhl8rN6-47L9BOLY_bBoevngLX9UO54pVmRmoGQO9rxaNxQ/s3988/IMG_20231121_150427%20horizon%20small.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1814" data-original-width="3988" height="293" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC9iHDzULOCcK0QNZKyYSaDlVHycmHpoSXb4pHAXTy9M4C5wRHv-TJSGQjVTyWe9gUpt8Xkf959WQHbQrK0nQuoP1C4GXPwr_bOQPPrv6ncZaHnKRTaH0felttRys8psr6qWuthalqV3RJrhl8rN6-47L9BOLY_bBoevngLX9UO54pVmRmoGQO9rxaNxQ/w640-h293/IMG_20231121_150427%20horizon%20small.jpg" width="640" /></a></span><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #073763; font-size: large;"> </span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #073763; font-size: large;">Earlier, there had been a cloud trimmed with a patch of rainbow, the sole material to hand, as the cloud-stitcher pulled his threads and knots of fabric together to cover and decorate this corner of sky. And later, the light from descending sun filtered through two holes in the cloud and turned into lines of light, like ribbons or beacons. I think it is a message said C, nodding with conviction. I have never seen such a thing before. It was later, after we had visited the village shop and bought some logs for the stove that we followed the uphill path and saw the straight bands of cloud and colour and the squint horizon.<br /><br />Later still when the path (part of the John Muir trail) turned into some woods with the ravine plunging to the river and some beech trees still vivid orange and the silent dark deer crossed the path, a lucky omen, and the path came out onto a road and just before that, a lodge house at the side of the track and there was a woman calling someone’s name and she told us she was calling for her cat. I don’t know where he’s got to, but if he doesn’t come, I’ll phone him she says. While I’m trying to imagine the cat answering the phone she says he is fitted with a tracking device round his neck and he will hear her voice and if she says ‘treats’ this should work magic. As we walk away, a black cat appears, meowing loudly and the woman says, there you are, where were you, where did you get to? </span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #073763; font-size: large;"></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #073763; font-size: large;">The road here is a bridge over the ravine and it looks out onto another bridge, the railway bridge and beyond that, the new road bridge, an ugly concrete structure on stone stilts, built in the 1980s. And beyond that, the oldest bridge, the ivy-shawled one crossed over by James VI, but no longer passable for traffic. <br /><br /></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz8XYW685NA7LOovgTM_ug4p0U9zD7nuL6rXZO3DUR7gCgd59pkItDuaWTRbF-1eDGDHlJHkTj-U5MxMQBiUFLPaGknjo_QOtutEXTLurtum1KlpwBz_77yyGkW2JLZ1qXTt-Es90Id-V20toqi6yVodG-5nY3Y_0LpvMfGzTfiYvpFZ8DRpbAwQ9CniM/s4608/IMG_20231121_153237.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4608" data-original-width="2272" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz8XYW685NA7LOovgTM_ug4p0U9zD7nuL6rXZO3DUR7gCgd59pkItDuaWTRbF-1eDGDHlJHkTj-U5MxMQBiUFLPaGknjo_QOtutEXTLurtum1KlpwBz_77yyGkW2JLZ1qXTt-Es90Id-V20toqi6yVodG-5nY3Y_0LpvMfGzTfiYvpFZ8DRpbAwQ9CniM/w316-h640/IMG_20231121_153237.jpg" width="316" /></a></span><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #073763; font-size: large;">Steps down, steep slate steps, slippery with fallen leaves, and there’s a wooden railing at the side of the steps and a rope above it to hold onto as you make your way down to the wooden pedestrian bridge over the river and the cottage is there on the other side. Just a few metres further on, the river meets the sea. The massive ravine the river swept through has flattened out into a small dip, but it still needs a bridge, the last of its kind, wooden, miniature. The second last, the ancient ivy-shawled one, is visible from the cottage, and beyond that one, all the other bridges fan out in a series of modernity, to accommodate the rail and road traffic. <br /><br />Cove Bay is reached by going through a tunnel in the cliff, and there are other tunnels possibly used by smugglers, but blocked off now. More cliffs on the land side of the bay, and on the seaward side, a stone cottage and a pier, with piles of lobster pots leaning against the wall. There are two fishing boats in the bay, and the sea comes in onto a mixture of sand and pebbles. I bent down and touched the water as a wave came in and it ran over my shoes. <br /></span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQyjZ_Mf5e5IoYkvly4_EjGckZUr9xu_wEGJGthrehur61HC3XBLYgmbk9F7zWUSy4EF_V0UR_gUPKBHjxxTVtEM8E6IKmbwzGWFcuxF8EQqVtnF3kCfb-g2F9TLFnro-ioOV_g0HyBqePld7EwMhzJbwDJ3LKQ6l41TiJNuHTusLqk5BUt88wQnlRCNU/s4608/IMG_20231121_120601.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2272" data-original-width="4608" height="316" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQyjZ_Mf5e5IoYkvly4_EjGckZUr9xu_wEGJGthrehur61HC3XBLYgmbk9F7zWUSy4EF_V0UR_gUPKBHjxxTVtEM8E6IKmbwzGWFcuxF8EQqVtnF3kCfb-g2F9TLFnro-ioOV_g0HyBqePld7EwMhzJbwDJ3LKQ6l41TiJNuHTusLqk5BUt88wQnlRCNU/w640-h316/IMG_20231121_120601.jpg" width="640" /></a></span><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #073763; font-size: large;"> </span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #073763; font-size: large;">The cliff’s bare stone is revealed, and it is swirled in patterns, like wave formations or the afterthoughts of galaxies. From a distance, from the other side of the bay, with the wide stone pier, this cliff looks sliced up like cake about to be served up, then abandoned. And, jutting out into the sea, a head-shaped piece of rock, complete with eye socket. A giant turtle, petrified, clearly. And just beyond it, almost in the next bay, there’s a giant hare, also turned to stone. Further along the clifftop path, overlooking Pease Bay, I look down on black specks in the water. Do you think these are birds or buoys? I ask C. He looks through his binoculars. Surfers, he says. I look through them too. Black wet-suited surfers, some seeming motionless, others moving along the swell of the waves, in the grey-blue water.<br /><br />One or two faint stars are out now. And the plump Moon, almond shaped, lurking behind the trees, its surface criss-crossed with black branches. </span><br /><br /><br /><br /></span><br /></p>dritanjehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16025213970107184429noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5365414187774298547.post-63256732065726099902023-11-02T12:00:00.001+01:002023-11-02T12:24:15.821+01:00Catalogue of Trees<p><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUYlfdT3MT0_CAJGsxkibl1rAPLaK1P3chz5bdFrnrSUzsobdLOFi1D4K2XlsMadVUGMOo5NS5YyMdVnKpy6v-tv8FbGTtuJm8cQSB8kqXCpg92cKP-RKf3oa2cUX4Z_tBYZuRxgicEl7BCFrZKgfplJY_rvYRUSOZ2VvF7YRgNzh7vhEYJ-OEMO0lHHQ/s3899/IMG_20231031_114534%20view%20St%20Boswells%20path.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2210" data-original-width="3899" height="226" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUYlfdT3MT0_CAJGsxkibl1rAPLaK1P3chz5bdFrnrSUzsobdLOFi1D4K2XlsMadVUGMOo5NS5YyMdVnKpy6v-tv8FbGTtuJm8cQSB8kqXCpg92cKP-RKf3oa2cUX4Z_tBYZuRxgicEl7BCFrZKgfplJY_rvYRUSOZ2VvF7YRgNzh7vhEYJ-OEMO0lHHQ/w400-h226/IMG_20231031_114534%20view%20St%20Boswells%20path.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /> </span><p></p><p><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">Travelling through landscape, as history. Not human history, but all the stories the trees tell, such colours. They stir, they excite, exhort, it is a time of action, not the peaceful, calming, somnolence of green, but the energy of orange and yellow, the urge to move and to create, the cheerleaders and the path-showers, the spurs to delight. <br /><br /><br />I walked by the River Tweed from St Boswells. </span></span></p><p><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGhmsx5GB5vah8-fKLZMB0r8aUb5srEX7BZFnAQeQgn0kCbjUhAI7-aY6bb38pu0WrHryUsnsP9FDno5TwLQ8JUFtJDkAGruODSasBkL82y4-c2FOecpXrlMiV6iCCB1ChaXyu46oydX9QNqyRBjAjkePC9bUTl2Qkcsy9OTo_ili9e4MfGpfMeEsV3EM/s4608/IMG_20231031_120937%20yellow%20leaves%20blue%20river.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2272" data-original-width="4608" height="198" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGhmsx5GB5vah8-fKLZMB0r8aUb5srEX7BZFnAQeQgn0kCbjUhAI7-aY6bb38pu0WrHryUsnsP9FDno5TwLQ8JUFtJDkAGruODSasBkL82y4-c2FOecpXrlMiV6iCCB1ChaXyu46oydX9QNqyRBjAjkePC9bUTl2Qkcsy9OTo_ili9e4MfGpfMeEsV3EM/w400-h198/IMG_20231031_120937%20yellow%20leaves%20blue%20river.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /> </span><p></p><p><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">I wanted to visit the curtains of beech trees on the other side of the pink stone bridge. I discovered these trees a few years ago, one November. But they are later than other trees, they have not yet turned into their final crimson colours. </span></span></p><p><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBhN-SoPMaVn1vgAEPSNocVLlwbxUaLwaG-88esM3LZdw741Kl0v8NTDsLzNkA_pAbB7H9dYnqUdw7XmssXcAbOerQ9RT1cSwQTQGSgYZx1PExZyA2BYE9aU7dhps-7f2PDl2KuPX3XIPEXAKuZXcnYqK4YbY3kehTV8jqdMnXQ3JevSNXOR5xKX68XT8/s4608/IMG_20231031_123541%20trees%20screen.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2272" data-original-width="4608" height="198" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBhN-SoPMaVn1vgAEPSNocVLlwbxUaLwaG-88esM3LZdw741Kl0v8NTDsLzNkA_pAbB7H9dYnqUdw7XmssXcAbOerQ9RT1cSwQTQGSgYZx1PExZyA2BYE9aU7dhps-7f2PDl2KuPX3XIPEXAKuZXcnYqK4YbY3kehTV8jqdMnXQ3JevSNXOR5xKX68XT8/w400-h198/IMG_20231031_123541%20trees%20screen.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">I crossed the bridge, walked back along the other side of the river, as far as Dryburgh Abbey and the pedestrian bridge. Then walked up the road, where people park their cars before taking their dogs for a walk. I have always taken the path through the woods before, but decided to explore this minor road which leads to the main road and Newtown St Boswells.</span></span></p><p><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">There is no traffic on this road, and there is also a path for some of the way, screened from the road by hedges. And so I came across a field of black sheep. All black from the tips of their horns to their little hooves. All in bright sunshine. What a gift!</span></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiSUcndqwceuAfRwNkK3CxJc4C_IyLZnL150HUZTgoD3PH14zJrBy-2DZkDShwSE2PN3HZ-tUKoxMTyNc-g4Bkfw8nBNvem7oU8Q1hn5ox9sYb5BqgDsJZsNPeUwdhloGkH_tyLSOYAzwkIAR0PJXaA0KVKOwSHfh0UvUVk0RGbumLqNiAjsm9wOb4ZQM/s1080/IMG_20231031_201523_283.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiSUcndqwceuAfRwNkK3CxJc4C_IyLZnL150HUZTgoD3PH14zJrBy-2DZkDShwSE2PN3HZ-tUKoxMTyNc-g4Bkfw8nBNvem7oU8Q1hn5ox9sYb5BqgDsJZsNPeUwdhloGkH_tyLSOYAzwkIAR0PJXaA0KVKOwSHfh0UvUVk0RGbumLqNiAjsm9wOb4ZQM/w400-h400/IMG_20231031_201523_283.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span><p></p><p><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvPWelC5YNCsgQhUMFb3lR9auTUsokqggAZDW-9oZ_i2ESGv_31ELMSfmHThMCKAkzO7Ynat05B9SaptRv161PbzskZKDTDeBVSCYphNq-3hLG-2AeiB0MD5dvThGZLF4ifPehmQJlr7xoFzjV3gkoDDnaApl0-3EGwkQ6DEkGmGJK05_-MpEVBts7E4E/s4608/IMG_20231031_135658%20black%20sheep%20and%20eildons.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2272" data-original-width="4608" height="317" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvPWelC5YNCsgQhUMFb3lR9auTUsokqggAZDW-9oZ_i2ESGv_31ELMSfmHThMCKAkzO7Ynat05B9SaptRv161PbzskZKDTDeBVSCYphNq-3hLG-2AeiB0MD5dvThGZLF4ifPehmQJlr7xoFzjV3gkoDDnaApl0-3EGwkQ6DEkGmGJK05_-MpEVBts7E4E/w640-h317/IMG_20231031_135658%20black%20sheep%20and%20eildons.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Black sheep & Eildon Hills<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="font-size: large;"></span></span><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></span></p><p><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><i>Is your car ready for winter?</i> an electronic sign asks.</span></span><br /><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></span></p><p><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b>A Catalogue of trees. </b></span></span></p><p><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuOSXWDh7bfdzUht3VTsGclsZxWJsnUKzARRKZ4NEm7KiXrII_Y3kfojiaDcjWvQnfbSxQ7SwiIolw6xbK3boz0xs_QS188EaiFlSmigFj3DSUE23wZsA4dFCNaQxWUhOBeqepRpM6vF0X5eLdD1ZsbTca_TUbEn2neCf58-7-gCNfuzx2GQCn1nd-z1s/s4608/IMG_20231031_123609%20leafy%20path.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4608" data-original-width="2272" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuOSXWDh7bfdzUht3VTsGclsZxWJsnUKzARRKZ4NEm7KiXrII_Y3kfojiaDcjWvQnfbSxQ7SwiIolw6xbK3boz0xs_QS188EaiFlSmigFj3DSUE23wZsA4dFCNaQxWUhOBeqepRpM6vF0X5eLdD1ZsbTca_TUbEn2neCf58-7-gCNfuzx2GQCn1nd-z1s/w316-h640/IMG_20231031_123609%20leafy%20path.jpg" width="316" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">All you had forgotten<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /> </span><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQL7w85dcnSVQ66bmWDRg8xnq6BSNzzpB5TgQ3YrD4w77EqHgNdmU7qTCuSnqEEI17SOsOUyT2cCWI-gySuivlwDysKmAEJZ-p5npB2sv6vdhjHnrrt9pmoyJaydfnooqo2irTNaZXTJyUONsm0bZy__jVbGgczNBEV5X6s7tgB4YZqXCNYT_oe2N4TdU/s3854/IMG_20231031_144934%20questionable%20theory.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3854" data-original-width="2243" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQL7w85dcnSVQ66bmWDRg8xnq6BSNzzpB5TgQ3YrD4w77EqHgNdmU7qTCuSnqEEI17SOsOUyT2cCWI-gySuivlwDysKmAEJZ-p5npB2sv6vdhjHnrrt9pmoyJaydfnooqo2irTNaZXTJyUONsm0bZy__jVbGgczNBEV5X6s7tgB4YZqXCNYT_oe2N4TdU/w233-h400/IMG_20231031_144934%20questionable%20theory.jpg" width="233" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Questionable theory</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"></td><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1p-0VXPAyJNZ6jR10iO_ChOkLZoMo7WIOrSiSItK6_1vRgcBOVHelgcKmoLYwUnODoRo8r7pkM5RmFdY1IG7gj1ETgsVBx5Nts63S-idz9T4pOrN9bMq4bADSLPD9dQPb9vK31gxQyoWTXkDo78Ze_0UrFKN12M2Sh1_9RB2QpTeqZVz0ERdIPOeoOms/s3106/IMG_20231031_144609%20banking%20on%20you.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3106" data-original-width="2260" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1p-0VXPAyJNZ6jR10iO_ChOkLZoMo7WIOrSiSItK6_1vRgcBOVHelgcKmoLYwUnODoRo8r7pkM5RmFdY1IG7gj1ETgsVBx5Nts63S-idz9T4pOrN9bMq4bADSLPD9dQPb9vK31gxQyoWTXkDo78Ze_0UrFKN12M2Sh1_9RB2QpTeqZVz0ERdIPOeoOms/w291-h400/IMG_20231031_144609%20banking%20on%20you.jpg" width="291" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Banking on you<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMVxTJi3WL6h2ErMzJPTouMzJtnk1CbfMhVP-Fh-xTFOsi66vc-rM13kuMNdvEH9OEZpE-rc_w4BWMlaCkl76A3NLANGwY5ZDeEVv-CGSiJyIdbY9tIBRDDm_5dHToS7vLMQ6Pr12Di93nhs_9nd1rKRkLpzFGk2NIO-JAALNt-2WDHwKiSid6Zol3BTk/s4608/IMG_20231031_144525%20cat%20o'%20nine%20tails%20of%20memory.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2272" data-original-width="4608" height="316" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMVxTJi3WL6h2ErMzJPTouMzJtnk1CbfMhVP-Fh-xTFOsi66vc-rM13kuMNdvEH9OEZpE-rc_w4BWMlaCkl76A3NLANGwY5ZDeEVv-CGSiJyIdbY9tIBRDDm_5dHToS7vLMQ6Pr12Di93nhs_9nd1rKRkLpzFGk2NIO-JAALNt-2WDHwKiSid6Zol3BTk/w640-h316/IMG_20231031_144525%20cat%20o'%20nine%20tails%20of%20memory.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cat o' nine tails of memory<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7tQG7pmZOpC2Kdn2OGzuFQdmgfRmlO33dEKbcF7IqyWJc1nUta3FB0b2q_kvqlxL-NDyk7R-OPaSwVn_BCFhIpAnSfLYJuB9HVXLJM-RBG0bp5hCUhdEubM3i66EzlhcQn0wF3mHYfkYv9C1Qo1rU6064zs3oZgMY3R_IyfZZ58J5zIoMAYVTZmi8Ong/s4608/IMG_20231031_144518%20different%20weave.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4608" data-original-width="2272" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7tQG7pmZOpC2Kdn2OGzuFQdmgfRmlO33dEKbcF7IqyWJc1nUta3FB0b2q_kvqlxL-NDyk7R-OPaSwVn_BCFhIpAnSfLYJuB9HVXLJM-RBG0bp5hCUhdEubM3i66EzlhcQn0wF3mHYfkYv9C1Qo1rU6064zs3oZgMY3R_IyfZZ58J5zIoMAYVTZmi8Ong/w198-h400/IMG_20231031_144518%20different%20weave.jpg" width="198" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Different weave<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuzS3CsFBGL_IxcOit3YwgNi37BGRmuRLlFmhjxEuqZbzJFgvKgVoAk1dyanjGnwuHvT-zY_rdIi5y8W-mW_wEixy94pkanOHcNpEoVzH0NlA38ajMl0NguqOI49x3uSsVnO7x-sqXKheIZP2xjEXqWBNqJZyRAJGA9t7VEN6bvZDvhMfgaFWZ4MMA7_A/s4608/IMG_20231031_144441%20cloud%20bridge.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4608" data-original-width="2272" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuzS3CsFBGL_IxcOit3YwgNi37BGRmuRLlFmhjxEuqZbzJFgvKgVoAk1dyanjGnwuHvT-zY_rdIi5y8W-mW_wEixy94pkanOHcNpEoVzH0NlA38ajMl0NguqOI49x3uSsVnO7x-sqXKheIZP2xjEXqWBNqJZyRAJGA9t7VEN6bvZDvhMfgaFWZ4MMA7_A/w198-h400/IMG_20231031_144441%20cloud%20bridge.jpg" width="198" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cloud bridge<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl668QPZ9EJOdo8quGSqrIp4J3NY9o8_j79EUOYAX2c7qIKseb1DsH6KXADnkS5GFfH2EeRHo6jNXeM_R4iGGqlJqLzRxjnQwC709MNj6kvFwUNWaTlaXFBoSjxXH9mAAb9VV12Z68sVf05Tgc-S0pP5vF7bFwy1U5AeAupPtKPleQupSdqo3bSvF9dAk/s3301/IMG_20231031_144333%20burnt%20summer.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3301" data-original-width="2243" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl668QPZ9EJOdo8quGSqrIp4J3NY9o8_j79EUOYAX2c7qIKseb1DsH6KXADnkS5GFfH2EeRHo6jNXeM_R4iGGqlJqLzRxjnQwC709MNj6kvFwUNWaTlaXFBoSjxXH9mAAb9VV12Z68sVf05Tgc-S0pP5vF7bFwy1U5AeAupPtKPleQupSdqo3bSvF9dAk/w271-h400/IMG_20231031_144333%20burnt%20summer.jpg" width="271" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Burnt summer<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHKlPkHyEGED45z_w6NFazVutm1UPu2-A4rI91c5IZr_ZJr86NRfPHXJBW80VnyuJYkYANNxuTP0mpXmR0cPzfmh-jREoUZoF7u8F4Q4VBNKL5FVO8mekAHQetOGoX9fQH68MOGUBb28DkR4UkHu0SdME0F39e1xiURa3uGXKkCKB0A8Gll5JnNWgtJB0/s3453/IMG_20231031_144113%20oblique%20reference.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3453" data-original-width="2254" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHKlPkHyEGED45z_w6NFazVutm1UPu2-A4rI91c5IZr_ZJr86NRfPHXJBW80VnyuJYkYANNxuTP0mpXmR0cPzfmh-jREoUZoF7u8F4Q4VBNKL5FVO8mekAHQetOGoX9fQH68MOGUBb28DkR4UkHu0SdME0F39e1xiURa3uGXKkCKB0A8Gll5JnNWgtJB0/w261-h400/IMG_20231031_144113%20oblique%20reference.jpg" width="261" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Oblique reference<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></span></p><p><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwlJ_0Rtk0eHf1BiLgg7uz6mgfNMnZqzWZHPDVZJ0hXxd0MleJPduMqs5z2xajOKaeqx1l1BU48EzHSjLEpbz8FWwBy5hkiExweGI9-H0lRxHur3lA_UskKfNZzJnJo2zWef7fZVvdjzYn-a4zua845vVFuz-b0eIkI08zlZoFV46PS1ZJ_aUJv2IyCOs/s3893/IMG_20231031_145430%20darkly%20loitering.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3893" data-original-width="2233" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwlJ_0Rtk0eHf1BiLgg7uz6mgfNMnZqzWZHPDVZJ0hXxd0MleJPduMqs5z2xajOKaeqx1l1BU48EzHSjLEpbz8FWwBy5hkiExweGI9-H0lRxHur3lA_UskKfNZzJnJo2zWef7fZVvdjzYn-a4zua845vVFuz-b0eIkI08zlZoFV46PS1ZJ_aUJv2IyCOs/w368-h640/IMG_20231031_145430%20darkly%20loitering.jpg" width="368" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Darkly loitering<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"></span><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p>dritanjehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16025213970107184429noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5365414187774298547.post-43858126646843669392023-10-09T18:30:00.001+02:002023-10-09T18:55:45.139+02:00Lettersgait, river & sea<p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: #0c343d; font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc6ruCmbiZMYJ8jSpn6zeY34vYZEvwPkTRACMqQkAz40Hy1mcex5tqDX0akvY9k1ai0X3knubA_HWcrmlDQ0JxixIe207jH4s-rfM9WT4Qo56NRR1I1fimyQPt7fo6QovZALCtUOe56zUPMjKDAKAzDWqE2BigvnXgvhQ2GLhkV8pWlG4SuckE-b3W3bQ/s4608/IMG_20230527_102048%20morning%20sea.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2272" data-original-width="4608" height="198" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc6ruCmbiZMYJ8jSpn6zeY34vYZEvwPkTRACMqQkAz40Hy1mcex5tqDX0akvY9k1ai0X3knubA_HWcrmlDQ0JxixIe207jH4s-rfM9WT4Qo56NRR1I1fimyQPt7fo6QovZALCtUOe56zUPMjKDAKAzDWqE2BigvnXgvhQ2GLhkV8pWlG4SuckE-b3W3bQ/w400-h198/IMG_20230527_102048%20morning%20sea.jpg" width="400" /></a></span><br /><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: #0c343d; font-size: large;"> </span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: #0c343d; font-size: large;">In <i>Lettersgait</i> by Sally Evans, every chapter begins with a sestina, so I thought I would write one in response. Except it’s not really a sestina, but it is a poem, of sorts. (quotes from <i>Lettersgait</i> are in italics)<br /> <i> </i></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: #0c343d; font-size: large;"><i>… the river gave the garden more than any gardener could: drama, interest, and change’</i><br /><br /></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDHAu3mUZtC8javYMMTz_yGBkgUDXyi_lGC7KqaJ-Eeq9Y9vhJeOtGdMxkOzXgwYP9bsoOpyE1bwMneU2Xd06y_wnfpNRWt-lt0sOpKfUjMa2WG8L30kHVDgOTXTUGx8S337WlNZceyxezkfCXUWocRpU94O9oqSEBWiKeSR06YS2yIwdhLoQTOSjYTRA/s2470/IMG_20230515_102700%20Kuldiga%20gardens%20cropped.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2470" data-original-width="2265" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDHAu3mUZtC8javYMMTz_yGBkgUDXyi_lGC7KqaJ-Eeq9Y9vhJeOtGdMxkOzXgwYP9bsoOpyE1bwMneU2Xd06y_wnfpNRWt-lt0sOpKfUjMa2WG8L30kHVDgOTXTUGx8S337WlNZceyxezkfCXUWocRpU94O9oqSEBWiKeSR06YS2yIwdhLoQTOSjYTRA/w366-h400/IMG_20230515_102700%20Kuldiga%20gardens%20cropped.jpg" width="366" /></a></span><br /><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: #0c343d; font-size: large;"> </span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: #741b47; font-size: large;">There’s the river and the sea,<br />sources and carriers of movement, carriers of time.<br />If movement stopped, would time stop too?<br /><br />History is lapped, like tides<br />against this multi-shored, ocean-encircled isle of ours.<br />There are vivid images of cliffs and smugglers’ coves<br />and a view out over the sea.<br /><i>Ports wax and wane with ships.<br />History passes, the tide remains.</i><br /><br />All the events, adventures, ocean-crossings,<br />ship-buildings and returning home -<br />land seen from afar, those chalk-white cliffs<br />that kick your heart, overlaid by other images,<br />of other lands, bare brown mountains,<br />with no trees, no vegetation, and above them<br />the flawless fabric of blue sky – <br />they have all sedimented, it would seem,<br />into our being, the lives of others, ancestors,<br />just needing, like an ancient pithos,<br />to be rubbed and cleaned, to be unsealed,<br />for all these images to be revealed.<br />Astonishing, to realise we hold the memories<br />of people we have never known perhaps,<br />within the cells of us. Rub, polish, listen – <br />and write down what we hear. <br /><br />That’s what this book makes me think of – <br />the stories that our cells are made of.<br />And to think we thought we were just matter!<br />Skin, bone, nerve cells rushing with delight<br />to embrace each other, to relay such messages.<br />We are all of these as well.<br /><br />Some are our own experiences, that we add to the history,<br />to the library of lived experience. Many of them are the stories<br />and the imagination our ancestors have given to us,<br />nestled in the column of our spine, and the curl<br />of fingers into palm.<br /></span><span style="color: #0c343d; font-size: large;"><br /><i>Lettersgait</i> spans generations, tells many stories. And it seems to me to tell the story of human consciousness, that constant river, parts of which are drawn out, shaped and moulded and turned into specific history. The stories, the memories, the imaginations - including some interpretations, guesswork, some conclusions, some quite wrong, about events told, handed down, not known though maybe hinted at - of the characters. What are the energies that flow through people, with their eddies of stories, yet continue on? –<i> the tide remains.</i> </span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: #0c343d; font-size: large;">You might even say that, despite our human conceit that we control our lives, we are carried by this tide, this ocean, that holds us all and links us all and without which we could do nothing. River movement, tidal movement, the flow of ocean currents.<br /><br /></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV1bYuVFdzz7urja1vUmzziEMfA8E0CHiMJnEfuhCLuMUDa0oQfU9-wS5BVw0_xQEj21RMF4-GcRlcI5UgCWu2i5-8y17j3WpxSjhn3zSQREV1Qvj-kxpHB8c90fu4bmxwxYPJ49iodTgdVXtpRvm9eBSn-vIm7VuTIxF005VZJ7Y5ddbP-WuYv1hF480/s4608/IMG_20230521_162125%20seagull%20daugava%20Riga.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2272" data-original-width="4608" height="198" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV1bYuVFdzz7urja1vUmzziEMfA8E0CHiMJnEfuhCLuMUDa0oQfU9-wS5BVw0_xQEj21RMF4-GcRlcI5UgCWu2i5-8y17j3WpxSjhn3zSQREV1Qvj-kxpHB8c90fu4bmxwxYPJ49iodTgdVXtpRvm9eBSn-vIm7VuTIxF005VZJ7Y5ddbP-WuYv1hF480/w400-h198/IMG_20230521_162125%20seagull%20daugava%20Riga.jpg" width="400" /></a></span><br /><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: #0c343d; font-size: large;"><i> </i></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: #0c343d; font-size: large;"><i>Lettersgait</i> begins with Nathaniel, one of the main characters, losing his memory, after an incident which has shocked him, though he can’t initially remember what it was. So we are confronted with this idea – without our memories who are we? Nathaniel finds a way out, retrieves his past and creates, in time, a positive future. His story intertwines with those of many other people and we move from one time to another, and to different geographical parts of this ocean-bordered island, sometimes in a magical realist craft.<br /><br /></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguux3WWCCl4wETuSXxIlQEkr_4pkiGfYGJhcpe8TVEOX9rJI8lXfYbVyjTysNPEE_GnT1xWrqj4vpVMcsMucaLINe-etfqH613aMQXuevOpOY5bLjumtDz-ph0yN9sQboRyxaNy5WkavwDKP0_ELvAfg95-Qz3To5n_8TyY4S3jQBmSLaltUH8Ic3T2ls/s4608/IMG_20230224_132234.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2272" data-original-width="4608" height="198" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguux3WWCCl4wETuSXxIlQEkr_4pkiGfYGJhcpe8TVEOX9rJI8lXfYbVyjTysNPEE_GnT1xWrqj4vpVMcsMucaLINe-etfqH613aMQXuevOpOY5bLjumtDz-ph0yN9sQboRyxaNy5WkavwDKP0_ELvAfg95-Qz3To5n_8TyY4S3jQBmSLaltUH8Ic3T2ls/w400-h198/IMG_20230224_132234.jpg" width="400" /></a></span><br /><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: #0c343d; font-size: large;"> </span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: #0c343d; font-size: large;">You could say that it is brave to include sestinas, poems, in a prose novel because they cut across the narrative, they make the reader pause, think, concentrate. But I enjoyed them, I liked the shift of focus and consciousness, the ability of poetry to create a more expansive view. In a way they worked like a Greek chorus, giving an overview, or at least a different view, more aligned to tides, oceans, celestial Ages. And then, back into prose, we are back on the earth, in the everyday human affairs – driving, running a bookshop, a dress shop, dealing with teenage children, cooking for families and large groups of people, gardening, talking to friends.<br /><br />There is great humour too especially in the post office scene where Nathaniel (a former teacher and now a homeless tramp) and Lachlan (an old eccentric novelist who lives alone in a large manor house) are faced with everyday bureaucracy, and how they deal with this.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: #0c343d; font-size: large;"><br />Literary references are sprinkled through the text and I particularly like this one. <br />When Nathaniel turns up at his house looking like a tramp – which for a while he was – Lachlan calls him Estragon (from <i>Waiting for Godot</i>). His homehelp overhears this and relates it to the postmistress as Ester Gone.<i> Oh, like Maud Gonne</i>, the postmistress fires back, immediately.<br /></span><br /><br /><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfX5Ic8NFElAjBVKuI6wi55uHCA9CQRcCcnhMKATyXDddrdgO-xEJ4LA9o5N-PJXCRoAQA7e2hZ1G8c5uU1mTeXLBpPrmW0PvFPmdTi-JXOoszrdEOH0rvlaaL1qFaYjwjKXLkMVJvtGV8eou4KjT53oxuCNDLZFh38jfpMRI1Fu3Yvx1h2MN1cZmEUCc/s4608/IMG_20230515_101348.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2272" data-original-width="4608" height="198" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfX5Ic8NFElAjBVKuI6wi55uHCA9CQRcCcnhMKATyXDddrdgO-xEJ4LA9o5N-PJXCRoAQA7e2hZ1G8c5uU1mTeXLBpPrmW0PvFPmdTi-JXOoszrdEOH0rvlaaL1qFaYjwjKXLkMVJvtGV8eou4KjT53oxuCNDLZFh38jfpMRI1Fu3Yvx1h2MN1cZmEUCc/w400-h198/IMG_20230515_101348.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><span style="color: #0c343d; font-size: large;"><br />I particularly like the river sequence, where Violet sees visions, and Lachlan’s experiences one stormy night, where he seems to see and hear the past, the ‘buccaneers’ in the smugglers’ caves, coming up the steps from the sea to the old priory. Lettersgait is an epic journey in time and consciousness, thought-provoking and fun, a real tour de force. <br /><br /></span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: #0c343d; font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR53biCcPFC2wAmqJxRCMFERtGI9ehxcgN3jJ8EJWzUX9O_g8CW8RrNvyHKawfA8xdXMYb3tozi6uEi08QKkD25qN_nebJ2Y41lH1OvYvhqo5W6zej5OhiIGtS7totzg5tPvUBwuG-0t0lflVAUSs-1i9llOq1dU1tpTsG8wV03TH7iuOSIGg6BPWdiV4/s2272/IMG_20230228_091711_645.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2272" data-original-width="2272" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR53biCcPFC2wAmqJxRCMFERtGI9ehxcgN3jJ8EJWzUX9O_g8CW8RrNvyHKawfA8xdXMYb3tozi6uEi08QKkD25qN_nebJ2Y41lH1OvYvhqo5W6zej5OhiIGtS7totzg5tPvUBwuG-0t0lflVAUSs-1i9llOq1dU1tpTsG8wV03TH7iuOSIGg6BPWdiV4/w400-h400/IMG_20230228_091711_645.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></span><br /><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: #0c343d; font-size: large;"><i>Lettersgait</i> by Sally Evans available from <a href="goog_766535235">Fiction Direct</a></span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: #0c343d; font-size: large;">(images are from my own selection of gardens, rivers and oceans in and around Scotland and Latvia.) </span><a href="https://www.readfictiondirect.co.uk/new-books-from-fiction-direct"><br /></a></span></p>dritanjehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16025213970107184429noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5365414187774298547.post-21477252557472878232023-09-27T13:30:00.002+02:002023-09-30T15:05:59.788+02:00Publication of Beyond the Lion Gate<p><span style="color: #134f5c; font-size: large;"><i>Beyond the Lion Gate</i> publication date October 1, 2023. It’s a novel, but the Lion Gate or Porta Luanit is a real place</span><span style="color: #134f5c; font-size: large;"> in the south of Albania</span><span style="color: #134f5c; font-size: large;">, part of the classical ruins of Butrint, once a thriving city .<br /><br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7z-rCGUb-r1s5vBjANuIW1RI1xNJHfjcOmU0PS1NmnH59PbE-rYbbdpSVyp1LQsROVYCUSbQR_KTsBpT_Qoj97WdojrlMk3Suy5i0V_Wlq8DceMK60rxa81lRpGlcBo1uK4_984fuTKfzVsFdLl3poJfEW31vv3xvvxykPxhvo9KJV_BWc72ysLm_OY0/s836/Butrint%20church%202.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="836" data-original-width="539" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7z-rCGUb-r1s5vBjANuIW1RI1xNJHfjcOmU0PS1NmnH59PbE-rYbbdpSVyp1LQsROVYCUSbQR_KTsBpT_Qoj97WdojrlMk3Suy5i0V_Wlq8DceMK60rxa81lRpGlcBo1uK4_984fuTKfzVsFdLl3poJfEW31vv3xvvxykPxhvo9KJV_BWc72ysLm_OY0/w258-h400/Butrint%20church%202.jpg" width="258" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ruins of early Christian Basilica, Butrint<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p><br /><span style="color: #134f5c; font-size: large;">Butrint or Butrinto was given its Latin name Buthrotum, when it was referred to in Virgil’s Aeneid. It may have existed even before ancient Greek times, and continued into Roman & Christian times. The people lived their lives, grew crops, tended animals, sheep, cattle, goats, traded, ate banquets one presumes, definitely watched performances in the theatre, which is still standing today.</span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnJw_NORO_pQnIm9ETagFs8EveYwqDSbf89sZhbBy-6x63hFZFyWXWOBZ45Q4Ep-TnRmxgaKo36_irAyf2iHNkhGzwb-PAkHMK3TlyD2iXq0nl5phVovl0eWTIwWB00tfc5YWocLU9s7y_4lTLQcTzyoAuSOKF3OFv7ONl5S2dJ0R4XWC6RYrW8QIL9xE/s824/Butrint%20amphitheatre%202.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="553" data-original-width="824" height="269" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnJw_NORO_pQnIm9ETagFs8EveYwqDSbf89sZhbBy-6x63hFZFyWXWOBZ45Q4Ep-TnRmxgaKo36_irAyf2iHNkhGzwb-PAkHMK3TlyD2iXq0nl5phVovl0eWTIwWB00tfc5YWocLU9s7y_4lTLQcTzyoAuSOKF3OFv7ONl5S2dJ0R4XWC6RYrW8QIL9xE/w400-h269/Butrint%20amphitheatre%202.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Stage of the amphitheatre, Butrint<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p><span style="color: #134f5c; font-size: large;">One thing we know they did which we don't do today. If they were afflicted with illness or disease, they would visit the temple of Asklepius, the god of healing dreams. They would prepare themselves for an encounter with the god, in their dreams, by prayer, fasting and ablutions. They were looking not so much for the god to heal them but to be given information on how to heal themselves and also to be given insight into the reasons and situations behind this illness. In other words, illness in those days was seen not just as a material dysfunction but as a malady that may have been some time in the making possibly through imbalances in organs, emotions or beliefs or even through what has been passed on through generations. As well as a physical cure or remedy, the healing could involve an understanding, the meaning of an illness which could make the healing more complete as the patient had the chance to learn from this information and perhaps alter their behaviour so it would not recur. <br /><br />So Butrint had a temple of Asklepius as well as a theatre and we know from the ruins that exist today it also had an early Christian Basilica and baptistery. </span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNkYzIjGhvkVf2fPfV33FaX4SCkMaEkWGQkNO2e6UceguFgyE7z5j6yTOEpQV4IVW72VFrfNHiL2tw7qLApB3gDwMfwZrmtYF3bwlkHXX4OuSlvqIoFzMUKWMxwLNys8ymMrrsmQn9MBjGlHEDIVtuoSRMGUdwBjWOUXJbUmVpM7b242sYxMRymwJRLC4/s3072/P8220515%20Butrint%20baptistry.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2304" data-original-width="3072" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNkYzIjGhvkVf2fPfV33FaX4SCkMaEkWGQkNO2e6UceguFgyE7z5j6yTOEpQV4IVW72VFrfNHiL2tw7qLApB3gDwMfwZrmtYF3bwlkHXX4OuSlvqIoFzMUKWMxwLNys8ymMrrsmQn9MBjGlHEDIVtuoSRMGUdwBjWOUXJbUmVpM7b242sYxMRymwJRLC4/w400-h300/P8220515%20Butrint%20baptistry.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ruins of Christian Baptistery<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p><span style="color: #134f5c; font-size: large;"><br />This once thriving city was largely abandoned, it is thought because of an earthquake. What was left was fought over by Venetian and Ottoman Empires but most of the ruins were covered over and largely forgotten. Some excavations took place in the 1930s, led by an Italian team. But after WWII and during the communist years, little seems to have happened there. It is only since the communist regime fell that excavations have resumed in earnest, Butrint’s importance is internationally recognized, and it is now a UNESCO World Heritage site.</span><br /><br /><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG3MgjUzmlHpIF1t4f0wWjuKBxp6vs4VdlI_q3Q3LijAePRVafYwZwrVH9xwaoTbbilU6e-04NgkTJe4-xYIMA6gwTOBlxwAy92pzPF09rbWnXACFAIXTVYSems_5VPbsRAUQ5zGjeXAkQnaJ6yH7lFWT96lDnfwze3e8QogtrW8HuwEU7RuvYyjX00F4/s615/Beyond%20the%20lion%20gate%20cover.webp" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="615" data-original-width="436" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG3MgjUzmlHpIF1t4f0wWjuKBxp6vs4VdlI_q3Q3LijAePRVafYwZwrVH9xwaoTbbilU6e-04NgkTJe4-xYIMA6gwTOBlxwAy92pzPF09rbWnXACFAIXTVYSems_5VPbsRAUQ5zGjeXAkQnaJ6yH7lFWT96lDnfwze3e8QogtrW8HuwEU7RuvYyjX00F4/w284-h400/Beyond%20the%20lion%20gate%20cover.webp" width="284" /></a></div><p></p><p><span style="color: #134f5c; font-size: large;">The setting of the novel is Albania in the late 1990s. The country is going through a turbulent time of transition, the </span><span style="color: #134f5c; font-size: large;"> infrastructure is </span><span style="color: #134f5c; font-size: large;">broken, and criminal gangs are settling scores in the streets of Tirana. Paula, the narrator, arrives in winter to work for an aid organisation.<br />Tirana could also be called the city of rumours, as it is often hard to find out the truth about individuals and organisations, including the one Paula works for. It seems that everyone – and soon that will include her – has something to hide. But the country grows on her, the people, the history, and the dramatic landscape. Through a particular relationship Paula experiences the ambiguous nature of love, both its appearance and its reality. Its presence and its absence. <br />The Lion Gate is a stone threshold, part of the classical ruins of Butrint, in the south of Albania, which Paula visits with one of her friends. It is possible that all portals can alter the perceptions of people who pass through them. </span></p><p><span style="color: #134f5c; font-size: large;"></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk6uK0Gcbx0-CMsh_ZeUWbdg0ruwbBrllVNOaLXAkktZGDVTalxNKfhoEB9wvDwTCb8Veaqw6_v_JUUTFcbCWOgqkttA8A7HX6Dix9ES9sgXssKYH-dVdu5ziLfjQdObPoRO8IrxJ7Zg1n-FTx6hp1QTMxKlVll6RcqUOFiAWwYCkXR5k-Eu62SWroIrY/s3072/P8220517%20Porta%20Luanit%201.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2304" data-original-width="3072" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk6uK0Gcbx0-CMsh_ZeUWbdg0ruwbBrllVNOaLXAkktZGDVTalxNKfhoEB9wvDwTCb8Veaqw6_v_JUUTFcbCWOgqkttA8A7HX6Dix9ES9sgXssKYH-dVdu5ziLfjQdObPoRO8IrxJ7Zg1n-FTx6hp1QTMxKlVll6RcqUOFiAWwYCkXR5k-Eu62SWroIrY/w400-h300/P8220517%20Porta%20Luanit%201.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Porta Luanit, Butrint<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="color: #134f5c; font-size: large;"> </span><p></p><p><span style="color: #134f5c; font-size: large;"><i>Beyond the Lion Gate</i> is available from me or Fiction Direct at <a href="https://www.readfictiondirect.co.uk/new-books-from-fiction-direct">this website</a> price £9 (which includes postage in UK). </span><br /></p>dritanjehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16025213970107184429noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5365414187774298547.post-14477799834969022092023-09-10T12:00:00.001+02:002023-09-10T12:38:17.153+02:00Fires of Passion & Conviction <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl1gy-46tHEXy68FxkKkabN8VQpLKIESDrCMFivXrdvUvjpPvpcWt2aUtd5MEeHObcquBgKBrh43yp0yZrjIz4qrwvc2q7f9T10ezjtzaySmo35XzOz76qXxjFh2nmUS6OL7ki3HECcU1uF0rn0P_yYkUUOybjw4fjFruuXHlN7g46w4OqyLl5_nNEcqs/s3929/IMG_20230906_151120.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: #0c343d; font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3929" data-original-width="2272" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl1gy-46tHEXy68FxkKkabN8VQpLKIESDrCMFivXrdvUvjpPvpcWt2aUtd5MEeHObcquBgKBrh43yp0yZrjIz4qrwvc2q7f9T10ezjtzaySmo35XzOz76qXxjFh2nmUS6OL7ki3HECcU1uF0rn0P_yYkUUOybjw4fjFruuXHlN7g46w4OqyLl5_nNEcqs/w231-h400/IMG_20230906_151120.jpg" width="231" /></span></a></div><span style="color: #0c343d; font-size: large;"><br /></span><p><span style="color: #0c343d; font-size: large;"><i>The Garden Cinema, Covent Garden, London, not a very clear picture because of the light. </i> </span></p><p></p><span style="color: #0c343d; font-size: large;"></span><p></p><p></p><br /><span style="color: #0c343d; font-size: large;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="color: #0c343d; font-size: large;">At the independent <a href="https://www.thegardencinema.co.uk/">Garden Cinema</a> in London. Beautiful designs and decor, even the typography whisks me back in time with its combination of slim and slender, square chunky blocks of letters beside the slimmer uprights giving contrast but still bold. Slender bold, and fat and filled-in bold. All of a time that isn't yours but you can feel nostalgia for. And do, even emerging into the soft London not - quite - darkness, a film of your own creation, stepped into, like a dream you are living, and you have woken up in. And that realization, that <i>remembering</i> oh, of course! This is a play, a dream, a drama, I'm watching as well as taking part in . How could I have forgotten this? This rosy, magical, sublime perception? </span></p><p><span style="color: #0c343d; font-size: large;">And I haven't even mentioned the film we went to see. (<i>Roter Himmel/Alight</i>) It is raw, uneasy, painful, clever, admirable acting, directing, story. And it too blends almost completely, the perceptions of acting in (enacting, or not acting, not seeming to act though of course we act all the time, just to think is to act) and of observing, the watching perception, which paradoxically, it is when it separates itself from the immersed-in-the-play /film perception (the character, the small self, the ego) towards the end, that it connects the two in a higher octave of perceiving. Which is love. </span></p><p><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: large;"><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Afire">Christian Petzold</a></span><span style="color: #0c343d; font-size: large;"> director of <i>Roter Himmel /Alight</i>, </span><span style="color: #134f5c; font-size: large;">starring Thomas Schubert, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Paula_Beer" title="Paula Beer">Paula Beer</a>, Langston Uibel and Enno Trebs. </span></p><p><span style="color: #134f5c; font-size: large;">*</span></p><p><span style="color: #134f5c; font-size: large;">Olga Tokarczuk’s book <i>Drive Your Plow over the Bones of the Dead</i>: I was drawn into the protagonist’s voice, worldview, her commentary on said world and in particular on certain people who thoughtlessly, mindlessly or even possibly with relish, hunted down other beings, destroyed them, murdered them, set traps for them, raised them in crowded conditions for their own profit, and abused them generally, giving very little thought to how these creatures might feel. </span></p><p><span style="color: #134f5c; font-size: large;">She writes letters to the authorities our Mrs. Duszejko, but receives no replies. She has a neighbour she likes, though he is taciturn, only conversing when necessary or practical or when he is inebriated, but whose heart you suspect is in the right place. She has two good friends, one a former student (Janina Duszejko teaches English part-time) the other is young and beautiful and works at the local charity shop. She knows that most people either do not pay her any attention ‘Nobody takes any notice of old women who wander around with their shopping bags’ or they treat her as a nuisance, with her letters of complaint to the council or the police, or as someone to be humoured, not quite right in the head, as she talks about the movements of the planets, likes to read people’s horoscopes, and has a theory that the animal world is revenging itself on the humans who trap and hunt them, for what they call ‘sport’. <br /><br />So I was reading the last part of the book on the bus and it took a very unexpected turn, I had in fact wondered how it might end, as there were unexplained deaths, and I thought that perhaps it would simply end in an unresolved way, a continuation of the life of this fierce fighter for justice in her small community with her teaching work, her translation collaboration (of William Blake’s poems) with a former student, and her trips to the charity shop where she enjoyed the company of her friend who worked there. Obviously I won’t reveal the ending, but the curious thing is, after the bus passed the place where new buildings are going up, there is another roundabout and, looking down, I saw someone had placed a sign on the ground propped against a tree, and it said RIP and there was a lovely painting of a badger. And at the start of the path leading down towards the river, where some trees had been felled, someone had painted on the tree stump RIP. </span></p><p><span style="color: #134f5c; font-size: large;"><br /> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjji268QrYFBK4qr1muc9yJz5u-2b7colsxO37NDu3RUOxZeJB2SIdk8tIxnc_fH-TpQFywwTA2B90grq80opz-NDLkxZngS7QyHhoVK-OACUU1JpbbAKDFsWweJF_aeeIZcty6jeUeblkNtBAZnllLYqzpzRCu4iywnFiIRhsFBaVQNHJG78Dq-XDnpMI/s3334/IMG_20230301_131054%20tree%20stump.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3334" data-original-width="2249" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjji268QrYFBK4qr1muc9yJz5u-2b7colsxO37NDu3RUOxZeJB2SIdk8tIxnc_fH-TpQFywwTA2B90grq80opz-NDLkxZngS7QyHhoVK-OACUU1JpbbAKDFsWweJF_aeeIZcty6jeUeblkNtBAZnllLYqzpzRCu4iywnFiIRhsFBaVQNHJG78Dq-XDnpMI/w270-h400/IMG_20230301_131054%20tree%20stump.jpg" width="270" /></a></div><br /><span style="color: #0c343d; font-size: large;"> </span><p></p>dritanjehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16025213970107184429noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5365414187774298547.post-62965523713315295432023-08-08T19:00:00.003+02:002023-08-08T20:08:42.995+02:00Ways & Tides<p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: #134f5c; font-size: large;">Thomas the Rhymer, true Thomas of Ercildoune (Earlston, in the Scottish Borders) was he who met the Queen of Elfland and spent seven years with her in her realm, before returning to the regular world of humans. He flourished in the thirteenth century. A carved stone in the wall of Earlston Church, reads </span><span style="color: #cc0000; font-size: large;">Auld Rhymer, Bard, Lyes in This Place</span><span style="color: #134f5c; font-size: large;">. The carved words are difficult to make out and the stone is protected by glass to prevent further fading. <br /><br /></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: #134f5c; font-size: large;"></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6OjkwCd0CvhmZHaIQFSnMPl2GyrUHRG3XAY32tw1SGp2fdNVVDIiFask5zQNQYINWD8ra55O4cBNTGN3Jpm81SL82h8anJI-ug_SaKtf08iQIu6UCY3-AjOhzF3u7OGpyvCCtqetwSlrdBHgx-MrrGzO2vgW0dv8gM0jasBcm8TR1vz8u_ub0bqvlywI/s3434/IMG_20230728_144909%20angel%20b&W.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2186" data-original-width="3434" height="408" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6OjkwCd0CvhmZHaIQFSnMPl2GyrUHRG3XAY32tw1SGp2fdNVVDIiFask5zQNQYINWD8ra55O4cBNTGN3Jpm81SL82h8anJI-ug_SaKtf08iQIu6UCY3-AjOhzF3u7OGpyvCCtqetwSlrdBHgx-MrrGzO2vgW0dv8gM0jasBcm8TR1vz8u_ub0bqvlywI/w640-h408/IMG_20230728_144909%20angel%20b&W.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">carving on Earlston Church, Scottish Borders<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="color: #134f5c; font-size: large;"><br />There are other old stone carvings too, with sands of time, skull and crossbones etc symbolism and an amazed-looking angel. From Earlston we drove to the church at Bowden, which lies on the other side of the Eildon Hills. It dates from the twelfth century. It has been tastefully modernised with lots of wood, and you can still see the original stone arch leading to the recess for the organ. There are small windows in the organ alcove. There are carvings at the end of each pew, with the scallop shell in the middle, the sign of the pilgrim. You see these all over the caminos or chemins in France, [link?] leading to Santiago/St Jacques, in Spain. But any Way or any journey can be a pilgrimage, and Bowden Church is on <a href="https://www.stcuthbertsway.info">St. Cuthbert’s Way.</a></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: #134f5c; font-size: large;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9PgBy_bVke2tEOKxSjdktBlMTo1_dqGDGGFXQowPEtlvruexP8vWlgbb3F3lDKp7I1ncBSB5ze7qxkyQCYZjbZs6vN0uxqobZDHZlDknplhgK3IbK4N1x0FEXoJICOyWoeX8QEQqtz6eAOmqli4lMxs4gQVDRpK6ZPQNxP5FD_n3i6lpLikeObBhEGVI/s4608/IMG_20230728_160746%20carved%20scallop%20b&w.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2272" data-original-width="4608" height="316" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9PgBy_bVke2tEOKxSjdktBlMTo1_dqGDGGFXQowPEtlvruexP8vWlgbb3F3lDKp7I1ncBSB5ze7qxkyQCYZjbZs6vN0uxqobZDHZlDknplhgK3IbK4N1x0FEXoJICOyWoeX8QEQqtz6eAOmqli4lMxs4gQVDRpK6ZPQNxP5FD_n3i6lpLikeObBhEGVI/w640-h316/IMG_20230728_160746%20carved%20scallop%20b&w.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Scallop shell carving, symbol of the pilgrim, in Bowden Church<br /></td></tr></tbody></table> </span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: #134f5c; font-size: large;">(There is also the Way of Haiku. On one of the many buses and trains I take in the next few days, I’m reading the latest book by the incomparable Natalie Goldberg, <i>Three Simple Lines</i>, about her pilgrimage to Japan, her love of Basho, Buson and other Haiku masters. Reading her, the scenery I spy from bus and train windows turns into short poems, observations, which I cannot claim to be haiku. <br /><i>Where are we? <br />Ah summer, late as usual <br />or departing in haste </i>) <br /><br />I’ve <a href="https://rivertrain.blogspot.com/2014/08/saint-cuthberts-way-berwick-belford-and.html">walked parts</a> of <a href="https://rivertrain.blogspot.com/2014/08/saint-cuthberts-way-borders-of.html">St Cuthbert’s Way</a> a few years ago, but the Bowden church reminded me of this Way. I’ve also just finished Benjamin Myers book <i>Cuddy</i>, about St Cuthbert, only it’s not about his life so much as his spirit, the life of those who came after him, who carried his body (allegedly uncorrupted) for years until it found its final resting place in Durham Cathedral, in the north of England, which was built especially to house his remains. In several sections, the book describes imagined lives of people living near the Cathedral, in the centuries since then. <br /><br />I felt it was time to visit again Lindisfarne, the Holy Island, where St Cuthbert lived for many years. Like Thomas the Rhymer, St Cuthbert spent much time in an alternative world, where it seems he was happiest, on the Holy Island, away from the regular world of mankind. He would allegedly spend hours praying in the sea, in the chill of the water, and legend also has it that he preferred the company of the birds there, including sea eagles.</span></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXJKzhbgC_jTOh3Nu3Iegqxl-1RgES2NCB9MIfgmxmJXWhZXX10GyXa5nhQ24Eu3khVu8tEyhqWhxzhNfDqPoRn9AT_LXt5170WOl1BppwD0drowF22kz2Dh07RWilatfzEqupimMbXPAkRs-5kLIdntzmDpf8GG8pOM0lhLaa_W1k1Pw4bm__HleHEM0/s4608/IMG_20230803_123414%20causeway.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2272" data-original-width="4608" height="316" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXJKzhbgC_jTOh3Nu3Iegqxl-1RgES2NCB9MIfgmxmJXWhZXX10GyXa5nhQ24Eu3khVu8tEyhqWhxzhNfDqPoRn9AT_LXt5170WOl1BppwD0drowF22kz2Dh07RWilatfzEqupimMbXPAkRs-5kLIdntzmDpf8GG8pOM0lhLaa_W1k1Pw4bm__HleHEM0/w640-h316/IMG_20230803_123414%20causeway.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lindisfarne from the causeway crossing<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgY-90W6RlDm0CUrpezNIO04hWA0LhCUD3mOMCx65EB4ZHgsoIfSM-ebgOlSUkLMVck-s0mKRb75Mt8muVsjr45k_9WJEgiB5i42UiEXv_kxYKQCdR_CkTKEhauIeOaOkgrzIxcqIJ0EyzYio62fjTVLKrTtj7S85ccHaJIuNf8n4vFMIb5QfMJmB4kckw/s4608/IMG_20230805_112108%20creels%20&%20castle.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2272" data-original-width="4608" height="316" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgY-90W6RlDm0CUrpezNIO04hWA0LhCUD3mOMCx65EB4ZHgsoIfSM-ebgOlSUkLMVck-s0mKRb75Mt8muVsjr45k_9WJEgiB5i42UiEXv_kxYKQCdR_CkTKEhauIeOaOkgrzIxcqIJ0EyzYio62fjTVLKrTtj7S85ccHaJIuNf8n4vFMIb5QfMJmB4kckw/w640-h316/IMG_20230805_112108%20creels%20&%20castle.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fishing creels & Lindisfarne castle in the background<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: #134f5c; font-size: large;"><br />The background hum of the sea is audible. The sea all around and the tide coming in. The sea would always be in movement, around this island. The sea embraces it. It floats in the water. <br />The Gothic arch of the old priory ruins is still standing, with white daisies and red poppies in front.<br /><br /></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnE-X0iAbW2BN5q_bISYUXcLKnmcWeLUYZ5f57ZMSaN6tkVoi7zsoYC5-IkbZzzIje6jEHpxR__GQp3GQuP0CPsp1TLMhmlx19xxYCJc1eEWBnd9mZocWoJWSAgzTZ7kVZPetdLnP9nsMIQEON1URaFfERSMQK8Ik2_9rpyq7SpbAAucFUatus_1rvY3k/s4608/IMG_20230805_113212%20priory%20&%20poppies.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4608" data-original-width="2272" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnE-X0iAbW2BN5q_bISYUXcLKnmcWeLUYZ5f57ZMSaN6tkVoi7zsoYC5-IkbZzzIje6jEHpxR__GQp3GQuP0CPsp1TLMhmlx19xxYCJc1eEWBnd9mZocWoJWSAgzTZ7kVZPetdLnP9nsMIQEON1URaFfERSMQK8Ik2_9rpyq7SpbAAucFUatus_1rvY3k/w316-h640/IMG_20230805_113212%20priory%20&%20poppies.jpg" width="316" /></a></div><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: #134f5c; font-size: large;"></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: #134f5c; font-size: large;"></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: #134f5c; font-size: large;"></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: #134f5c; font-size: large;"><br /><br /><br /><i>A distant hum – the sea.<br />There is no wildness here, just the regularity of tide</i></span><i><br /></i></span></p><p><i><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: #134f5c; font-size: large;"> </span><span style="color: #134f5c; font-size: large;">severing the island<br />from the human world of Everyday.</span></span></i></p><p><i><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: #134f5c; font-size: large;">And the regularity of prayer.<br />Its freedom.<br /><br />Cuthbert welcomed the separating tides<br />traded membership in human groups<br />for immersion in the water,<br />found his belonging in the shorelines,<br />in the habits of the birds,<br />in the folding dark,<br />the enfolding silence.</span></span></i></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8QjSbBdFRzCdgUNCBUdr-mltz6JXI3iYkbqsDy-dzCUnXx4pax0bTvUxJ3r6W0PGT1EsSlhcswhEHZhny0MGPet3yGZ6-w9BrmEFwHaE2HNkmvSaVUHbYsPwNFfsW44D2Cfj7CtTGOz1x44I-SIMKn2UfbkirzuGp3RRKfayKvp2NIOcVgKeSwa_opo4/s4608/IMG_20230805_130909%20bird%20flight%20over%20lake.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2272" data-original-width="4608" height="316" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8QjSbBdFRzCdgUNCBUdr-mltz6JXI3iYkbqsDy-dzCUnXx4pax0bTvUxJ3r6W0PGT1EsSlhcswhEHZhny0MGPet3yGZ6-w9BrmEFwHaE2HNkmvSaVUHbYsPwNFfsW44D2Cfj7CtTGOz1x44I-SIMKn2UfbkirzuGp3RRKfayKvp2NIOcVgKeSwa_opo4/w640-h316/IMG_20230805_130909%20bird%20flight%20over%20lake.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bird flight over the small lake on Lindisfarne<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="color: #134f5c; font-size: large;"><br /><br /> </span></span></p>dritanjehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16025213970107184429noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5365414187774298547.post-91773627195153643662023-07-28T21:12:00.001+02:002023-07-28T22:02:52.747+02:00Hot dandelion days<p> <span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #134f5c;"><i>Sometimes a few words, a line, a phrase, a sentence, just floats into the mind like a dandelion seedling, like a few petals of apple blossom. These similes are appropriate for it was that time of year, it was spring in Latvia. Trees were thick with apple blossom; the dandelions were still yellow, whole lanes and lines and fields of yellow. They would change all at once, go from bright yellow petals to dusky white, silver white balls of seeds, spread out over the grass. All at once, later in May. In the evening, the grass would shine with them as if every puff ball of seeds was made up of tiny lights. Perhaps they were.<br /><br />The phrase floated into my mind, death and decay among the dandelions. My critical mind thought that was maybe just a little negative. But it described what I was seeing and experiencing, the graveyards, the decaying empty houses, the lanes of dandelions bordering the paths I walked every day, and spreading out across the fields. I defended the realness of it, the gift of it. When I got home I started with that phrase, only slightly changed, and wrote to see where it would lead me.</i> <br /></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #134f5c;">This is a story of loss and decay among the dandelions<br /><br /></span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #134f5c;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpo_JjBDEcqBP1u-cSLv-w3Q7PgzjPXN_tDYmETv-GZM3kNf0UfWnaXMI1GewH8IugjxhlsJD7iUFjAK24P2w7haUcNKtKHl7iUHxV_uoFbTRNoA8RG2-qD6IP3RrBYbxaY3Eg9JIlHQ45AhaODpcihR7DusZVRU8KGT4R6YXb-sIYvED9dDCO8uKOFbM/s4608/House%201.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2272" data-original-width="4608" height="316" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpo_JjBDEcqBP1u-cSLv-w3Q7PgzjPXN_tDYmETv-GZM3kNf0UfWnaXMI1GewH8IugjxhlsJD7iUFjAK24P2w7haUcNKtKHl7iUHxV_uoFbTRNoA8RG2-qD6IP3RrBYbxaY3Eg9JIlHQ45AhaODpcihR7DusZVRU8KGT4R6YXb-sIYvED9dDCO8uKOFbM/w640-h316/House%201.jpg" width="640" /></a></span></span><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #134f5c;"><br /> In Sabile’s main street, opposite the church grounds, there’s a splendid house, long and low with wooden window frames; they are painted pale green, at least in places where the paint has not flaked off – a wooden sign still on the front – a workshop as well as house? Who knows? Who is going to make an inventory of all the names and vanishings, all the splintered boards, all the dust-covered staircases, all the graves, some so overgrown with moss and grasses that they’ve become a raised garden, a raised platform for wild violets. <br /><br />Graves, cemeteries, deaths and burials, they are the themes for this year’s calender. Dust and dandelions. Ashes and art. There are other living creatures – storks and violets, pine trees and jasmine blossom, deer and hare, they give back to the earth and nourish it. It is just us humans it seems, who make lists and cannot reconcile ourselves to the relentless, ongoing nature of all change. Forever trying to scoop up the forms of energy that please us, hold them like the 3-bowl sculpture, open to the heavens. The three kingdoms or the three constellations, the 3 bowls of belonging. I pass them every day, when I walk – on the way there and on the way back. <br /></span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpDxsxYGUVgz15t_7faZOL_PmRM-SeKPLBDKlItt3-paMrfIP9l3bC3ar0B0FJgej8OHNJsFqo9EXr8pbIrxnwyfARK79fJjxsELJm8BUpWI3BqPAQKIVHMMCiZSqGWk3j0yRRyLWT_Nt9B5wGlDw7_TNgdB7Wnueu6eipObLpceggceeIVz38IBoTgiA/s2247/3%20cups%20Meness%20gravira%20Liz%20helfer%20&%20Ben%20Foley%20small.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1847" data-original-width="2247" height="526" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpDxsxYGUVgz15t_7faZOL_PmRM-SeKPLBDKlItt3-paMrfIP9l3bC3ar0B0FJgej8OHNJsFqo9EXr8pbIrxnwyfARK79fJjxsELJm8BUpWI3BqPAQKIVHMMCiZSqGWk3j0yRRyLWT_Nt9B5wGlDw7_TNgdB7Wnueu6eipObLpceggceeIVz38IBoTgiA/w640-h526/3%20cups%20Meness%20gravira%20Liz%20helfer%20&%20Ben%20Foley%20small.jpg" width="640" /></a></span><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #134f5c;"><br />Today I went along the top path, past the flowering jasmine trees – past the empty house, now my familiar friend, and downhill to the river. Then go through the shady grounds beside the church with benches and on, up to the second hill. It’s hot this afternoon and I wonder if I’ll make it. The heat pulls at my shoulders, slows down my feet. But I go up the hill, back to the graveyard with the rusted iron gates, the large cross, the 3 graves – one very small – that have names and dates on them, that have a gravel path around them, that have a bench beside them so the tired wayfarer such as myself can sit awhile, can linger in the company of old memories and count – regrets? Or the times of plenitude and eating in the open air, the roast chickens and the squashes and the onions, the polenta and the paprika, the lemons squeezed over the grilled fish. </span><br /><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1ItHSShvuVSNPvOExzADB86JSj7afWFdv17k4VTu7dWR1yrH8FCxZ5DMQ7l1cfQXQEGS1bCTOc0BUqqk5SX1Qq6ChV35UbGYCMVvP3K3TZGvbK4yfSeMrPGhRXdLd6SpqsI6IP6laWwHLPtxy-mBKWOc83avFaEWhckjJJQs4-fQI9U5Kp17UcAvG09I/s3010/3%20graves%20German%20cemetary%20small.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2063" data-original-width="3010" height="438" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1ItHSShvuVSNPvOExzADB86JSj7afWFdv17k4VTu7dWR1yrH8FCxZ5DMQ7l1cfQXQEGS1bCTOc0BUqqk5SX1Qq6ChV35UbGYCMVvP3K3TZGvbK4yfSeMrPGhRXdLd6SpqsI6IP6laWwHLPtxy-mBKWOc83avFaEWhckjJJQs4-fQI9U5Kp17UcAvG09I/w640-h438/3%20graves%20German%20cemetary%20small.jpg" width="640" /></a></span><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #134f5c;">It is possible that in those times I was thinking of something else entirely and because of that I lost the scent of roasting ham, I lost the memory in a morass of details that I can’t remember, but now it comes back, now it’s not so much I want to say things I forgot to say then or there wasn’t time or – it seemed so obvious there was no need – but more, in the recollection, I would like to hold them close to me, these beloved departed, because their presences were like passing days, sequential, days that followed, one would come after the next, that was the nature of their being, that’s what days did, but the presence that I am regretting now, that I would like to hold close once again, stepped out of the sequence and I haven’t quite – or have not at all – forgiven what failed to follow in due order, what fell out of line, and I still don’t know exactly what it was – a note in music that you tripped up on, a shoe that you had left carelessly and misaligned close to the kitchen door, that tripped you up, or maybe the guitar strings, when you changed them, perfecting the tuning, ready for the next day’s concert – you tightened them too much, one snapped and you snapped too – tripped or snapped or snagged or burst, whatever failed, the concert and the heart was cancelled .......<br /><br />and here I am, sitting by the graves of others who I never knew, but in this tumbling foliage of grass and moss, violets and dandelions, one absence so it seems links to another and though the names are individual and the memories, it’s as if a tunnel underground links every loss and through the flower stems and the petals, the scents, the air currents, the storks in flight, all the littered caskets that hold the jewels of stars at night, there is a boat and a beneficence that holds you all. I raise a glass to you and to the cavalcade of music that holds every one of you.<br /><br />I get up from the bench, walk past the pine trees with the scent of warm pine needles. I come back down, to the valley and the river, follow the river, (always follow the river), climb the last hill, pass the 3 cups and the stone boulders that they rest on, follow the path of stones with the <i>axis mundi</i> on my right, through the iron portal which clangs softly in the wind, and home.<br /><br /> </span></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1k5JyZcUjcV_oZ9HjQ2-e6-9Vwvryd91hWEGrK6wUvi4EFC4Dl9EVJRySorPG8bzvAQNqWeQbHWgoeOVrnen3Di14_IHOlJkRUxDWMYL443GOvlo5jo8biiPWUwodo7sGSDq_R5_ikj5JFz1mBEzsZeLlpjIQ-kvvvNycG279TA77iLiN1wUBXd5nXUc/s4608/Axis%20mundi.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2272" data-original-width="4608" height="316" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1k5JyZcUjcV_oZ9HjQ2-e6-9Vwvryd91hWEGrK6wUvi4EFC4Dl9EVJRySorPG8bzvAQNqWeQbHWgoeOVrnen3Di14_IHOlJkRUxDWMYL443GOvlo5jo8biiPWUwodo7sGSDq_R5_ikj5JFz1mBEzsZeLlpjIQ-kvvvNycG279TA77iLiN1wUBXd5nXUc/w640-h316/Axis%20mundi.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Part of the <i>axis mundi</i> sculpture<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjII8HPyCjiTgjDDO8pExT2KJTzWdDpAqEZx5qHsQ9we_FHDht9jT_WryKfZoQI2xbC4eIVAVEQ_wDDM7cGOAnZ72_cNpVRLgNLHOixoMPNrb3-VlY2U7izMFM8SBLTiQ9DGKz96LT-4nRloc_gPS5LzzjNX0P0bPytB9HjZ4Xyaul92m80YNcCgxVAmuY/s4608/Axis%20mundi.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div></span><br /><p></p>dritanjehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16025213970107184429noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5365414187774298547.post-30778026547049861622023-07-11T23:00:00.000+02:002023-07-11T23:00:53.620+02:00Cycling Downhill<p> <span style="color: #134f5c; font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #134f5c; font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizrSAjFlQcYkeQGEP79utI2giFSLTO31Gsr4ZpU-jOn6Zgg2dyAM12nDgTAg1Bb46ITkJ7cV6sDvtF2QfwRYbocf14_-W7AWFAe4Glux39rfSkY0HJ4ICtGVArMCHzMINkJpLmx3RX1y960nfbAvBgwvtVAxmCxYHBRcC6Tz39INUG5XvGeF45-SF4KRc/s4608/IMG_20230709_131723%20landscape%202.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2272" data-original-width="4608" height="316" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizrSAjFlQcYkeQGEP79utI2giFSLTO31Gsr4ZpU-jOn6Zgg2dyAM12nDgTAg1Bb46ITkJ7cV6sDvtF2QfwRYbocf14_-W7AWFAe4Glux39rfSkY0HJ4ICtGVArMCHzMINkJpLmx3RX1y960nfbAvBgwvtVAxmCxYHBRcC6Tz39INUG5XvGeF45-SF4KRc/w640-h316/IMG_20230709_131723%20landscape%202.jpg" width="640" /></a></span></div><span style="color: #134f5c; font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span></span><p></p><p><span style="color: #134f5c; font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">On the bike. There was a thin cloud cover in the sky to begin with, little cloud-bunches like flowers, like shady puffs of dandelion clocks, so the sun would flare briefly, then dim. Up the long hill of the Earlston road, up and up, past the windfarm and then the peaks of the Eildon hills in the distance, in a haze. The road swings left and I had forgotten the long downhill stretch after that. It goes on and on. The cloud has melted like thin wax. Somewhere else, it will gather together again, but all it has left here are some faint dramatic streaks of white against the blue of sky as if someone has ripped a white silk sail or parachute into shreds leaving only a few remnants, torn and tangled threads – whether this passion was anger or desire is not clear. </span></span></p><p><span style="color: #134f5c; font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">The sky looks remote and intimate all at once, says nothing. The trees are at the height of their leafy tumultuous green, spreading like fingers on the arms of their beloved – moving, waving, not holding on, just resting, not removing their desire, not leaving, just swinging slightly backwards and forwards, a caressing of – air fields and the uncoiling ropes of time. One hedge curves and shimmers, every leaf in movement, every leaf reflecting light, a beech hedge trimmed and streamlined, flowing downhill. </span></span></p><p><span style="color: #134f5c; font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #134f5c; font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjUims6oL4xrUBnM26AmAjZh0R5q3pwdInaZkSxBLMsRAnQhderJ0EI0C7vUIgZBRT4nm3YsuakLgCqjTDWDaAYf3nVWq4LowIpdkoudCxw7t35nZgigtG812o1tzIwTsxQ9nZGmzo3DvUlOdjU7tgtb78ITnxT5AgT4SCNdgJaWMcH9SGAqtHL1Tawa8/s4608/IMG_20230709_125304%20landscape%201.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2272" data-original-width="4608" height="316" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjUims6oL4xrUBnM26AmAjZh0R5q3pwdInaZkSxBLMsRAnQhderJ0EI0C7vUIgZBRT4nm3YsuakLgCqjTDWDaAYf3nVWq4LowIpdkoudCxw7t35nZgigtG812o1tzIwTsxQ9nZGmzo3DvUlOdjU7tgtb78ITnxT5AgT4SCNdgJaWMcH9SGAqtHL1Tawa8/w640-h316/IMG_20230709_125304%20landscape%201.jpg" width="640" /></a></span></div><span style="color: #134f5c; font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span></span><p></p><p><span style="color: #134f5c; font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Everything is in movement, the thinning cloud haze, the angle of the road that makes one hill hide behind another (<i>une colline peut cacher une autre</i>) – the rippling effect of the slight wind and, going downhill, that best-ever feeling of warm slope and tree breath against your bare arms and everything is welcome here, in the sun’s domain, and the loneliness of bare trees in winter stacked logs by the roadside and the dark twigs of tree branches, with no dreams on them at all, all that is gone. </span></span></p><p><span style="color: #134f5c; font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">The beech hedge ripples downhill, <i>that clothe the wold and meet the sky/and through the fields the road runs by</i> on the lip of another valley, there are so many levels of horizon, so many shades of greens. The dark pine green – the rocks, foundation of the forest – and the shimmer of the beech, a shawl thrown downhill like a gauntlet, down into the valley, before the next rise, the next wold, the next horizon.<br /><br /></span></span></p><p><span style="color: #134f5c; font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #134f5c; font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidF0vw_yaw1USuNnrwERfBTYKccDFuk5vIUZHAElxehWzEGLo05SLifb1Ihk8ghgovGwfmmGI5VSprXiR6SYCPip0v-FfDvMjquyR9QCMQ2XmxNBFpwyLEX5-yRzTU5LYyj534Bq9SCQply5a4Dta7r27tbVx3yXBRf_aSSdHmjPf_dgFXOpYib3Rv408/s4608/IMG_20230709_131804%20l%20scape%204.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2272" data-original-width="4608" height="316" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidF0vw_yaw1USuNnrwERfBTYKccDFuk5vIUZHAElxehWzEGLo05SLifb1Ihk8ghgovGwfmmGI5VSprXiR6SYCPip0v-FfDvMjquyR9QCMQ2XmxNBFpwyLEX5-yRzTU5LYyj534Bq9SCQply5a4Dta7r27tbVx3yXBRf_aSSdHmjPf_dgFXOpYib3Rv408/w640-h316/IMG_20230709_131804%20l%20scape%204.jpg" width="640" /></a></span></div><span style="color: #134f5c; font-size: large;"><br /> </span><p></p>dritanjehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16025213970107184429noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5365414187774298547.post-30175037582525786792023-06-22T11:00:00.000+02:002023-06-22T11:00:11.349+02:00Pedvale Sculpture Park, Latvia<p> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGFhkE3nUI45YY8zTysse8Sd8fjvoSSUz79SAvc5Nv_HwTDs_9AyZcyO9zi7M37i-oWhZxjHRedPSYi-RgE13hCRMbXtwJb-BsFMvLT5V7KDlzXm_WswBAKRY1PX_zb1rj4zBzTtnlNPObCVN9YhVL3nccd4sAvlbz69u3s8vUtVMplGvHwpWlmhksvMU/s11072/IMG_20230524_212038%20evening%20sky%20panorama.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2944" data-original-width="11072" height="170" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGFhkE3nUI45YY8zTysse8Sd8fjvoSSUz79SAvc5Nv_HwTDs_9AyZcyO9zi7M37i-oWhZxjHRedPSYi-RgE13hCRMbXtwJb-BsFMvLT5V7KDlzXm_WswBAKRY1PX_zb1rj4zBzTtnlNPObCVN9YhVL3nccd4sAvlbz69u3s8vUtVMplGvHwpWlmhksvMU/w640-h170/IMG_20230524_212038%20evening%20sky%20panorama.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Part of Pedvale Park, in evening light<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /></p><p><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Ojars Feldbergs, a Latvian sculptor, had plans to create a sculpture park in the capital Riga, but with independence, he turned his attention to an area of land near the small town of Sabile, where he had spent many summers as a boy, shepherding his grandfather’s sheep and cattle. The conflicts of the last century meant that there were abandoned manor houses throughout Latvia, and the houses and outbuildings on this land were known as Firckspedvale and Brinkenpedvale. Ojars had a vision to restore these buildings, create a sculpture park, and invite other artists to spend time here too, to create something that would become part of this park. So the Pedvale Foundation was created, and I was lucky enough to spend a month here, along with sculptors, land artists, film makers and other writers, from USA, Austria, Netherlands and Chile.<br /></span></p><p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtvJ7_YqypXWD9tYsHAOk8YJWVcfVsLB954vUjtMD_YnY2pKuwDHhs-CIYtl8s6hnKwVcex4GGTeI4DkXr4VkljNdmJGHuko5dL4Cpr00Gv1BIGXpOHCVZrc7Q4X4n6lHCaOBXU8DE6zQyYMbkhdEwWBIeW_46ebWwCpkktHmJTKoP70U4vSlvyTZsBnI/s4608/IMG_20230529_220149%20sunset%20&%20axis%20mundi.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2272" data-original-width="4608" height="317" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtvJ7_YqypXWD9tYsHAOk8YJWVcfVsLB954vUjtMD_YnY2pKuwDHhs-CIYtl8s6hnKwVcex4GGTeI4DkXr4VkljNdmJGHuko5dL4Cpr00Gv1BIGXpOHCVZrc7Q4X4n6lHCaOBXU8DE6zQyYMbkhdEwWBIeW_46ebWwCpkktHmJTKoP70U4vSlvyTZsBnI/w640-h317/IMG_20230529_220149%20sunset%20&%20axis%20mundi.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sunset over Pedvale Park, with part of the sculpture 'axis mundi' in foreground<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br />The land emits a sense of peace, and the birdsong, particularly in spring, is something you get used to hearing every morning, and in the evening, the nightingales sing well into dusk. The sun sets late, and you can watch it going down behind a grove of silver birch trees, while the sky is coloured with dusky flame and bolts of purple cloud. There are over 100 sculptures in the park and I have not got around to studying all of them. I have my own favourites, as I walk every day from one side of the park to the other. First of all there is the portal, a circular opening you step through, then the alley of birch trees, tied with blue and yellow ribbons, the colours of the Ukrainian flag. Turn left, and along the ridge that overlooks the rest of the park, you can see a long way, beyond Sabile, to the two towers, the telecommunications mast and the red brick one. <br /><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">*</span></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiccuFBwi7f544S_RB0SZRPG_XKP2VsvehGaGlfJwC9JsVX5AWakNKFDLxi3j6x_KVJlb6PnCUTTGAIDdmvItZhJO7TODpsFWiEVVEMwQEs-IHS9vXj-zgH0WwEjUx_wB9yV3ePUzKvZZNI8uVcFg7BPzO12MsM06x0XWZ-e9lDqX69LLwBaxvwh3XzSpU/s4608/IMG_20230527_162044%20stork%20best%20May%2027.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2272" data-original-width="4608" height="316" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiccuFBwi7f544S_RB0SZRPG_XKP2VsvehGaGlfJwC9JsVX5AWakNKFDLxi3j6x_KVJlb6PnCUTTGAIDdmvItZhJO7TODpsFWiEVVEMwQEs-IHS9vXj-zgH0WwEjUx_wB9yV3ePUzKvZZNI8uVcFg7BPzO12MsM06x0XWZ-e9lDqX69LLwBaxvwh3XzSpU/w640-h316/IMG_20230527_162044%20stork%20best%20May%2027.jpg" width="640" /></a><br /><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">A pair of storks have a nest just metres away from the house, and there’s another nest I’ve noticed near where the stream comes out into the village. The river that runs through Sabile is called the Abava, and storks can often be seen close to this river, and on the flat green area along the banks. Latvia is a favourite place for storks to come to nest and rear chicks, and you can see why – there is plenty of open space near rivers, and vast areas of forest (storks like to build platform nests on the top of tall trees). I’ve seen, and heard, several deer since I’ve been here, and the other day I saw a black snake curled up on the path, a scrawled calligraphy, which straightened up and shot into the grass when it realised I was watching it. </span></p><p><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">You can read the complete article in <a href="https://www.scottishreview.net/MorelleSmith663.html">Scottish Review</a>. </span><br /><br /><br /></p>dritanjehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16025213970107184429noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5365414187774298547.post-19731290870888721992023-05-22T10:30:00.001+02:002023-05-28T20:35:55.740+02:00Liepaja & the Baltic Sea<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9vbcqA20Y7zNUn58iP7p-JF_7t_8CFXydZ1EWcIiaOt5Xn24yjZzHcdm9OJbsZtBsnKrqrZEVmk7z9_2m26TzUWV2-hEq1ar9pu7XYCVVlVdZVznjsmQwiareZepsKKye9N1JDuRUqcdLTx7pVcp0YN53LhBqBIFh274t71brS31QlRw3PULqjT2J/s4608/IMG_20230509_124715%20cafe%20roma%20square%20Liepaja.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2272" data-original-width="4608" height="317" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9vbcqA20Y7zNUn58iP7p-JF_7t_8CFXydZ1EWcIiaOt5Xn24yjZzHcdm9OJbsZtBsnKrqrZEVmk7z9_2m26TzUWV2-hEq1ar9pu7XYCVVlVdZVznjsmQwiareZepsKKye9N1JDuRUqcdLTx7pVcp0YN53LhBqBIFh274t71brS31QlRw3PULqjT2J/w640-h317/IMG_20230509_124715%20cafe%20roma%20square%20Liepaja.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><br /><span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">It takes some time to reach the sea from Sabile by public transport. Our destination is Liepaja, and the bus is comfortable, spacious, and rolls slowly along, as if on a flexible cushion. The sun shines. A few storks are spotted, in the fields or on nests. One wide river, which I discover later is the Venta. Stopping points at Kuldigas and Aizpute. Kuldigas bus station is a pause, the driver gets out, talks to someone for a while. A couple of people board. Aizpute is just a couple of minutes halt. There are concrete posts dividing the (quite empty) area, different stances for the various buses that perhaps once arrived and left from here. But Aizpute has been overtaken by a sleeping potion and it slumbers in some dream. The concrete dividing posts separating one stance from another are rust stained from the iron strips embedded in them, show the slow deterioration in the world of time. Aizpute has slipped out of the time world and no one gets off the bus here, no one gets on.<br /><br />It’s very different by the time we get to Liepaja, with its modern bus stances, its electronic displays, its illustrated panels and photographs inside the numbered shelters, and you can see black & white photos of past historical events, even if you cannot understand the written explanation. The station building is vast and empty. Apart from the ticket sales kiosk and another one at the back, that sells souvenirs. Its spacious emptiness reminds me of the train station at Rijecka, Croatia. Both of them speak of a former time, the grass growing up between the marble paving slabs of Roman villas, the undergrowth and earth covering up the detailed floor mosaics. <br /><br /><br />From outside the station we take the little tram into the town centre. We go too far because I somehow unaccountably forgot to put the guide book in my bag this morning and I don’t remember where the Tourist Office is. My reasoning is that if the tram keeps going we will reach the sea. It is wrong of course because the tram swings round and runs parallel to an invisible sea. We get off the tram, and S manages to find a map on her phone. We take a tram going back the way we came and get off at the University, in the city centre and very close to the Tourist Office. Where we can get hold of real, readable foldable maps made of thick paper, which can be stuffed into one pocket or another – pulled out, creased, dropped even – a kindly young man picked it up for me – and generally referred to in order to pinpoint location, to know ‘where you are’, the outer piece of paper with its abstractions and its symbols connecting with the visible streets, buildings, open areas, parks, trees, and finally, sand dunes and the beach and the sea itself.<br /><br /></span></span><p></p><p><span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF05Agz2lH96gvRd5K8vcnyepvz9QRVNpZj_cD-F_M57L-97yM7oI1cUAe9kLJ1pxlGBbSoaKmsawQzXsM-6SBugcT15vklQfXZZz6MNp22YQyC8XI2IT-e8UKhSh6Dr_zyquuWyEPa9sIeOYR1JbyO8gnumGMs-i1Ckust1OqBHx1TpNLbQOSaT3R/s4608/IMG_20230509_141207%20birds%20wading%20in%20baltic.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2272" data-original-width="4608" height="316" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF05Agz2lH96gvRd5K8vcnyepvz9QRVNpZj_cD-F_M57L-97yM7oI1cUAe9kLJ1pxlGBbSoaKmsawQzXsM-6SBugcT15vklQfXZZz6MNp22YQyC8XI2IT-e8UKhSh6Dr_zyquuWyEPa9sIeOYR1JbyO8gnumGMs-i1Ckust1OqBHx1TpNLbQOSaT3R/w640-h316/IMG_20230509_141207%20birds%20wading%20in%20baltic.jpg" width="640" /></a></span><span style="color: #134f5c;"><br /><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">Sand hard beneath the feet, and so white, almost silver. Sea with its little waves, washes over the feet, warm shallow sea. A long white beach, only a few people in the distance. A building further up the beach looks as though it will turn into a bar or restaurant, but not now, not yet. Tourists may come later, the sun will become hot later in the year – though it is warm and pleasant enough today – and people will walk into the sea, immerse themselves in the water. <br /></span></span></span></p><p><span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMhS6LLXyGWNk8fJyB5IGw4MO0HUqZuhU9nlUi-lTXeYfPCtv_3T-c4dFllgDFyOg4Y2qPQ3Fo6pIAtrx4v7SaLzafxk43qtH96gNajSOp3dYane9MCHBnxUsgH9RCiOrQ54w8LQ3YXggoTqtA4KgtSZvYJ5WLZh62mUDPMKIZEC8rvrRRvEO_IP8i/s4608/IMG_20230509_141224_1%20walking%20on%20the%20beach.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2272" data-original-width="4608" height="316" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMhS6LLXyGWNk8fJyB5IGw4MO0HUqZuhU9nlUi-lTXeYfPCtv_3T-c4dFllgDFyOg4Y2qPQ3Fo6pIAtrx4v7SaLzafxk43qtH96gNajSOp3dYane9MCHBnxUsgH9RCiOrQ54w8LQ3YXggoTqtA4KgtSZvYJ5WLZh62mUDPMKIZEC8rvrRRvEO_IP8i/w640-h316/IMG_20230509_141224_1%20walking%20on%20the%20beach.jpg" width="640" /></a></span><span style="color: #134f5c;"><br /><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">But for now – a man who walks past while we are taking photographs suggests he could take one of the two of us, which he does. He asks where we are from. Scotland, and Austria. He worked he says, on the last paddle steamer in Scotland, which was based in Glasgow. Then he went on to work in Liverpool. Now he works on the ferry that runs from here, Liepaja, to Travemünde in Germany. It takes 22 hours he says, the Stena line. When S asks him if he lives here he shrugs and says I am a seaman, which suggests a life lived on the water itself, an ocean life, a travelling life, a life where you can see the stars each night, if skies are clear, a life where the movement is more important than the port, the sense of passage more entwined with the substance of one’s life than the times and places where one is moored, unmoving, the floor not swaying slightly underfoot, the walls rigid and enclosing. This might be ‘at rest’ or it may stir an incurable restlessness. Should it be cured? Is it an illness? If it is, then so is life itself. Even now, when he is not at work, this man walks up and down the white sand, close to the sea. Perhaps he doesn’t have a base at all, perhaps his whole life is lived on the water, sleeping in a cabin on whichever ship he is working. He strides along the sand, looks fit and healthy, speaks good English, and is cheerful and smiling. <br /><br /></span></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #134f5c; font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitm7QSNTHQM0vRsv3Hl64Rxq2j8rkD7OVDVEeZc4R348kz2n6JBIc7C_TU6om5iXPq2saxFUwGBSB_HUc8anTmSkzD-AdT1Paejk6mNw3i9I3wUxTkzHMiXVDLAkDrgxjpC7ARHlUP09_Tk6O_1DRmI2V3et6EqVweL3FUxFHVRu0U5hJYsr4UsSrY/s4608/IMG_20230509_141158%20just%20the%20sea.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2272" data-original-width="4608" height="316" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitm7QSNTHQM0vRsv3Hl64Rxq2j8rkD7OVDVEeZc4R348kz2n6JBIc7C_TU6om5iXPq2saxFUwGBSB_HUc8anTmSkzD-AdT1Paejk6mNw3i9I3wUxTkzHMiXVDLAkDrgxjpC7ARHlUP09_Tk6O_1DRmI2V3et6EqVweL3FUxFHVRu0U5hJYsr4UsSrY/w640-h316/IMG_20230509_141158%20just%20the%20sea.jpg" width="640" /></a></span></div><span style="color: #134f5c; font-size: large;"><br />To be by the sea, that was the reason I came to Liepaja, to dip my feet into the Baltic Sea, wade in its waters. But the town itself has a great charm, with its narrow streets of old buildings. There are wooden ones, some art nouveau, some with peeling facades, some smartly painted. There are funky red brick buildings, courtyard music bars, and a square behind the coffee shop, an outside seating area with a fountain. And the people in the tourist office and the book shop & the cafe could not be nicer. <br /><br /></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj865vzvnmTqvXnAXL16AedFkif1A7zub9lTD6lrwkDHGxO4AtdMRGa4I_AOn0ueLLuonTSivxoP4kcChVZaIc9gqXlKp7h3eZe7GvV48I3xTfVoWi2f8afGlDBF2zYRjD0SgExsMCb5arvvRIKq1pJAuiCW0G2FmRTsKVAAteljop7js2cpb_4GRaS/s3973/IMG_20230509_130424%20music%20bar%20courtyard.jpg" style="color: #134f5c; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3973" data-original-width="2272" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj865vzvnmTqvXnAXL16AedFkif1A7zub9lTD6lrwkDHGxO4AtdMRGa4I_AOn0ueLLuonTSivxoP4kcChVZaIc9gqXlKp7h3eZe7GvV48I3xTfVoWi2f8afGlDBF2zYRjD0SgExsMCb5arvvRIKq1pJAuiCW0G2FmRTsKVAAteljop7js2cpb_4GRaS/w366-h640/IMG_20230509_130424%20music%20bar%20courtyard.jpg" width="366" /></a></div><span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />I increasingly get the feeling that this country can only be accessed through a secret portal that you stumble on by accident. There’s an element of through the looking glass, but it isn’t so much a reversed world as a secret & alternative dimension, with quaint old-fashioned trams, almost deserted beaches, few people in the streets, very little traffic on the roads, hardly any advertising billboards, more space, tranquillity and a lot more woods and trees. Or is it that I’ve died and gone into an alternative world which may be what happens when we die, I often wonder, how are we going to know?<br /><br />You could also reach this relaxed and friendly world by ferry from Travemünde, Germany. Apparently. That could be the ferry coming in now. </span></span><span style="color: #134f5c;"><br /><br /></span><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIUhqdojN8_dLG5OBkijJDfIv57blkMC-vbKT3WWDE-uYLHxWWGv90kIYBZL7iS5_pBe5enjetQfJcrH446vQrZDvD61Y_JmbTlR0gYrj5cX8oeQkDCl5F9TtmFMyz0NY99XcXdvv2Mg_OdY2bdPOAVCd8GF1ttsVM8FIfex5DHRlD4w82uqHxnrha/s4608/Stena%20lines.jpg" style="color: #134f5c; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2272" data-original-width="4608" height="316" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIUhqdojN8_dLG5OBkijJDfIv57blkMC-vbKT3WWDE-uYLHxWWGv90kIYBZL7iS5_pBe5enjetQfJcrH446vQrZDvD61Y_JmbTlR0gYrj5cX8oeQkDCl5F9TtmFMyz0NY99XcXdvv2Mg_OdY2bdPOAVCd8GF1ttsVM8FIfex5DHRlD4w82uqHxnrha/w640-h316/Stena%20lines.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />dritanjehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16025213970107184429noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5365414187774298547.post-12821841114010221582023-05-11T10:30:00.000+02:002023-05-11T11:37:57.934+02:00In Riga's streets - painters, writers, photographers<p><span style="color: #134f5c; font-size: large;"> <br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #134f5c; font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZaNK5HMn2dyBbhFk-a6F_8c5RxY7GZ92Hoq0_1thGQoB8sS39B-z0oNR31I58l-QHl88nJM_BXMLJOsKGCJVPpsexbMj3v4dBNQJe_-_wqAm9Lnu8AXuK97pPa6ULt7-LlGpnHoxn2cTWelGAK8IDVv0L8RVXObDo7-yXp3c4cFkPo1TYXewJOAi0/s3103/IMG_20230429_181751%20building%20&%20tree%20katoli%20iela.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2272" data-original-width="3103" height="293" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZaNK5HMn2dyBbhFk-a6F_8c5RxY7GZ92Hoq0_1thGQoB8sS39B-z0oNR31I58l-QHl88nJM_BXMLJOsKGCJVPpsexbMj3v4dBNQJe_-_wqAm9Lnu8AXuK97pPa6ULt7-LlGpnHoxn2cTWelGAK8IDVv0L8RVXObDo7-yXp3c4cFkPo1TYXewJOAi0/w400-h293/IMG_20230429_181751%20building%20&%20tree%20katoli%20iela.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div><span style="color: #134f5c; font-size: large;"><br /><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">The no 7 tram takes me from the suburbs into the city’s heart. The marketplace, the train station, Riga’s old town. Where I am staying is not so far from the centre but far enough to view en route some soviet era apartment blocks. My street, Katoli iela, has mostly old buildings with art nouveau carved facades above the doorways, with flaking paint, a little grimy and uncared for, but still visible. </span><span style="color: #134f5c; font-size: large;"><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifzdvCGOw5JvP1-2EDE2vJVwmstoifQPhUuPUqq6OUFuvR-qJqPnA72fjSMg_KifTGvP3Tg7tRagZaFIvWj9CBp4UkmMm2AOhlEchuhQla13sMXbf0p1qDjUEP-iAs-qt9E3U5aVxpJVavcoHSM-g_HXepJU2kSs_uXqzH66DO8J_gkHXjwcYNzB3C/s3637/IMG_20230429_170600%20courtyard%20entrance%20Katoli%20iela%20small.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2245" data-original-width="3637" height="396" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifzdvCGOw5JvP1-2EDE2vJVwmstoifQPhUuPUqq6OUFuvR-qJqPnA72fjSMg_KifTGvP3Tg7tRagZaFIvWj9CBp4UkmMm2AOhlEchuhQla13sMXbf0p1qDjUEP-iAs-qt9E3U5aVxpJVavcoHSM-g_HXepJU2kSs_uXqzH66DO8J_gkHXjwcYNzB3C/w640-h396/IMG_20230429_170600%20courtyard%20entrance%20Katoli%20iela%20small.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">Alongside some bright new modern buildings. And on the other side of the street, two grand and lofty red brick churches (one Catholic and one Orthodox) surrounded by a park, a green and peaceful area, with paths bordered by trees just coming into leaf. </span><span style="color: #134f5c; font-size: large;"><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV_COuvg0N0BMuJprEmbVk_Uq5ZsIUAaT4MdR0OajjcjrgRYtDA659b7qLc-yNuS5GcnT9wAMT0841tdJZ1emdwksV-yk2AbsSyGXDjMPvD0CKI7KnOWgz32A3lsdZiAERW6zGcuSkt28_GPBHOnYTB1uy4tNm4uIJqOjkQJ-lMH2W57xMR8K9NFfk/s3264/IMG_20230430_130005%20street.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="2448" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV_COuvg0N0BMuJprEmbVk_Uq5ZsIUAaT4MdR0OajjcjrgRYtDA659b7qLc-yNuS5GcnT9wAMT0841tdJZ1emdwksV-yk2AbsSyGXDjMPvD0CKI7KnOWgz32A3lsdZiAERW6zGcuSkt28_GPBHOnYTB1uy4tNm4uIJqOjkQJ-lMH2W57xMR8K9NFfk/w480-h640/IMG_20230430_130005%20street.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">Alkenaja Iela, where the Photography Museum is – dwindles away in front of you, cobblestones and white facades, a lure impossible to resist, & there is one tree, with young green leaves on its dropping branches, leaning over, it too beckons. But I did resist, I went to the Photography Museum and afterwards I was too tired, I had walked through many streets and climbed lots of stairs and I headed to the tram stop at the other side of the canal from the bus station, and took the No 7 tram home.<br /><br />The Photography Museum has a heavy entrance door, a solid wooden slab – the handle turned, it opened and then there is a flight of wooden curving stairs, creaking as I climb up. There are certain terrains I find, that you sink into with recognition, or relief, or both, as if your whole being had been waiting for these sensations and perceptions and you had not realised how much you missed them until they present themselves again – these curving stairs, the sound of the floorboards responding to my weight like some living being, the feeling of history embedded in the wooden steps, the age of them, the love, the lastingness. And in the exhibition room, the wooden parquet floor is arranged with a star pattern at the centre. This is part of another time, one I recognize. This time stretches across Mitteleuropa – and this is the furthest north east I have encountered it. Other times brashly try to cover up the past – because they are new and present, they are the latest model of creation, the dernier cri of times, the brightest and the best, like the young woman in the Tourist Information who could not be more helpful, and the young woman in the bookshop whose English is excellent and expression, disdainful.</span><p></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmD0mSc33ZYkFwQ0lu9EuTJiXCwdLypB6CgbhEcFPl53RgRdVtMMJDC0luA2K4lW0xvLDq_73f9D5Qgi7bx1gn1qQrZXJWD13Kj_kpl4B5-LLCptNIgml7Ns90Bxl4Rybe8b0egpRk6k8E6CjA3Hrb-65vSkhyrl4aUUCY22ADfQzJ3DtPOlNsl1LR/s3783/IMG_20230429_152430%20parquet%20floor%20in%20photo%20museum.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3783" data-original-width="2265" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmD0mSc33ZYkFwQ0lu9EuTJiXCwdLypB6CgbhEcFPl53RgRdVtMMJDC0luA2K4lW0xvLDq_73f9D5Qgi7bx1gn1qQrZXJWD13Kj_kpl4B5-LLCptNIgml7Ns90Bxl4Rybe8b0egpRk6k8E6CjA3Hrb-65vSkhyrl4aUUCY22ADfQzJ3DtPOlNsl1LR/w240-h400/IMG_20230429_152430%20parquet%20floor%20in%20photo%20museum.jpg" width="240" /></a><span style="color: #134f5c; font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">But what if all times are still living, as architecture and particularly museums have a way of suggesting? The woman at the desk in the Photography Museum moves slowly and carefully, counts out my change, prints out my receipt and hands it to me, and the expression on her face is of composed sadness. I’m the only visitor – another woman switches on the lights in the exhibition room. <br /><br />Dorothy Bohm [born Dorothea Israelit] was the photographer exhibited. Born in then Konigsberg, Germany in 1925 – and sent for safety to the UK as a teenager and is now British. Or was as I discover she only died this year, 98 years old. You can read about her life <a href="https://www.theguardian.com/artanddesign/2023/mar/27/dorothy-bohm-obituary">here</a>.<br /><br />Her photos catch astonishing expressions on people’s faces, body language, of warmth, curiosity, excitement. She travelled a lot – her photos are of Israel, Italy, France, Greece, USA and England of course.<br /><br /></span></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdoeOQVAiooyD9NNtdUheOHtJxd2OdPQC-R8RCFIO1o4PXriv_c34iIUdkQvqFALXz-MybMKCHqFhvX4c0Kdl-f0OUmKSC7qGp3628hEJWWZACtWnoZOUJ2hot503PNNkqH8SLkP8KaBqGrb6H6dzV3M2TNj2w3mKZXEgNtbYEDjcZSaamYlU65sNL/s4608/IMG_20230429_132813%20detail%20from%20Rozental%20appartment.jpg" style="color: black; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4608" data-original-width="2272" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdoeOQVAiooyD9NNtdUheOHtJxd2OdPQC-R8RCFIO1o4PXriv_c34iIUdkQvqFALXz-MybMKCHqFhvX4c0Kdl-f0OUmKSC7qGp3628hEJWWZACtWnoZOUJ2hot503PNNkqH8SLkP8KaBqGrb6H6dzV3M2TNj2w3mKZXEgNtbYEDjcZSaamYlU65sNL/w316-h640/IMG_20230429_132813%20detail%20from%20Rozental%20appartment.jpg" width="316" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Detail from one room of the Rozentals & Blaumanis Museum<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: large;"><br />In the Rozentals & Blaumanis Museum in the Art Nouveau Centre, the older woman by the desk had a similar containment to her energy as the one in the Photography Museum – and a sense of sorrow and of suffering. What were the lives of these people like, all of the years of their youth spent under communism in the Soviet Union? Now they have to learn new ways of being and thinking and acting and new technologies and a new language too. And here she is, guardian and attendant of this shrine to the artist<a href="https://www.rozentals-seura.fi/en/eyes-finland-heart-in-latvia_eng/"> Janis Rozentals</a> and writer <a href="https://www.literatura.lv/en/persons/rudolfs-blaumanis">Rudolfs Blaumanis</a> who lived in this attic apartment and both of whom died early in the 20th century. Curving staircases here too, right up to the top floor where the Rozental family lived.</span><br /><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #134f5c; font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #134f5c; font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz53PF6yN-8tNfaFSzdDPG0C0S4H640mtPY35L_w-cwdlrJjuwYEYveSc9p8YbYN7IQxCFNSR4HQPJ88ik-H8HAL9o4ecq2_S-fkPwlqqCE42Bm3NRW10ULxCnL7-i1hvpHko8icmU9J2ybw_247ZAVghZ9wHIcfizd92-v2ovxARvhdQZxzntRLGf/s4608/IMG_20230429_132109%20stairwell.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4608" data-original-width="2272" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz53PF6yN-8tNfaFSzdDPG0C0S4H640mtPY35L_w-cwdlrJjuwYEYveSc9p8YbYN7IQxCFNSR4HQPJ88ik-H8HAL9o4ecq2_S-fkPwlqqCE42Bm3NRW10ULxCnL7-i1hvpHko8icmU9J2ybw_247ZAVghZ9wHIcfizd92-v2ovxARvhdQZxzntRLGf/w316-h640/IMG_20230429_132109%20stairwell.jpg" width="316" /></a></span></div><br /><br /><br /><p></p><br />dritanjehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16025213970107184429noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5365414187774298547.post-85330905195892403732023-04-26T23:15:00.000+02:002023-04-26T23:15:18.245+02:00The Sea Close By<p><span style="color: #073763;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2PjjdQ7cgZvP0ajUmQSRhysh72LdhatMVFavpKx5qdY2On3FtdbA4yG9IewVSmMfI0pzgA6-BdrinFmpQcUv1XdKDXkYS-sehwdVT4hRxzgTnwVDmmEBKtZQiwZZGiKugdv0zkPgjxsmCbaIFwJ3OePa5VzAf7OUdHQgXiirNXGAOim1qv7KzcXBo/s4608/050.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2272" data-original-width="4608" height="316" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2PjjdQ7cgZvP0ajUmQSRhysh72LdhatMVFavpKx5qdY2On3FtdbA4yG9IewVSmMfI0pzgA6-BdrinFmpQcUv1XdKDXkYS-sehwdVT4hRxzgTnwVDmmEBKtZQiwZZGiKugdv0zkPgjxsmCbaIFwJ3OePa5VzAf7OUdHQgXiirNXGAOim1qv7KzcXBo/w640-h316/050.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><br /><span style="font-size: large;">It is as if life, a wave, tide, movement, has headed away – back out in the direction of Living – as if it was a signboard or mode of transport or maybe both – Living as its destination, or the name of its sleek water-crossing boat, its fast ferry, skimming the surface like that Adriatic boat from long ago, jumping from one wave-tip to the next, like an ecstatic frog.<br /><br />But you are not in the boat now, you are not heading out to sea or held in life’s current, you feel like some flotsam left behind, by tide and flow and ocean waves, left behind, abandoned, to deal with the unmoving sand and only slightly swaying seaweed, as best you can, which is to say, with nothing at all. Unless the vast emptiness of abandonment counts for something. It is not what you would choose. Except that, in some way, you have chosen. As if life had offered an endless flow, a succession of absorbing places but you were not warned that it would all stop one day and you would be left on the last island outpost, some beach-like-any-other, without time to make the final, definitive choice. It just all stopped, while you thought it would go on and you had plenty more choices to make, places to visit – before the final one had to be made.<br /><br />Flotsam on a beach, when you always thought there would be a boat prepared to take you on to somewhere else, to set sail with you.<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOcW4tkX69hcv_pF8sPvcQUZK9BOQ9k93QhNOVkD7ckGCaSe_dagGuFBhwbc6PVHyPez3Vs19AdpTObms01UzKnzvs5yn3ZIm6dhr9e0otnkkcaRORgNLMz9oUgrAnzUL3fh4tI4WHUmMByezAOARnFfiXl6APgfCGBQp2_9Gf2BjA82LOEKU7uHI6/s4608/035.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2272" data-original-width="4608" height="316" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOcW4tkX69hcv_pF8sPvcQUZK9BOQ9k93QhNOVkD7ckGCaSe_dagGuFBhwbc6PVHyPez3Vs19AdpTObms01UzKnzvs5yn3ZIm6dhr9e0otnkkcaRORgNLMz9oUgrAnzUL3fh4tI4WHUmMByezAOARnFfiXl6APgfCGBQp2_9Gf2BjA82LOEKU7uHI6/w640-h316/035.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />You’d been left behind, abandoned, while the others – or Life itself, hard to know the exact nature of this living-ness that had gone off without you, you knew by this feeling of absence, of not being with-you, that you have a diminished sense of movement, of current, of destination. Just sand – washed over and over, but not carried away, not taken out to sea.<br /><br />With such a feeling – the logical thing surely – is to visit the sea. Walk in sand, by shores, see what is there on the beach – if there is anything there, that resembles you.<br /><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="color: #073763;"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilRDRInhXN2Yfp0NgMLS_WnM8gPfUR3aKH8ueiyKzqGyp2_j0BjzdZ1gA1XNZUVQFVWxQnJ23rFXvltjRDXVa9qOGSJw7wFKPSHvuSMTaUpxQRV7ISRybWemBhhrDeen27QCTT_bUxQMtMdPFvD8rM7kK4MYUiNiZg5cIA-osLog-nhQ6qq1IcMAWD/s4608/043%20alt%20best%20N%20Berwick%20Law%20maybe.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2272" data-original-width="4608" height="316" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilRDRInhXN2Yfp0NgMLS_WnM8gPfUR3aKH8ueiyKzqGyp2_j0BjzdZ1gA1XNZUVQFVWxQnJ23rFXvltjRDXVa9qOGSJw7wFKPSHvuSMTaUpxQRV7ISRybWemBhhrDeen27QCTT_bUxQMtMdPFvD8rM7kK4MYUiNiZg5cIA-osLog-nhQ6qq1IcMAWD/w640-h316/043%20alt%20best%20N%20Berwick%20Law%20maybe.jpg" width="640" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br />There is sunlight and the way it trickles onto the surface and changes as the surface shifts and turns and undulates. The waves, underneath water surface like an uncoiling rippling snake reminding you that waves only shift the water on, push it relentlessly ashore and the water sighs as it returns, as it must, to the wholeness of sea – or ocean.<br /><br />Probably you think, you would like to live the way you did when you took that boat across the Adriatic, the frog-boat, probably it was not just that place – though you loved it with a heart thrown wide open – it was the sense of movement, of having shifted from one place to another, then another, and the sense of possibilities, yes, that was it, horizons unfolding in front of you as if you had every right to move and to keep moving and to love wherever you were going.<br /><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="color: #073763;"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_aEkFTT_KHWMoxVT3Buu9XxPDVa21x19NjnlIGyW1oUJJtLOYPFLS_WsOf6rxOn98F0sHHjyN77zsA820O2immLAy-Pb0dclOpvC6NO0yEwpnYrAzYSk6qbtvcGBjQDf1Vcab1M3TkF_20e4gBQk4BWkD70FfXUhzBroq7BuFcJQB87Ml0ovBTz0c/s2442/069%20small%20scallop.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2442" data-original-width="2196" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_aEkFTT_KHWMoxVT3Buu9XxPDVa21x19NjnlIGyW1oUJJtLOYPFLS_WsOf6rxOn98F0sHHjyN77zsA820O2immLAy-Pb0dclOpvC6NO0yEwpnYrAzYSk6qbtvcGBjQDf1Vcab1M3TkF_20e4gBQk4BWkD70FfXUhzBroq7BuFcJQB87Ml0ovBTz0c/w576-h640/069%20small%20scallop.jpg" width="576" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br />And there are shells too, perfect, unbroken shells, thick white and bluish shells lying on the beach. You pick them up and pocket them because of their perfection and their beauty. And still, the sun shines and the cover of the water ripples as the force beneath it moves it like a restless dancing being under the blanket of the sea.</span><br /><br /><p></p>dritanjehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16025213970107184429noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5365414187774298547.post-75298152643058489212023-04-12T22:30:00.000+02:002023-04-12T22:30:52.593+02:00Response to Brigitte Reimann's Siblings<p><span style="color: #0c343d; font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #0c343d; font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmG4mRoQd2LOPEfkwGjQMPoU8vLO2PW3dusnCnFrjIWv3QHa9NuiRf6Ro3u1ToVb424CwBqj33hfvFCQujF93cYoPLeRred25SCHm3i-1efJuS07qn7dN3ZElniJ36hK-2x64F2uDty1devjJemdJcfyEUBbG3SqyUtxcywQQv5WmtcSLwFKFeBfa6/s3475/032%20a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3475" data-original-width="2193" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmG4mRoQd2LOPEfkwGjQMPoU8vLO2PW3dusnCnFrjIWv3QHa9NuiRf6Ro3u1ToVb424CwBqj33hfvFCQujF93cYoPLeRred25SCHm3i-1efJuS07qn7dN3ZElniJ36hK-2x64F2uDty1devjJemdJcfyEUBbG3SqyUtxcywQQv5WmtcSLwFKFeBfa6/w404-h640/032%20a.jpg" width="404" /></a></span></div><span style="color: #0c343d; font-size: large;"><br /> <b> </b></span><p></p><p><span style="color: #0c343d; font-size: large;"><b>Siblings</b> by Brigitte Reimann translated by Lucy Jones</span></p><p><span style="color: #0c343d; font-size: large;"><br /><i>Siblings </i>begins with a dramatic scene of confrontation between Elizabeth, the narrator, and her brother Ulli. Afterwards it wanders into Elizabeth’s thoughts, feelings and memories. We do not know what has caused the dramatic conflict the novel begins with, and Elizabeth remembers the day before, then years before, then more recent events. Each memory story involves other people, another brother (Konrad), a co-worker, a friend who might have become more, who invites her to join him in West Berlin. These memories are clearly important to her, indelible even, and there are those timeless moments where location and atmosphere become part of your being, your soul.<br /><br />And people – some loyal, talented, some spiteful, some charismatic – but what is loyalty, that’s the question that grows in pertinence and complexity in this book. To which ideas and practices, to what ideal, to which people? Passionate people, vigorous ideals. And freedom is a many-sided goal and claimed by both sides. Only, as many sides, this polygon desired by all, as there are people to articulate this desire.<br /><br />As the stories unfolded I wanted to know what would happen, how the relations would twist towards a climax or conclusion. The ending is extraordinary, the language descriptive as a painting. The translator renders this haunting story with care and precision; written around 1960, and of its time historically, in terms of human relationships, to each other, to ideals, it deals with the timeless themes of love and belonging, and so is rooted in Everyday.<br /><br />What is so striking for me (growing up and living in the west, and in the Zeitgeist of today) is that going west is seen by Elizabeth (and her lover, and so presumably many others too) as a betrayal – of the party, of their ideals & their belief in creating a better world, more fair and equitable – and in committing to working towards that. So, going west is not about being free, it is about surrendering to the selfishness of capitalism. Because I see former communist countries (East Germany, USSR, Albania etc) as controlled by the secret police – sigurimi, stasi etc – and their informers, where people were denounced, imprisoned, tortured, killed, I had forgotten that there were some who believed in communist societies as an attempt to build a new & better society. These ideals are well expressed and argued by Elizabeth (the west as decadent, selfish, capitalism) a character who may well express many of the author’s views at the time she wrote it. (Apparently she later became disenchanted with the state.) <br /><br />Elizabeth’s brother Ulli comes across as a sympathetic character, with his moods and doubts, his anger and insecurities, his longing for self expression, his sense of (justified) discrimination. More vivid and attractive than Joachim, her boyfriend, who works tirelessly for the Party, her Rock, who she can rely on. </span></p><p><span style="color: #0c343d; font-size: large;"><br /><i>Siblings</i> is a fascinating and thought-provoking read; the writing is descriptive and insightful, and the dialogue is about real issues, people’s passionate convictions on which their lives depend, and which shape and inform their decisions. And such issues – how to live, according to which principles and ideals – are timeless. </span><br /></p>dritanjehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16025213970107184429noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5365414187774298547.post-69155537021283700002023-03-31T21:32:00.001+02:002023-03-31T21:32:37.802+02:00Time as measure & as movement<p> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilK_uX8efVyxiGz4P-cg8i2ciIGdimlyloazlpo4i3UEDYau0RGRuoCqn78TFDtZVh08dS3Pwc4Y_fnjzE2gsJxYMjHBmO0m1m3d7xBfE3r4JQYUu-bdTCmNXS5mOmCeuP4xT1j8bYbFig1VuQSllrMG8OCh4ClY5jJ_x3FpI6g5LJNzsYpjUJ_yR7/s4608/211%20view%20thru%20fence%20of%20tunnel%20entrance%20b&w.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2272" data-original-width="4608" height="316" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilK_uX8efVyxiGz4P-cg8i2ciIGdimlyloazlpo4i3UEDYau0RGRuoCqn78TFDtZVh08dS3Pwc4Y_fnjzE2gsJxYMjHBmO0m1m3d7xBfE3r4JQYUu-bdTCmNXS5mOmCeuP4xT1j8bYbFig1VuQSllrMG8OCh4ClY5jJ_x3FpI6g5LJNzsYpjUJ_yR7/w640-h316/211%20view%20thru%20fence%20of%20tunnel%20entrance%20b&w.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Overlooking the entrance to the Channel Tunnel, Folkestone. Honeysuckle twines around the fence.<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #0c343d; font-size: large;">Near Folkestone, English south coast, on the day the clocks advance. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #0c343d; font-size: large;"><br />Sunday at Arpinge. A meanly pinched day, deprived of an hour, even time it seems is subjugated, under the pressure of authority, under the thumb of – oh no, time is in our minds, not out there in the world. The badger, running along the road’s verge at night, caught in the headlights – we slow down, wait for it to cross the road and disappear into the field – the badger is unburdened by the concept of time, the skylarks, in the wind-blown fields above the cliff edge, unobsessed with time. Only when you look over the cliff edge, into the scarred valley, with its lines and lacework, train tracks and lorry lanes at the entrance to the Tunnel under the sea, only then, do you feel the deprivation, that adherence to clock time, which human tyrannies and obsessions can bring.<br /><br /></span></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwdd6tZkF49PgcXZTMtODs8tpM_f4qCBfvteYKoelOJ2cp_fn8wo2-dMgfzBB_yYHBpDnlXn9a0OyWQhBraUm7c9Ou6vsB00G9AuGiNCaNha1tKqqa86TlY0GOCATnaLIWmx-GGGYxrJVxI2an2LGo0Xfr-5CrE7ytbqA7yEhqBnMhFeAultsLwH2B/s3979/212%20buds%20&%20barbs%20b&w.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3979" data-original-width="2255" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwdd6tZkF49PgcXZTMtODs8tpM_f4qCBfvteYKoelOJ2cp_fn8wo2-dMgfzBB_yYHBpDnlXn9a0OyWQhBraUm7c9Ou6vsB00G9AuGiNCaNha1tKqqa86TlY0GOCATnaLIWmx-GGGYxrJVxI2an2LGo0Xfr-5CrE7ytbqA7yEhqBnMhFeAultsLwH2B/w362-h640/212%20buds%20&%20barbs%20b&w.jpg" width="362" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">buds and barbs<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #0c343d; font-size: large;">The wind hurtles off the cliff top and plunges into the scored valley, with its high fences and razor wire, and the lorry lanes, and the train tracks laid onto and into the ground. There are few lorries today, hardly any, the wind skitters and lolls against the entrance sheds. Few people it seems are heading for France today. The trains are immobile, no matter how much the winds push and taunt them. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #0c343d; font-size: large;">The earth, the grasses, are flattened by the wind. The hedges, clipped into their bristling tidy outfits, have been trimmed and spruced into readiness for spring. As if stiffly waiting for some royalty, the ceremony of it, the starched and scrubbed, the primped and proper look. Buds decline to push and shine, the promised warmth, sun splendour, is delayed. The pomp and ceremony. Meanwhile horses rub their heads against their legs, or toss them, jingling the metal of their bits and bridles or sawing their heads up and down, moving one foot up and down, and then another. Oh the boredom, waiting for the arrival of the king and queen, the sovereigns in tasselled jackets, boots with spurs, and crop handles woven in among the reins wound round their fingers.<br /><br />The North Downs are bare of horses, riders, carriages, no living creatures except for birds piping in the hedges. The entrances to badger burrows, the badger paths that lead to them and from them, in and out, and there’s just the whistling wind, falling headlong from the cliff top. Entrances to badger burrows underground, entrances to Channel Tunnel undersea, and the grey sky scored with pebble-coloured clouds and a gleam of pink and turquoise just beyond, like a sash tied round the topmost mast of some approaching fleet.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #0c343d; font-size: large;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsu0d9pIzVPWeKgyp3wHofpESEb7ZcyDos45wStBlSTy7Petq6qxw0wm5vWXjNlxaJ8FiFVFIjlG8QL7Mv1lyKzm-hCXu5n0N_jPiehexn5i3WmxI4dnHGVW75oWZxJO_KFL4_Zibj_M3gbOZeMJvh0jOZn-C_ZoZxVYwzH0a-r0L4YBCFASFdscX5/s2248/216%20clear%20horse%20good%20colours.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2248" data-original-width="1880" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsu0d9pIzVPWeKgyp3wHofpESEb7ZcyDos45wStBlSTy7Petq6qxw0wm5vWXjNlxaJ8FiFVFIjlG8QL7Mv1lyKzm-hCXu5n0N_jPiehexn5i3WmxI4dnHGVW75oWZxJO_KFL4_Zibj_M3gbOZeMJvh0jOZn-C_ZoZxVYwzH0a-r0L4YBCFASFdscX5/w536-h640/216%20clear%20horse%20good%20colours.jpg" width="536" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Folkestone chalk horse, seen from the side<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /> </span><br /></span><br /><br /></p>dritanjehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16025213970107184429noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5365414187774298547.post-46318052535607419432023-03-07T22:00:00.001+01:002023-03-07T22:00:00.182+01:00Annemarie Schwarzenbach's Baltic Journals<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRLvLfVT3HlQqJ29FwdkAWP_ds29JW1U2qhM3qEP6DvzOB2pHl78e0lkReXgVhK7r1HsibAvHFUwO1dbqFGmXoxF80c1jf3IszHRZqFma-ZHhIscqon-jEEmkjetYmig_v4l-vSI1pHuuDHGIznQ6-kcnEE3V25rmQ5MT-o7BIkY196N9bBfbtYC6I/s4959/00016%20CH-NB_-_Freie_Stadt_Danzig,_Danzig_(Gdansk)-_Strassenszene_(Lokalisierung_unsicher)_-_Annemarie_Schwarzenbach_-_SLA-Schwarzenbach-A-5-13-048.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4959" data-original-width="4882" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRLvLfVT3HlQqJ29FwdkAWP_ds29JW1U2qhM3qEP6DvzOB2pHl78e0lkReXgVhK7r1HsibAvHFUwO1dbqFGmXoxF80c1jf3IszHRZqFma-ZHhIscqon-jEEmkjetYmig_v4l-vSI1pHuuDHGIznQ6-kcnEE3V25rmQ5MT-o7BIkY196N9bBfbtYC6I/w630-h640/00016%20CH-NB_-_Freie_Stadt_Danzig,_Danzig_(Gdansk)-_Strassenszene_(Lokalisierung_unsicher)_-_Annemarie_Schwarzenbach_-_SLA-Schwarzenbach-A-5-13-048.jpg" width="630" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Danzig/Gdansk market. Photograph by Annemarie Schwarzenbach, courtesy of Swiss National Archives<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p> <span style="color: #0c343d; font-size: large;"></span><br /><span style="color: #0c343d; font-size: large;"></span><br /><span style="color: #0c343d; font-size: large;">In the spring of 1937 the Swiss writer and photographer Annemarie Schwarzenbach travels eastwards from Germany, and through the Baltic States. Her destination is St Petersburg, but she is a photo-journalist, and she is interested in hearing people’s stories, viewpoints and experiences. So she takes pictures and talks to people she meets on the way, sometimes eavesdropping on conversations as all writers do. She wants to sound out the feelings and opinions of people she meets en route, sometimes literally, as fellow train passengers, sometimes in the street or in cafes. She writes articles in the form of a journal, based on what she calls these ‘little encounters’. <br /><br /><br />In Germany, Annemarie recounts the difficulties of a Jewish wood merchant whose business is ruined by anti-semitism which drives away his customers; the travelling salesman who faces a deluge of bureaucratic forms to travel from one state or country to another, from Germany through the Polish corridor, then the Free City of Danzig, then the Baltic States. Or the farmer who is forced, by nazi decree, to feed his pigs with German rye grains, which costs twice as much as other imported cereals and he does not know how he can survive with such increased expense. There’s the signalman whose child is ill but he cannot afford to send her to a sanatorium for his wages are all taken up with feeding his family and paying the party dues so that he barely has enough to pay for a glass of beer with his colleagues after work. In addition, on his day off he has been summoned to attend the Day of Culture as a kind of back up security force, even though the Town Hall, where Goebbels is due to give a speech, is surrounded with SA (special forces) and SS (military security) guards. <br /><br />Annemarie is curious to see what the Day of Culture would be like and stops off at this unnamed town. For hours there were various parades – of the SS and the SA, of the Hitler Youth, of the League of Young German Women, of the employees of the Workers Trades and Services.<br />Goebbels speech, she reports, is a tirade of furious propaganda; <i>‘he says that the whole world hates Germany because the German people are the best in the world. And so the youth must remain on permanent alert. The future belongs to the youth….. The children then sing the Horst Wessel Lied (the nazi anthem or theme song) for the tenth time that day, with enthusiasm.’</i> <br /><br />In the evening Annemarie joins the crowd gathered outside the theatre where Schiller’s Don Carlos was being played. All the theatre tickets were sold out. Annemarie had attempted earlier to reach the box office to see if there were any returns, but she was constantly intercepted by men in uniform, passed from one official to another and ultimately refused access; she describes it as ‘<i> a theatre transformed into a barracks’</i>. The crowd passes the time before the interval, (when it was rumoured that Goebbels would appear again), by singing the Horst Wessel Lied over and over and when Annemarie once forgot to raise her right arm, the woman next to her <i>‘said in a furious voice “raise your arm immediately or we will report you to the police”. What terrified me was not so much the threat as the tone of her voice and the malevolent expression on her face, which was twisted with hatred. And I thought how at this moment, inside the theatre, Schiller’s character the Marquis de Posa, was making his most beautiful speech – about freedom ...’</i><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqWMT70dyO0KjIjkcVOH3XWnnMHxidCqEON1xoa-rErNDBZi-YPAUxtnpg24HjzFnEmRyAlXuHqmijNIorYs89MGnknSXUaoM072mKPOCU1cAQJh0qHVbhssP0Z8O8cksh9ggkihT6mA25p2QpjZwIsMWwAlKoyv95OeFJ_lqAVdTUu4slVXvREs91/s4817/CH-NB_-_Freie_Stadt_Danzig,_Danzig_(Gdansk)-_Strassenszene_(Lokalisierung_unsicher)_-_Annemarie_Schwarzenbach_-_SLA-Schwarzenbach-A-5-13-055.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4817" data-original-width="4575" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqWMT70dyO0KjIjkcVOH3XWnnMHxidCqEON1xoa-rErNDBZi-YPAUxtnpg24HjzFnEmRyAlXuHqmijNIorYs89MGnknSXUaoM072mKPOCU1cAQJh0qHVbhssP0Z8O8cksh9ggkihT6mA25p2QpjZwIsMWwAlKoyv95OeFJ_lqAVdTUu4slVXvREs91/w608-h640/CH-NB_-_Freie_Stadt_Danzig,_Danzig_(Gdansk)-_Strassenszene_(Lokalisierung_unsicher)_-_Annemarie_Schwarzenbach_-_SLA-Schwarzenbach-A-5-13-055.jpg" width="608" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Danzig/Gdansk vegetable stallholders. Photograph by Annemarie Schwarzenbach, courtesy of Swiss National Archives</td></tr></tbody></table><br /> </span></p><p><span style="color: #0c343d; font-size: large;">Annemarie travels on, spends a couple of days in Danzig, and emerges <i>‘on the other side of the corridor’</i> in East Prussia. Geography immediately becomes historical. The territory has to be explained. At that time, before WWII, Germany was separated from East Prussia by a strip of land which was Polish territory, allowing Poland access to the Baltic sea ports and trade. To the east of that was The Free City of Danzig so -called, not part of either Germany or Poland though most of the population was German, Poles were sidelined and Jewish people were discriminated against, and later persecuted. To the east of that we had East Prussia, once independent but now part of Germany. And beyond that, the Baltic states, independent since the end of WW1. That small strip of land between Danzig/Gdansk and Germany was greatly valued by the Poles although they did not like the term ‘corridor’, for land that had for long been a part of Polish territory. The Polish Foreign Minister Jozef Beck said that the term ‘Pomeranian Voivodeship’ should be used for land which “has been Polish for centuries, with a small percentage of German settlers". Somehow you could understand that this term did not catch on, as it hardly rolls smoothly off the tongue. <br /><br />And so Annemarie wrote about the experiences of Jewish people, some of whom were trying to get papers to secure a passport and leave, others whose livelihoods were ruined and had nowhere else to go; small traders who were struggling to survive, students who were trying to avoid being drafted into the army; some nazi supporters who were enjoying paid holidays for the first time, and some who were uneasy about the way things were going but were too frightened to voice any criticism; and citizens of the newly independent Baltic States who wanted nothing to do with either of the large powers to the east and west, Germany and the USSR. <br /><br />History relates events and even outcomes. A people ‘ends up’ as part of another country (as the Baltic states became part of USSR) then they ‘end up’ becoming free and independent again. But it seems that the experiences of individuals do not have quite the same clear cut trajectory, as they pass through various states of being, sometimes prosperous, sometimes precarious, and sometimes – through poverty or persecution, or both, impossible. The concerns, worries, fears for the future of many of the people Annemarie talked to, almost a century ago now, feel immediate, heartfelt and utterly recognizable, as if she was talking to people today.</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></p>dritanjehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16025213970107184429noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5365414187774298547.post-330980772948708082023-02-17T13:55:00.001+01:002023-02-17T13:55:33.490+01:00You are just passing through<p><span style="color: #0c343d;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8ss0bU4WOrIWME74EJG19O5QUjO__RCKwBqEMFBHp5-2jo9w-1mUvpc0gnJYNbG0mqgNUTd8AZWy_JXN-avQyMjmkXCZKpS6A_t177zQSXLEne0DWdWxtBI2PX7-5xL9bAC7mcHy67jjUrt-9-9d93KPB1IkXmMBNSSVy32Mpof2alQq9b1rky-pA/s3664/061%20storm%20over%20Zurichsee.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2748" data-original-width="3664" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8ss0bU4WOrIWME74EJG19O5QUjO__RCKwBqEMFBHp5-2jo9w-1mUvpc0gnJYNbG0mqgNUTd8AZWy_JXN-avQyMjmkXCZKpS6A_t177zQSXLEne0DWdWxtBI2PX7-5xL9bAC7mcHy67jjUrt-9-9d93KPB1IkXmMBNSSVy32Mpof2alQq9b1rky-pA/w640-h480/061%20storm%20over%20Zurichsee.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Approaching storm over Zurichsee<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /> </span></span></span></p><p><span style="color: #0c343d;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Always remember you are just passing through – that’s what comes into my mind after seeing the first few photos of Hokkaido by <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Daid%C5%8D_Moriyama">Daido Moriyama,</a> photos of urban landscapes, streets with crumbly buildings all pushed together, and wires, wires, and how you wouldn’t want to live there, women walking in rain – or snow – empty landscapes, straight road, sky hanging low – people on a train (one asleep), a cat, a child, running – crowded cities then empty landscape, a snarling bear, or dog, a bus, trees, poplar, a poster of faces with creases and folds (because of the paper). <br /> </span></span></span></p><p><span style="color: #0c343d;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">And all the time these cracking sounds, at first I think they are sound effects to the photos then realise they are in the building, probably parts of the roof or in the walls, parts being moved and banged by wind. </span></span></span></p><p><span style="color: #0c343d;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br />A young woman with a beautiful face, smokes a cigarette, turns around, with that hostile, almost angry look of someone disturbed, feeling their space and privacy being intruded on. The goods train carriage on a single urban track, with smoky air above and around it. A crowd of headscarfed women; people in trains (asleep, with papers scattered on the floor) one person on a train platform, another in a train doorway, half open, she is reading a book and wears a mid-calf length summer dress; desolate urban flatscape at the edge of town where the houses end; bird flying over sea; pier in bad weather, rundown buildings, scarred facades, market; child by train tracks; boat and spray; shops and shops and wires and wires; wooded hill (first non desolate landscape), cable cars, steep street (reminds me of San Francisco); abandoned shoe, broken car; mist or snow, headlights, train tracks, no people; looking downhill, a single tram track; steep street and tangled wires; young woman walking along a street, wearing elegant skirt and jacket.<br /><br />This exhibition at Edinburgh’s Gallery of Modern Art is finished now otherwise I would recommend it. But Daido Moriyama has published many photo books, which I’m going to search out in the library. <br /><br />I walked to the Gallery following a different route, through unknown spaces – almost a series of impasses…..The first cemetery from the main road, Queensferry Road, had no outlet. A high wall surrounds it, yet the top parts of adjoining buildings are visible. Traffic sounds. This does not feel calm enough, restful enough, and there is no way through to the cemetery behind it, the Dean, which I want to reach. So, after walking right round, it’s back to the gate and out again into the street, named Dean Path. Continue uphill to the entrance to the next cemetery, Friedhof, place of peace. And this is the real resting place. A view out over the valley – there are even steps and a path downhill – to the buildings and rooftops beyond, on the other side. There are no traffic sounds. But I don’t explore, because my aim is to find a way out and through, to the Dean Gallery, then across the road to the Gallery of Modern Art.<br /><br />I walk round, heading in that direction. Many enormous stone slabs and small simple ones – the more recent ones. A most ostentatious one has entwined herons round an upright obelisk with other fauna round the foot. This person was a Writer to the Signet so clearly ‘a person of importance’. I don’t recall the name, it was the sheer size of the stone, the needle about twice my height and the presence of the slender herons that intrigued me. Nowadays – we know we are so many, and we want to take up as little space as possible. The trees are all dark, as dark as the stones – black trees and dark grey charcoal coloured stones. Only a couple of people walk past. </span></span></span></p><p><span style="color: #0c343d;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I follow the path up to the wall at the side of the Dean Gallery – but there’s no way through the wall, it continues with its surrounding encirclement, its protection of the peace, the shades, the tranquil or dormant memories. The space does feel restful, peaceful. This tranquillity feels admirable to me – and I realise the importance of the trees. I think of the huge sycamore tree in the Horgen Friedhof, close to Annemarie’s grave. </span></span></span></p><p><span style="color: #0c343d;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRgT8fYOu5oVylt8NqJ5dtM5oDrcm1GA-yj6dNGqDd5eNG0HLD0oJMeLP721Yy5szz-7CvUi3Hg-nLPdpCMLm9Q0RO4lS4vtbEenn90qIeV3TWX5wIA7y0PnfaPKOGWOL8uyxtY1SqDWOb-ZjUBgS7VwgVO054CnwergaA8vhLc0e0yeoVHd7-o_2L/s3664/037.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2748" data-original-width="3664" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRgT8fYOu5oVylt8NqJ5dtM5oDrcm1GA-yj6dNGqDd5eNG0HLD0oJMeLP721Yy5szz-7CvUi3Hg-nLPdpCMLm9Q0RO4lS4vtbEenn90qIeV3TWX5wIA7y0PnfaPKOGWOL8uyxtY1SqDWOb-ZjUBgS7VwgVO054CnwergaA8vhLc0e0yeoVHd7-o_2L/w640-h480/037.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Horgen cemetery, Switzerland<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /> </span></span></span></p><p><span style="color: #0c343d;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I sat for a while in its shade. Trees are such protectors, such peace-givers. <br />I’ll come back here, that’s what I think, in summer, when the trees are in leaf and sunlight and leaf shade make patterns on the paths and the gravestones.<br /><br />I keep walking, following the wall at the side of the Dean Gallery. There are no gaps in it that I can see & I think I will have to go back all the way to the entrance and find some other way – it’s going to be the second impasse of the day. And then – I spot a path leading to the wall and yes, there is a narrow gate made of slender iron bars. Could it be? I hardly dare to hope. But when I turn the round iron knob of handle and push, the gate opens, easily and silently. I have been allowed to exit the peace garden – as all living people must surely want to do – for I am just passing through. For our place is in life is it not? The teeming seething noise and whirl and pace and footsteps and blaring car horns and sounds of horses’ hooves and whinnying and calls of traders ….but I’m thinking of somewhere else or of some amalgam of places, of Chandni Chowk in old Delhi and Tirana’s Rruga Dibres that leads off Scanderbeg Square and is choked with traffic all the way to the medrasa and then to the junction with the Unaza or ring road, with the vast covered market on the other side of the street. </span></span></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3EdVPdfg_RuuYONY3PEkV1GJ-wWwQFayX-T0M6au8EczF33zE6kJWIqAmkl5e_W5T5M1KCGgZ9sFzHvPFHzMCbm_-4C8dBrjz6KBCARljHVLY-5svQzBNxycDFIPih4hq33qPlDx7ioLlEAZSf-BS5vG7y4x0q0AkukwfcL82154u5Os-W5I-GGWx/s3664/120.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3664" data-original-width="2748" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3EdVPdfg_RuuYONY3PEkV1GJ-wWwQFayX-T0M6au8EczF33zE6kJWIqAmkl5e_W5T5M1KCGgZ9sFzHvPFHzMCbm_-4C8dBrjz6KBCARljHVLY-5svQzBNxycDFIPih4hq33qPlDx7ioLlEAZSf-BS5vG7y4x0q0AkukwfcL82154u5Os-W5I-GGWx/w480-h640/120.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rruga Dibres, Tirana<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p><span style="color: #0c343d;"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></span><br /><span style="color: #0c343d;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Not the sedate traffic on the road between the Dean Gallery and the Modern Art Gallery, no it’s nothing like that, like my memories of Delhi or Tirana. Once you leave the car park of the Dean Gallery (which is where the slender gate led to) there is even a pedestrian crossing and on the other side, the entrance to the modern art gallery, where you almost trip over half of a man rising from the asphalt path (or sinking into it), a metal man, one of Anthony Gormley’s sculptures, (one of several figures in different parts of the city, some partial figures, some full height). An asphalt path, large grounds, grassy slopes, a water feature, and a good view of the imposing building, the Gallery of Modern Art.<br /><br />Wandering through the rooms on the ground floor, my favourite painting is one by Gwen John. </span></span></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiV-pyHKLG7kUZu3F3S9_V6sHDeyf0rXfTuxIveMLl-k56_hSNRuQh2dqUJ1SqpgEBwnbGQgOLKJBxWk9vwgmzJ02C3bBCMd2UrbQfPoAkstpI_iJiLZfwdr4bv0Q_RkBFc7RsHGzoEKpstaJBq7evOTOEPPyoX3ueM-fECqE4Ngt40DoDM6v4n-A8/s3694/131.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3694" data-original-width="2233" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiV-pyHKLG7kUZu3F3S9_V6sHDeyf0rXfTuxIveMLl-k56_hSNRuQh2dqUJ1SqpgEBwnbGQgOLKJBxWk9vwgmzJ02C3bBCMd2UrbQfPoAkstpI_iJiLZfwdr4bv0Q_RkBFc7RsHGzoEKpstaJBq7evOTOEPPyoX3ueM-fECqE4Ngt40DoDM6v4n-A8/w386-h640/131.jpg" width="386" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">courtesy of the Scottish Gallery of Modern Art<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p><span style="color: #0c343d;"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></span><br /><span style="color: #0c343d;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I sit for some time in front of the video of photographs of Hokkaido, by Daido Moriyama. It doesn’t matter how busy or bustling life is, however crowded full of buildings and commerce and people and trains and tickets we have to buy to get on trains, we are just passing through.</span><br /><br /></span></span></p>dritanjehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16025213970107184429noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5365414187774298547.post-16826952233764428322023-01-01T23:00:00.001+01:002023-01-02T20:42:08.000+01:00Remembering Vienna & Egon Schiele<p> <br /></p><p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLnJwpV0bn51FQ1duWNwPG_Xf2bCtdGKs_LWVSeCVU0kaGX6hUDBhrNDN0zgtgzxEw0ayrBnFG3d6AJU9qjAaDrb9yCjaX0wAABDYtENmk_rHwdbtS7TUFuK2c7StJWcy5zJeT6HUf20vPptrbaQ5iWXQIdIu6KCg2Emdfx7yzaCdCcO8H9noWkhg5/s595/Sisi%20Museum%20%E2%80%A2%20Hofburg%20Wien%20on%20Instagram%20%E2%9C%A8%F0%9F%8D%BE.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="593" data-original-width="595" height="399" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLnJwpV0bn51FQ1duWNwPG_Xf2bCtdGKs_LWVSeCVU0kaGX6hUDBhrNDN0zgtgzxEw0ayrBnFG3d6AJU9qjAaDrb9yCjaX0wAABDYtENmk_rHwdbtS7TUFuK2c7StJWcy5zJeT6HUf20vPptrbaQ5iWXQIdIu6KCg2Emdfx7yzaCdCcO8H9noWkhg5/w400-h399/Sisi%20Museum%20%E2%80%A2%20Hofburg%20Wien%20on%20Instagram%20%E2%9C%A8%F0%9F%8D%BE.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">From Sisi Museum, Hofburg, Vienna instagram shot<br /></td></tr></tbody></table> </p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0c343d;">1 January 2023<br />It’s always a pleasure to write the date, the first day of January in the new year and this one for some reason even more so, perhaps because of the feeling of change in the air, mixing with the feeling of similarity or continuity. I’m listening as I always do on New Year’s Day, to the Vienna Philharmonic concert and The Blue Danube & the Radetsky March sweep my body with a tingling sensation and demand that I dance. A sense that I belong there, not here, but there, in some time and place that is conjured, remembered, vividly imagined, reconstructed, invented, I don’t know what word is appropriate but, as I listen to the music, or rather, as the music takes hold of me, my heart and my emotions are there. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0c343d;">This energy that comes to me through listening to the living orchestra playing the music of The Blue Danube, it vitalizes everything. How can it be past when I feel it so concretely now? Today too, the first of the year, a friend in Vienna contacts me, say they hope to see me this year. Perhaps this present feeling will have some concrete outcome in the future. At any rate, I am thinking of Vienna, so I thought I'd post this piece written shortly after a visit to Vienna some years ago. </span></span><br /></p><p>
</p><p class="western" style="line-height: 0.35cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i><b><span style="color: #0c343d;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Egon Schiele in Vienna</span></span></span></b></i></span></span></p><p class="western" style="line-height: 0.35cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i><b><span style="color: #0c343d;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span></span></span></b></i></span></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img alt="Photo of Self-Portrait with Chinese Lantern Plant" class="m7eMIc aQg20b pFuEAd" height="300" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/p/AF1QipN4HmOZ2gD5Ud2SJUqT_PQUJj-3QkcURF6aCzM=w400-h300" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; touch-action: auto; user-select: none;" width="400" /></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo credit: Vicente Camarasa<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="western" style="line-height: 0.35cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i><b><span style="color: #0c343d;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span></span></span></b><br /><br /><br /></i><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">A poster advertising the Egon Schiele exhibition displays one of his self portraits.</span></span></span></span></p><p class="western" style="line-height: 0.35cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">The colours and the shapes look out of place among Vienna's baroque architecture. </span></span></span></span></p><p class="western" style="line-height: 0.35cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">It looks ugly that's what I thought. But the original in the Leopold Museum has a </span></span></span></span></p><p class="western" style="line-height: 0.35cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">very different effect. It's something to do with the vividness and I want to say lack </span></span></span></span></p><p class="western" style="line-height: 0.35cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">of interpretation, but I don't suppose we can ever get away from interpretation, but</span></span></span></span></p><p class="western" style="line-height: 0.35cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">to me it looks like life given a shove, something bristling with energy being pushed</span></span></span></span></p><p class="western" style="line-height: 0.35cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">through the paint. Not trying to make it pleasing to the eye, even less, to conform to</span></span></span></span></p><p class="western" style="line-height: 0.35cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">some idea of what it should be, but trying to make it even more like it already is. <br /><br /> </span></span></span></span></p><p class="western" style="line-height: 0.35cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I found the self portraits disturbing until I stopped trying to want them to be</span></span></span></span></p><p class="western" style="line-height: 0.35cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">different, to conform to what I thought they should be. It was a precarious vision for</span></span></span></span></p><p class="western" style="line-height: 0.35cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">me, a tightrope way of seeing, for baggage lurks on the edges of the eye's mind, </span></span></span></span></p><p class="western" style="line-height: 0.35cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">craving to turn it into something it is not, shuffling its rhetoric, its interpretative </span></span></span></span></p><p class="western" style="line-height: 0.35cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">critical moulding and dissembling. It huffs and puffs and tries to be noticed, tries to</span></span></span></span></p><p class="western" style="line-height: 0.35cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">intrude its perception – superior of course – into the eye's vision. But there were </span></span></span></span></p><p class="western" style="line-height: 0.35cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">blessed moments when I saw – or it seemed that I saw – what was in front of me. </span></span><i><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> <br /></span></span></i></span></span></p><p class="western" style="line-height: 0.35cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i> </i></span></span></p><p class="western" style="line-height: 0.35cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> Even harder for me, were his nudes. Reaction and emotion squabbled with my eyes</span></span></p><p class="western" style="line-height: 0.35cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">and the objective interpreter was silenced. But he was painting the nudes in the</span></span></p><p class="western" style="line-height: 0.35cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">same way, I came to see, as he did his self-portraits – he was not trying to make his</span></span></p><p class="western" style="line-height: 0.35cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">models beautiful, sensuous or erotic but was painting what he saw, with that extra</span></span></p><p class="western" style="line-height: 0.35cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">shove, that emancipated detail that was not smeared or shaded out. And because</span></span></p><p class="western" style="line-height: 0.35cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">detail was not elided into sidelines or suburbs, it was democratised, the result was</span></span></p><p class="western" style="line-height: 0.35cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">unnerving, for we do not give the same credence in life to the marginal, the half-</span></span></p><p class="western" style="line-height: 0.35cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">effaced, the timid; we worship the precocious, the declamatory, and here was </span></span></p><p class="western" style="line-height: 0.35cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">someone who gave equal voice to what we usually submerge into peripheral vision.<br /><br /> </span></span></p><p class="western" style="line-height: 0.35cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">At first glance you might say bold, assertive, but on longer contemplation I felt there</span></span></p><p class="western" style="line-height: 0.35cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">was something much more tender and evocative in the democratic centrality of any</span></span></p><p class="western" style="line-height: 0.35cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">part of the painting. There were no peripheries. The painting did not home in on</span></span></p><p class="western" style="line-height: 0.35cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">this or that area, placing the rest in background. Yet it gained dimensionality from</span></span></p><p class="western" style="line-height: 0.35cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">that, it did not lose it. What our eye or our thinking normally elided into </span></span></p><p class="western" style="line-height: 0.35cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">background, was equally present which was why there was the feeling of the detail</span></span></p><p class="western" style="line-height: 0.35cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">being pushed in front of our eyes.</span></span></p><p class="western" style="line-height: 0.35cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i> </i></span></span></p><p class="western" style="line-height: 0.35cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">His other paintings show this same capacity, whether they depict fully- or semi-clad</span></span></p><p class="western" style="line-height: 0.35cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">figures, buildings or landscapes. The roofs of buildings are intimately tiled. A thin</span></span></p><p class="western" style="line-height: 0.35cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">tree squirms against a pink evening sky. There is an impression of lack of </span></span></p><p class="western" style="line-height: 0.35cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">perspective but as you look closer, it is inclusion, not lack. By dismissing centrality</span></span></p><p class="western" style="line-height: 0.35cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">and pulling in the margins, dimensions are multiplied.<br /><br /><br /> </span></span></p><p class="western" style="line-height: 0.35cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I walk back from the city centre, following Argentinier strasse. The last rays of sun</span></span></p><p class="western" style="line-height: 0.35cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">are falling on the Keplerplatz. As the sun vanishes behind buildings, the lower sky</span></span></p><p class="western" style="line-height: 0.35cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">glows with pink. The centres of the few clouds are murky purple and they have</span></span></p><p class="western" style="line-height: 0.35cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">halos of golden light around them. Behind them the sky flushes a deeper pink, as if</span></span></p><p class="western" style="line-height: 0.35cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">it was absorbing colour, like damp paper.<br /><br /> </span></span></p><p class="western" style="line-height: 0.35cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">This colour reminds me of one of the Egon Schiele paintings – a landscape with</span></span></p><p class="western" style="line-height: 0.35cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">hills so thick and layered, terraced and embroidered, they looked like tapestries</span></span></p><p class="western" style="line-height: 0.35cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">with sequins stuck on them. Then there were the trees, slivers of darkness with</span></span></p><p class="western" style="line-height: 0.35cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">skinny leaves – a strip of water, two rocks, and from the water outwards, everything</span></span></p><p class="western" style="line-height: 0.35cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">was rosy, unforgettable. It was called simply <i>Versinkende Sonne</i>. The colour </span></span></p><p class="western" style="line-height: 0.35cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">wrapped the landscape – and you knew that it would soon be gone. But because he</span></span></p><p class="western" style="line-height: 0.35cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">had caught it, this marvel could be carried with us, out into the tree-lined Museum</span></span></p><p class="western" style="line-height: 0.35cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> Quartier, across the street and along the road in front of the Hofburg, where the</span></span></p><p class="western" style="line-height: 0.35cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> horse-drawn carriages line the street.</span></span></p><p class="western" style="line-height: 0.35cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOCEadQ_9O88_xN8t_kji025t5NjFh07YshgchVGYG8xXThTWnBx4_cZLNGIzWJgCOYQOCo4bZz1giemkGhmZtw6aPvYF4cmoo9K129hsWNg2V1zVSLotxfRchbgpUj1UWffSA7aru0C_3nAKVmMfD1nmER1i6VjWo9UjQYAFv7KtshaQguOH8gvQS/s600/Setting-Sun.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="575" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOCEadQ_9O88_xN8t_kji025t5NjFh07YshgchVGYG8xXThTWnBx4_cZLNGIzWJgCOYQOCo4bZz1giemkGhmZtw6aPvYF4cmoo9K129hsWNg2V1zVSLotxfRchbgpUj1UWffSA7aru0C_3nAKVmMfD1nmER1i6VjWo9UjQYAFv7KtshaQguOH8gvQS/w614-h640/Setting-Sun.jpg" width="614" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Egon Schiele: versinkende Sonne<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /> <br /></i></span></span></p><p class="western" style="line-height: 0.35cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i></i></span></span></p><p class="western" style="line-height: 0.35cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i></i></span></span></p><p class="western" style="line-height: 0.35cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i></i></span></span></p><p class="western" style="line-height: 0.35cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i><br /></i><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">A dark bird flies across the sky, now the colour of rusted gold. It perches on an</span></span></span></span></p><p class="western" style="line-height: 0.35cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">aerial, flicking open its wings from time to time. Another joins it and they sit on the</span></span></span></span></p><p class="western" style="line-height: 0.35cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">two ends of the aerial like two black apostrophes, turning the immense pinkness of</span></span></span></span></p><p class="western" style="line-height: 0.35cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">the sky into a quotation.</span></span><i> <br /> </i></span></span></p><p class="western" style="line-height: 0.35cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">With thanks to <a href="http://textualities.net/morelle-smith/egon-schieles-paintings-and-viennas-evening-streets">Textualities</a> where this article first appeared. <i><br /></i></span></span></p><p class="western" style="line-height: 0.35cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i> <br /></i></span></span></p><p class="western" style="line-height: 0.35cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0c343d;">And I wrote about the experience of visiting Vienna's Hofburg in a <a href="https://rivertrain.blogspot.com/2008/04/vienna-museum-and-night-trams-of.html">blog post here.</a> </span></span></p><p class="western" style="line-height: 0.35cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0c343d;">Unfortunately the photographs I took then were lost, apart from the ones in the post.</span></span><br /></p>
dritanjehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16025213970107184429noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5365414187774298547.post-807204442704081242022-12-04T20:43:00.001+01:002022-12-04T21:12:28.879+01:00Cycling in the Scottish Borders: Back tracks & cycle paths<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixA2KRxcsq0YIswxPhRLbcNbeqkx3suU3OwK1uprdIchQBLVe16udv4EHAyh5KNqbXvfbHe-Vab1v2Y5hQeHajhWGBkRvtGChqmnDSDHn0ql-lgvXoXvjlNqx415XD28nV_plSrBFSuS7Q60EjY93wRVWeHD3wxfpPdV9uB5pwJK6hwuR4m_a1eBwk/s4608/094.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2272" data-original-width="4608" height="316" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixA2KRxcsq0YIswxPhRLbcNbeqkx3suU3OwK1uprdIchQBLVe16udv4EHAyh5KNqbXvfbHe-Vab1v2Y5hQeHajhWGBkRvtGChqmnDSDHn0ql-lgvXoXvjlNqx415XD28nV_plSrBFSuS7Q60EjY93wRVWeHD3wxfpPdV9uB5pwJK6hwuR4m_a1eBwk/w640-h316/094.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /> <br /><span style="color: #0c343d;"><span style="font-size: large;">I set out to find the track leading from the back road to Galashiels. Not the road via Clovenfords which I knew, but a track that veered off the road. I’d been told it existed and a dotted line on the map seemed to bear this out. And I found the track, made of stones, some small and some big and all slicked with mud, and the last part goes steeply downhill. The stones made it bumpy and uneven, shaking me and the bike, and the mud making the stones slippery, and the sunlight so bright I had to keep blinking, and then there were the shadows, stripes of darkness, where the trees bordered the path. <br /><br />But eventually it levelled off, and turned into a surfaced road which wound down towards the main road. There was a cycle path, which continued after I reached the town of Galashiels, skirting the edge, so I did not have to go on the main roads with all the traffic. The cycle path, completely flat, a memorable part of the journey, 3 kilometers or so of flat path. Then it was up the top road that overlooks the town, and on to the minor road that leads from Galashiels to Lauder. I’d decided to go this way, rather than just turn around and go back the way I came. To explore a different road, and go home via Lauder. And another reason for this route – there is a baker in Lauder that has the best chocolate brownies ever. <br /><br />When I reach the turnoff I’m a little surprised to see that Lauder is signposted as 8 miles away. Somehow I thought it was not so far. But, on such a sunny magnificent day it doesn’t seem to matter. Two or three miles uphill, there’s the Eildon Hills behind me. I’d brought a flask of coffee, stopped by a gate with a handy round gatepost to balance the coffee cup on. </span></span><p></p><p><span style="color: #0c343d;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6y0z_k08LJyLuQDMyrLACIFhq5XntAhTgH1dLDdRcVDlSSeSAVNQzWA1FGuH_Hboy8GF9NTnK9SyueATEVdWj6m3elXJFY_1jYqQQgkc4kH79qdvJcHro0KWzs_OUSeZ9fPVDv2WROckcq-GwGRhLvWC-Q5w4k3n_55ntdt81laudMAvvb6WkGhBu/s4072/095.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2076" data-original-width="4072" height="326" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6y0z_k08LJyLuQDMyrLACIFhq5XntAhTgH1dLDdRcVDlSSeSAVNQzWA1FGuH_Hboy8GF9NTnK9SyueATEVdWj6m3elXJFY_1jYqQQgkc4kH79qdvJcHro0KWzs_OUSeZ9fPVDv2WROckcq-GwGRhLvWC-Q5w4k3n_55ntdt81laudMAvvb6WkGhBu/w640-h326/095.jpg" width="640" /></a></span><br /><span style="color: #0c343d;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></span></p><p><span style="color: #0c343d;"><span style="font-size: large;">It had been years since I’d driven up this road and I remembered nothing of it. There were plenty of ups and downs. I toiled uphill, and flew downhill. The air was so still and the light so thick it felt like a painted substance. It covered trees and bushes, fields and slopes and the occasional farmhouse. This time of year, the solstice zone, for a month or so before and after the solstice, during this time the light has a special quality to it, that is different from any other time. And because of that, it slips through time, or joins other times, the memories of these other times, held in this light. So I remember other places at this end time of year – cycling in <a href="https://rivertrain.blogspot.com/2014/12/aphrodites-path-cyprus.html">Cyprus</a>, along coastal routes, and cycling through the tree-lined streets of <a href="https://rivertrain.blogspot.com/2011/12/winter-king-on-german-border.html">Strasbourg</a> – as well as here. </span></span></p><p><span style="color: #0c343d;"><span style="font-size: large;">If there are fewer hours of light does it become thicker, more concentrated, to squeeze itself into less time, and into a smaller area of sky? And those shadows – they become so sharp, so pointed, and so fast, racing shadows to cover so much ground, definitely longer to run, further to go, so shadows too are denser, and more muscular through so much exercise. But the shadows have not got into their stride yet, the light is pausing, all downward directed onto the land, and hence the stillness. <br /><br />A view of Lauder from the crest of the last slope and then it is downhill for a mile or so. The shadows are gathering in the main street though, and the baker it turns out, is closed on Mondays. But I am primed for buying – and eating – something, so I prowl along the main street and find the <a href="http://Www.thespottydog.co.uk">Spotty Dog</a>, a delicatessen that promises so the board outside says, home baking and sandwiches. I do not want a sandwich, but perhaps they have some cakes left, so I hope. It turns out they don’t but they have all kinds of jams and other small jars of delicacies and packets of rice and teas and biscuits and then I see a packet of cannoli and that I think is going to be the closest I can get to chocolate brownies. </span></span></p><p><span style="color: #0c343d;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_iogl2bV5nlbjTyTv485yRfYrR5_H0mMs1Y-a8hXEb0_3EVEja8KiwOZxQVjQIc0C0mu6hfeEe_8njnW4eQcU0OQGmAId4ncuaSkKz5-TlraczLFyUOBlVZxf6S-nHaAuufzq2elZFn8fVAEzXwzTD9col5TJO4iwPXjC7xh6D2c3c3ua-rXs7pSq/s3790/100%20s.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2249" data-original-width="3790" height="380" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_iogl2bV5nlbjTyTv485yRfYrR5_H0mMs1Y-a8hXEb0_3EVEja8KiwOZxQVjQIc0C0mu6hfeEe_8njnW4eQcU0OQGmAId4ncuaSkKz5-TlraczLFyUOBlVZxf6S-nHaAuufzq2elZFn8fVAEzXwzTD9col5TJO4iwPXjC7xh6D2c3c3ua-rXs7pSq/w640-h380/100%20s.jpg" width="640" /></a></span><br /><span style="color: #0c343d;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></span></p><p><span style="color: #0c343d;"><span style="font-size: large;">A woman in front of me in the queue asks me if I am the person on the bike (which I have parked outside) and I say yes, it’s an e-bike from the <a href="https://www.facebook.com/stowcyclehub">Stow Community bike hub</a> pilot scheme to encourage the use of e-bikes and cycling in general. The woman says she would have liked to hire one of the Stow bikes but she does not live in Stow so she cannot. I say perhaps she can wrangle it, I too after all don’t live in Stow. But it’s a different postcode here in Lauder she says, I’m on the other side. Ah, I say, and think of all that separates this side from the other, is it a valley, a range of hills, or moor, most likely that’s it, for there is the high plateau of moor between this small town and the other one.</span></span></p><p><span style="color: #0c343d;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />This moor is where the shadows get into their stride, or have done so already by the time I reach it, for they have all vanished into the valleys. On the moor the only shadows are myself and my bike, for nothing else protrudes from the grass and heather heathland. </span></span></p><p><span style="color: #0c343d;"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9yUfrhheT8nZENrcjFk1osfE58lOEI8QJJ_0kPfd9ScXDq35_x5fMmeYk4Tpd-XFJ1oAdS6pCdhDRNPbqzGK0jL2HrVMk5fhsmkoxeX1L-RRaAj9BjSG1P50jC9eO1d-lWMEjiaGBnYZ0lvW2ehsst65cqMFfqIXvRtDXGESJuuv1Q5K96rSOsfC3/s8128/109.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2304" data-original-width="8128" height="182" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9yUfrhheT8nZENrcjFk1osfE58lOEI8QJJ_0kPfd9ScXDq35_x5fMmeYk4Tpd-XFJ1oAdS6pCdhDRNPbqzGK0jL2HrVMk5fhsmkoxeX1L-RRaAj9BjSG1P50jC9eO1d-lWMEjiaGBnYZ0lvW2ehsst65cqMFfqIXvRtDXGESJuuv1Q5K96rSOsfC3/w640-h182/109.jpg" width="640" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br />The Eildons can be seen again, further away now. </span><br /><p></p><p><span style="color: #0c343d;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoMgWGNkktNzcIBt6N5n9BOJsVZT-Rc6N3N9YjCQ8PVe4lxt_YbF5x5_8E-vEqaHSXrh3UUgS4wodSR_qx50HDjBV4cj0uNS2MbtJ0oA6wc3z1BPCx3r_DPuzM3NY71Qgxmh2IxavkVs_yxjrP3gBE8yek5CDy78mgLG8bzFmSiUS9_6q4V_v9iqZ-/s4608/111.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2272" data-original-width="4608" height="316" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoMgWGNkktNzcIBt6N5n9BOJsVZT-Rc6N3N9YjCQ8PVe4lxt_YbF5x5_8E-vEqaHSXrh3UUgS4wodSR_qx50HDjBV4cj0uNS2MbtJ0oA6wc3z1BPCx3r_DPuzM3NY71Qgxmh2IxavkVs_yxjrP3gBE8yek5CDy78mgLG8bzFmSiUS9_6q4V_v9iqZ-/w640-h316/111.jpg" width="640" /></a></span><br /><span style="color: #0c343d;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></span></p><p><span style="color: #0c343d;"><span style="font-size: large;">Once over the moor, there’s the steep hill, the descent into Stow. I am still being careful, still using the brakes, for the road is wet, and the hill ends in a sharp bend. Hills where you can see the bottom and see where it straightens out and where it goes uphill again as it did on the road to Lauder, these are the best for you can release the brakes, but hills where you have to go round a sharp bend at the bottom, you have to stay vigilant. <br /><br />All the shadows have gathered in the valley, greeting and gossiping. And they follow me on the last few miles of the back road, which is tucked into the bottom of the hillslopes. The sun is low down in the sky now, behind the hills, the back road twists and turns in deep shade.</span><br /><br /><br /></span><br /><br /></p>dritanjehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16025213970107184429noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5365414187774298547.post-2877234110208814352022-11-16T19:00:00.001+01:002022-11-16T19:36:18.910+01:00Sea, sand and flight<p> <span style="color: #0c343d;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTRilzHtCbVtgBbkqNI3XhF-57t3tIGd1-bd3zgiXWpob0SUfKvZWo3nFY66jX1BF8aAs6ajx-2hCtqQcXbPQjf5wNJ2jfGTXISVxHiRLvodUoV9okFqg1-AlrgPa8GoNlg_bYkqr6LBW_bMIKdj0hG0eiXl9KCjbQkVznNs93BhlU6qGc14nkcgxG/s4608/014.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2272" data-original-width="4608" height="316" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTRilzHtCbVtgBbkqNI3XhF-57t3tIGd1-bd3zgiXWpob0SUfKvZWo3nFY66jX1BF8aAs6ajx-2hCtqQcXbPQjf5wNJ2jfGTXISVxHiRLvodUoV9okFqg1-AlrgPa8GoNlg_bYkqr6LBW_bMIKdj0hG0eiXl9KCjbQkVznNs93BhlU6qGc14nkcgxG/w640-h316/014.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rail bridge over the Firth of Forth, Scotland<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><br /><span style="color: #274e13;"><i>On a day when the rain makes those pattering sounds on the skylight window, I’m remembering a recent walk in sunshine from Kinghorn to Burntisland on the Fife coastal path.</i></span> <br /> </span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_Fr01SVPAgD2rD-hX4Xqp6epi0xs5oxTUMzDft_BJ1fG643PoeLpy8GCsk-1mAhOWiDQqzmIylUdv19DlVrpoZ8YfxHGzgMefDfD3hvapJjCDbUTIgRAWMzQESXJEcHmL7ct337B2eDEdxMmL07Y0oGxTdWW9ymNtNOM1eNOP8ryhNeu7zps0zPI-/s4608/145.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2272" data-original-width="4608" height="316" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_Fr01SVPAgD2rD-hX4Xqp6epi0xs5oxTUMzDft_BJ1fG643PoeLpy8GCsk-1mAhOWiDQqzmIylUdv19DlVrpoZ8YfxHGzgMefDfD3hvapJjCDbUTIgRAWMzQESXJEcHmL7ct337B2eDEdxMmL07Y0oGxTdWW9ymNtNOM1eNOP8ryhNeu7zps0zPI-/w640-h316/145.jpg" width="640" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="color: #0c343d;"><span style="font-size: large;">The sun gleams on the water and 2 birds at the shore which might be purple sandpipers though I cannot get close enough to confirm this, they look like them, that’s good enough. These birds have recently been on my mind, as I’ve written a poem about them for an anthology of endangered bird species. (It will be out later this month, edited by <a href="https://overstepsbooks.com/poets/rebecca-bilkau/">Rebecca Bilkau</a>.)</span></span></p><p><img alt="May be an image of text that says "Poems with something more to squawk about Watch The Birdie again for the 67 ever changing endangered species of birds in the United Kingdom"" class="x1ey2m1c xds687c x5yr21d x10l6tqk x17qophe x13vifvy xh8yej3 xl1xv1r" height="353" src="https://scontent.fgla3-2.fna.fbcdn.net/v/t39.30808-6/313356802_10159963732891210_1027217565458616235_n.jpg?stp=cp6_dst-jpg_s600x600&_nc_cat=107&ccb=1-7&_nc_sid=730e14&_nc_ohc=8YpQRrBA3qQAX-NUgsD&_nc_ht=scontent.fgla3-2.fna&oh=00_AfAJMfSsnJ_5UxKkowap30B0vEWoP0rkOxWwpnO3imTBSw&oe=6379EA1D" width="400" /><span style="color: #0c343d;"><span style="font-size: large;"> <br /></span></span></p><p><span style="color: #0c343d;"><span style="font-size: large;">And 2 other birds, much bigger, unmoving, on the rock. </span></span></p><p><span style="color: #0c343d;"><span style="font-size: large;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU_k-X1bUt9PV8XI0wwqYZN1zHtctEGSO-uf-wG50jNVghg7uVXG7br7GNRbth8uejoONx6pW1v7WqjoHaZAL2A_F14sDpRriMDk468luyj8WNRVxI5dhXoOm7FAb0HjbQG2s0JZ5We2Bv0lkbs1fNb1XoXIwyOh_Jy8eYqUaGH91HGzzu1zrYO4cc/s4608/162%20shore%20birds%20flying.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2272" data-original-width="4608" height="316" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU_k-X1bUt9PV8XI0wwqYZN1zHtctEGSO-uf-wG50jNVghg7uVXG7br7GNRbth8uejoONx6pW1v7WqjoHaZAL2A_F14sDpRriMDk468luyj8WNRVxI5dhXoOm7FAb0HjbQG2s0JZ5We2Bv0lkbs1fNb1XoXIwyOh_Jy8eYqUaGH91HGzzu1zrYO4cc/w640-h316/162%20shore%20birds%20flying.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Arthur's Seat and Salisbury Crags visible on the other side of the firth<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /></span></span></p><p><span style="color: #0c343d;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0MXhzjbsTYawAv8PwS6x2gqtI50WTVFIu2o0unKVT8ye-cD7jIPJ5YwQQL60ycl2LuOd6x1EAR7BqmtCOrkVmi6kNgFtDZax2voqEip1MvZsGrE8kp6W7RsrV2j7O-r9bUJc8_31E--iFeSwmIppBgNo0U-nu9mCtAfMR3p0THJ6zcBjmv9oLRYes/s4608/161%20shore%20birds%201.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2272" data-original-width="4608" height="316" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0MXhzjbsTYawAv8PwS6x2gqtI50WTVFIu2o0unKVT8ye-cD7jIPJ5YwQQL60ycl2LuOd6x1EAR7BqmtCOrkVmi6kNgFtDZax2voqEip1MvZsGrE8kp6W7RsrV2j7O-r9bUJc8_31E--iFeSwmIppBgNo0U-nu9mCtAfMR3p0THJ6zcBjmv9oLRYes/w640-h316/161%20shore%20birds%201.jpg" width="640" /></a></span><br /><span style="color: #0c343d;"><span style="font-size: large;">I go down to the sand, it is level, pristine, unmarked. (Except for bird footprints). <br /><br /></span></span></p><p><span style="color: #0c343d;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAMsgzn-Q7NXI6C5UwnCWv84PNQ0uSzggkSKyyk8WiEnPog8Bh2DJoX1Sm7ozZlBQEqZnIkPy1qwA1Rml5_Qgxjq2tVhPFbPvVwYblUosG2r_PCHY0BFoh68kEFga2xrdfP0mbPUwyu9eZiLVgnvrrQZy5PezjuIyRoBo3Y8nnTyWkZRlNEsa-Jo_h/s4608/167.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4608" data-original-width="2272" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAMsgzn-Q7NXI6C5UwnCWv84PNQ0uSzggkSKyyk8WiEnPog8Bh2DJoX1Sm7ozZlBQEqZnIkPy1qwA1Rml5_Qgxjq2tVhPFbPvVwYblUosG2r_PCHY0BFoh68kEFga2xrdfP0mbPUwyu9eZiLVgnvrrQZy5PezjuIyRoBo3Y8nnTyWkZRlNEsa-Jo_h/w316-h640/167.jpg" width="316" /></a></span><br /><span style="color: #0c343d;"><span style="font-size: large;">Lots of shells, white shells mostly uniform in size, a wandering line of them left behind by the tide. </span></span></p><p><span style="color: #0c343d;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />But further on the sea is barely sea, just a thin sheen of water that catches the light and spreads it all over the surface. And that’s where there are lots of birds like sprigs or flounces of seaweed that’s what they look like, what they could be mistaken for, moving just a little as if there were tiny waves shuffling their edges, black and spiky. But these dark commas and fragments of punctuation are birds pecking at sand, examining the feast of tit-bits in the shallow water.</span></span></p><p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFw9Kuxba23AUOxQODusQGY2aMdSMiqqy6yuNLARWf6Nbg-gU5su1fUlJlMfKdy5yHnoI57esRZN1rTOYzJZPyVZSZuUlnukl-UapSmZMhUuDSEZ5qy9z51C0sZVJA6Hc7CqEMWVtVmF8SoslXSKA2Owcln4CfR3aOpk5VyBjbVq7qrfdPrF7G9Pmo/s4608/169%20many%20distant%20birds%201.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2272" data-original-width="4608" height="316" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFw9Kuxba23AUOxQODusQGY2aMdSMiqqy6yuNLARWf6Nbg-gU5su1fUlJlMfKdy5yHnoI57esRZN1rTOYzJZPyVZSZuUlnukl-UapSmZMhUuDSEZ5qy9z51C0sZVJA6Hc7CqEMWVtVmF8SoslXSKA2Owcln4CfR3aOpk5VyBjbVq7qrfdPrF7G9Pmo/w640-h316/169%20many%20distant%20birds%201.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Arthur's Seat in the background<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="color: #0c343d;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />The train from Burntisland to Edinburgh crosses over the water of the firth, on the massive red complex cat's cradle of a bridge. We travel through the flat countryside near the airport and there’s a plane in the deep blue of sky. And it is coming closer, coming in to land, and for me that sums up the day in its joyful appearance, its movement closer through the endless blue of sky, towards land, to its destination and arrival, this winged sign of completion.</span><br /><br /><br /><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiipa7tKSsF2asf3hwZ05xNOdaokx1ZHHSRuCQyA35Hup8nZrLXHeCykWnG6QR662tn8WqIjdJLhm7R4ZIJwn-k-MqD51GRyNVa2o3qI8T3OaW6-PD0RhWZyPYDqCpg78CEBI4eifox63oRbsmneJfjExEN7hC48BtX7l9hqwxzYHRYG6CkTxS_yUiu/s4608/187.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2272" data-original-width="4608" height="316" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiipa7tKSsF2asf3hwZ05xNOdaokx1ZHHSRuCQyA35Hup8nZrLXHeCykWnG6QR662tn8WqIjdJLhm7R4ZIJwn-k-MqD51GRyNVa2o3qI8T3OaW6-PD0RhWZyPYDqCpg78CEBI4eifox63oRbsmneJfjExEN7hC48BtX7l9hqwxzYHRYG6CkTxS_yUiu/w640-h316/187.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p>dritanjehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16025213970107184429noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5365414187774298547.post-46989217609660263952022-11-08T16:00:00.002+01:002022-11-08T17:12:09.506+01:00More walking in Poznan's streets<p> <span style="color: #0c343d;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEr6X4BmFlYvI_c6cz_eFpB4RKOHPMA42g3P4pyE0rdORGcp-oiZmtmBQIrEKAw3OQGAZgoE8V37Ys5winlKvAoVHBHnxwG4MdkaUbw75DGKODXs6hyCJNTgWRexIFsixxbPOIfvm6YJOEeBMC0CyT-3c4usyvb1JqS7Mm8nfX5il1QSr6Q0yIZZzC/s4608/387.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2272" data-original-width="4608" height="316" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEr6X4BmFlYvI_c6cz_eFpB4RKOHPMA42g3P4pyE0rdORGcp-oiZmtmBQIrEKAw3OQGAZgoE8V37Ys5winlKvAoVHBHnxwG4MdkaUbw75DGKODXs6hyCJNTgWRexIFsixxbPOIfvm6YJOEeBMC0CyT-3c4usyvb1JqS7Mm8nfX5il1QSr6Q0yIZZzC/w640-h316/387.jpg" width="640" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="color: #0c343d;"><span style="font-size: large;">(Following on from <a href="https://rivertrain.blogspot.com/2022/09/a-bookshop-in-poznan-poland.html">last post</a>.) Wilda as destination. Near-deserted streets. With their art nouveau facades, some being renovated, under wraps, flapping slightly, covering them like ball gowns, hiding the scarred surfaces before the renovation work is complete. For some the process is already finished, freshly painted and smoothed facades and in one – inside the hallway, the ceiling is painted in patterns resembling wood, different shades of wood, pieces fitted together like secret sliding boxes. </span></span></p><p><span style="color: #0c343d;"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaGd29XHAE7KTKYhf4Apcejucb5XyeOX2xy8JT28CWOX3_RlxMvJmLSP9Xb6OUkxtZa8dBaGeLD8Xs4_MfAtPqPNbuPvPBQWuIFctDWSN67dNu8SlgdvHQ8K8uFJnYjdKCwgThRel0Kyua8HfkyKSeW4gnRN664WGGpcuN8c19XqbGuSpOVbzqjirJ/s4608/394.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4608" data-original-width="2272" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaGd29XHAE7KTKYhf4Apcejucb5XyeOX2xy8JT28CWOX3_RlxMvJmLSP9Xb6OUkxtZa8dBaGeLD8Xs4_MfAtPqPNbuPvPBQWuIFctDWSN67dNu8SlgdvHQ8K8uFJnYjdKCwgThRel0Kyua8HfkyKSeW4gnRN664WGGpcuN8c19XqbGuSpOVbzqjirJ/w316-h640/394.jpg" width="316" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /> </span><p></p><p><span style="color: #0c343d;"><span style="font-size: large;">The stair banister is smooth unpainted wood, like a tree fresh from the forest, planed and shaped and it curls its way up the flights of stairs. The walls are light beige and someone has pulled finger marks down them in a darker shade of paint as if they had lost their balance and half slid down the stairs. Someone did that deliberately J says. But the stairwell and the whole block of flats is quiet, as if holding its breath. An absence of people. Then we see one person, one inhabitant, who passes us on the entrance steps and makes her way very slowly up the stairs, her hand on the smooth new banister.<br /><br /></span></span></p><p><span style="color: #0c343d;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR81mRqT0yL8sYkbxiU_Iomx3LI4Fuk797VgkCSwsDtVv2GmLLNO2gIRE8cuahKt9ScEMANmoCGxMZix1iuUHeQ4riUj2sW_yG5q5Bnwn8Ey9IlN2dHsNRFi9UOSd5CQvCrFKTcqXEaQpdnYCLvXFPlL2xhbEaGRRL3gxVZTngbQMv01p0kUV6m-ZC/s3791/392%20happy%20facade%20&%20entrance.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3791" data-original-width="2240" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR81mRqT0yL8sYkbxiU_Iomx3LI4Fuk797VgkCSwsDtVv2GmLLNO2gIRE8cuahKt9ScEMANmoCGxMZix1iuUHeQ4riUj2sW_yG5q5Bnwn8Ey9IlN2dHsNRFi9UOSd5CQvCrFKTcqXEaQpdnYCLvXFPlL2xhbEaGRRL3gxVZTngbQMv01p0kUV6m-ZC/w378-h640/392%20happy%20facade%20&%20entrance.jpg" width="378" /></a></span><br /><span style="color: #0c343d;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></span></p><p><span style="color: #0c343d;"><span style="font-size: large;">Another street, more like a courtyard, though with a weed-filled, empty area just beyond. There is no through way so we walk to the end, and then back. Some houses look unoccupied. One has an outside stairway, the top balcony festooned with flowers. A woman stands at the top, beside her potted flowers, watching us as we walk back. <br /><br /></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidcr9_8J_tnXYCsW43fzwqvF771VPL4Z9A-yU2aef4Wv2GuN_I1BeZHMhI8XE2oOwXOqrvmdVLwwhKzgqOHj1ZrAu7jMOBhcs0E08iASdKFZrjhU3S1L0VEaZYOrV34X1jQadxsrCUe_r0kO_YA732549pMMoFCl9clnSrWBwxzixyd9AMFmQYeSc3/s3868/395%20old%20house%20and%20tree.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2246" data-original-width="3868" height="372" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidcr9_8J_tnXYCsW43fzwqvF771VPL4Z9A-yU2aef4Wv2GuN_I1BeZHMhI8XE2oOwXOqrvmdVLwwhKzgqOHj1ZrAu7jMOBhcs0E08iASdKFZrjhU3S1L0VEaZYOrV34X1jQadxsrCUe_r0kO_YA732549pMMoFCl9clnSrWBwxzixyd9AMFmQYeSc3/w640-h372/395%20old%20house%20and%20tree.jpg" width="640" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /><br />On the corner, a tall old building and beside it, an even taller tree. Next to it, a small fenced garden, untended, overgrown. The house is covered with a dull yellow ochre plaster, and the wall facing the tree is pitted and pockmarked. From the war says J. The front of the house looks out onto the street but to the back, there’s the weed-filled area, abandoned looking but probably, says J, earmarked for future building projects. <br /><br />This ancient mighty house, which has seen so much, which has watched the tree next to it grow from sapling to close companion, spreading shade, turns its back on the scruffy weed-covered empty lot. But high up, some of the plaster has come away, revealing a small patch of half-timbered wood, among red bricks. Just a very small patch, just a glimpse of how it must once have looked, stately, almost austere because of its statuesque proportions. But thoroughly familiar and beloved by its occupants, each brick and wood-crossed path embedded in their minds, turning life into that jagged jig-saw pattern, the geometry of time and life. Anywhere more functional, less decorative, less beautifully crafted, which in later life they had to live in, must have left areas nestled into by memories, a soft regret, nostalgia like the ache of bones that comes and goes, weather-dependent, stiffening the limbs in winter cold, ah my nostalgia is playing up today, old darkened wood with its criss-crossing making diamond shapes of my childhood. And the red and sun-warmed brick, heating skin and heart, limbs and all the senses, though we didn’t know it then, you hardly ever do, until it’s gone.<br /><br />The heat, beauty, geometry of childhood summers are dripped into our bones and there they stay. Other summers may be more ornate, with more variety of scents and foliage and sea, but the original geometry has settled like silt or sand, becoming the grit of who we are. On bitter winter days, nostalgia forms its crystals of longing on our bones and we ache on the present pavement of our lives, a red and yellow thread of brickwork and wood and heavy sunlight tugging at us, slowing us down on the flat pavements and the drab and starchy tight-fitting plaster covers over buildings. Plaster that is dulled and stained by age, and gouged by missiles in the war – bullets, shell fragments, who knows what kind of bitter missiles struck the house walls, broke the door frames, shattered windows. </span><p></p><p><span style="color: #0c343d;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span><span style="color: #0c343d;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSFT4krmRmNTl1nHaX2WGZ5aybypjg-v2tVbSpu8tBsFImUAYzNnIKzTO1-6-2CmD6YtTUTyw71DOQocyUWQmkpmmFh08sY7-k40QJD7RdIOvbQ96VodKJ-MdPat33ZbOTGts8CGsHoLxomxV4HCjnSkz__RjIH-SDdE4R17fCgxt-Te9Jj_sDf9BM/s4608/399.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4608" data-original-width="2272" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSFT4krmRmNTl1nHaX2WGZ5aybypjg-v2tVbSpu8tBsFImUAYzNnIKzTO1-6-2CmD6YtTUTyw71DOQocyUWQmkpmmFh08sY7-k40QJD7RdIOvbQ96VodKJ-MdPat33ZbOTGts8CGsHoLxomxV4HCjnSkz__RjIH-SDdE4R17fCgxt-Te9Jj_sDf9BM/w316-h640/399.jpg" width="316" /></a></span><br /><span style="color: #0c343d;"><span style="font-size: large;">The aches tend to disappear as we walk along, the stings and echoes of the past are drowned out in the traffic sounds, the rattle of the trams.<br /><br />In our part of town too, there are preserved memories of the past. But I might never have seen them, could have walked past them without noticing, if J hadn’t pointed one out to me. In a strip of greenery between two streets, a public park, a concrete block, stained with time, tree and leaf shadows thrown across it so it vanishes into leaf-green, bark brown and grey lichen. Except for an arrow painted white, a straight line, then pointing downwards. With <i>Luftschutz</i> written above it.<br /><br />And one day, when these air raid shelters are open to the public, J and I follow the arrow and go underground. Into a dimly-lit tunnel, a museum, with artefacts from the past, sometimes whole, sometimes incomplete. Posters and photographs from that time. Medicine cabinet on the wall, a row of hip flasks. Instead of shop window models displaying the latest fashions, here we have models wearing civilian clothes of the 1930s and 40s, or soldiers’ uniforms, gas masks and goggles over their faces. Cumbersome and, one imagines, heavy, these masks are strapped over the head, covering the entire face, sometimes with tubes from the nose and mouth like a foldable elephant’s trunk, sometimes ending with a flat snout to breathe through. Advertisement – exhorting the people to take care of their mask (it could save your life) – and for a handy shoulder bag accessory, to carry it in.<br /><br /></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAMeQ0nMLfveljgtTlJ48nvhNnBcmMp_htchWBioQBkIFdtla9v9bOwsrD7gQu9nJyRIayy7Zm4aSMs2u_x-8IFxlRf6ihb9CEiTDYL1Xw0PLma7UYunlPpy3x6rCVdO9pYlN4cP9rR2ASNorIp7888eqS3lQhh9loiPhdaEMew1H35udLOQQq6ptQ/s1887/478%20gas%20mask%20pic%20small.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1513" data-original-width="1887" height="514" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAMeQ0nMLfveljgtTlJ48nvhNnBcmMp_htchWBioQBkIFdtla9v9bOwsrD7gQu9nJyRIayy7Zm4aSMs2u_x-8IFxlRf6ihb9CEiTDYL1Xw0PLma7UYunlPpy3x6rCVdO9pYlN4cP9rR2ASNorIp7888eqS3lQhh9loiPhdaEMew1H35udLOQQq6ptQ/w640-h514/478%20gas%20mask%20pic%20small.jpg" width="640" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /><br />And the language. You go down some steps and find that underground, that past, speaks another language. How must you feel if you dig into your country’s past and find another language? Language may be neutral but this is the language of a past occupier. Does this preservation of the past mean it persists in claiming some sense of belonging? Is this language tainted with the rusted metal, the corroded fabric of the past? Or maybe it is preserved in specific places underground, allowed to remain there, perhaps as warning.<br /><br />There are other versions of the past, linked to the pock marks on the mustard-grey walls, that are not plaster smooth with nostalgia but jagged and rough to the touch but you cannot keep your fingers from touching them, like the edge of a wound (but no closer) with dread of their return, like the thud-tramp of marching feet.<br /><br />Cover your ears, then they won’t exist. From the open window in J’s flat I hear the pianist across the way, snatches and phrases of music, repeated, improvised – this music drifts across the heart’s landscape, calms fears, obliterates the memories of marching feet. This music brings melody and the best of the sunlit alleys of the past into this present, mixed with the rustling of linden and sycamore leaves.<br />*<br /><br />Times dip, bob, surface, sink, melt into each other. The emptiness of Wilda’s <i>rynek</i>, the market square. The emptiness of gardens in front of a grand red brick building; yet they are full, full of trees and sunshine, but this ache now is not for the past but for the present, this emptiness and loveliness of trees. </span><p></p><p><span style="color: #0c343d;"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqxArr-VliWsWAsSbZtF1FryOYfDRx-0oC7xUfxDenCusEOXw3BwdVx2gF2UbS0Ke1uZbwCkJOV0X9oYQJ2TE4QleFmMqOgPXHLAUay6Y1hW35PbpX9fZDGZfdlmuXl1Nq8po-zMIYvnOfNCpwDCK2WDJar2_2zBiAFpF41zQYw0x70c3BP4hlqkmH/s3829/409%20best%20of%20dark%20cloud.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3829" data-original-width="2233" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqxArr-VliWsWAsSbZtF1FryOYfDRx-0oC7xUfxDenCusEOXw3BwdVx2gF2UbS0Ke1uZbwCkJOV0X9oYQJ2TE4QleFmMqOgPXHLAUay6Y1hW35PbpX9fZDGZfdlmuXl1Nq8po-zMIYvnOfNCpwDCK2WDJar2_2zBiAFpF41zQYw0x70c3BP4hlqkmH/w374-h640/409%20best%20of%20dark%20cloud.jpg" width="374" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /> </span><p></p><p><span style="color: #0c343d;"><span style="font-size: large;">And for this cloud filling half the sky, deep slate blue and purple, and the premonition of it, advancing like something that will smother you despite the sunshine and despite the deep green trees against the red brick church forming such harmony you would hurl yourself into it forever if you could.<br /><br /></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVkA6sA-y47DTVFnQVuxV6SpxlvZ9_Pbxo64YXYEEYghv05pnJZHP7q_jmESWcl5FC0Li8WZsDD1HqN-icNYKek5_ffL1WKVHIZ0Uj61ysRvnfsgOnNkn8WcH3kif03WhJMUfcAH8naBwa4AIW4ITZ15FWSuNC0wezC1I103YZ2YnO8NT8do7TL219/s4608/404%20building%20with%20gardens.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4608" data-original-width="2272" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVkA6sA-y47DTVFnQVuxV6SpxlvZ9_Pbxo64YXYEEYghv05pnJZHP7q_jmESWcl5FC0Li8WZsDD1HqN-icNYKek5_ffL1WKVHIZ0Uj61ysRvnfsgOnNkn8WcH3kif03WhJMUfcAH8naBwa4AIW4ITZ15FWSuNC0wezC1I103YZ2YnO8NT8do7TL219/w316-h640/404%20building%20with%20gardens.jpg" width="316" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /><br />So we walk towards the city, on through streets leading to the converted brewery, now a shopping centre, and this we find is where all the people are. The people who were absent from the streets, from the buildings being renovated, from the market place, from the green gardens and the graceful red and white building, they are all here, bees to the honeypot, bees to the swarm, for there are few solitary bees, who choose to live outside the hive, some yes, but only a few. This converted building is red and solid, angular brick and streamlined curving metal. We are with people, among people, a sudden breathless surge of people in this red ship waiting to set sail and inside, a circular wooden floor.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2uqwc-IK_l033FwOAmyn2n9xWd6fZ86_o-4RxLsAyehQvdkPVYo0XREFjPqsbwFGOcvBb3tOY-b_hIx9mXGxEo6NXrnhEC61OLMG5DcuDiBcW_48HLO5pIitrwp_1JHLLtqfmuGpc6rMSYrSIWd_RriqjUcqFbZ94NnGwWlhZyPT-WRciprj2nKe-/s4608/417.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2272" data-original-width="4608" height="316" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2uqwc-IK_l033FwOAmyn2n9xWd6fZ86_o-4RxLsAyehQvdkPVYo0XREFjPqsbwFGOcvBb3tOY-b_hIx9mXGxEo6NXrnhEC61OLMG5DcuDiBcW_48HLO5pIitrwp_1JHLLtqfmuGpc6rMSYrSIWd_RriqjUcqFbZ94NnGwWlhZyPT-WRciprj2nKe-/w640-h316/417.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><br />Have you ever seen a shopping centre like this? J asks. No, not even in dreams – this wooden floor, this burnt-red brick. We take the escalator to the top floor which opens out onto a terrace, dotted with cafe tables. <br />And whatever happened to the dark and slate blue cloud? The sky is clear blue, shimmering with light. The present has returned like a long awaited carnival. Absences of past have been stuffed with </span><span style="color: #0c343d;"><span style="font-size: large;">present</span></span><span style="color: #0c343d;"><span style="font-size: large;"> flowers, those crevice fillers – yellow and pink, on their tufts of golden grass. The marigolds of memory, that help the air to fill the lungs, help us to breathe without fear.<br /></span><br /><br /></span><br /><p></p>dritanjehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16025213970107184429noreply@blogger.com0