Things are brewing here, but nothing I want to lay out yet. If we are friends on Twitter or Facebook, or in real life you probably know the plans. But it’s early summer, and the process of fermentation is a slow one that cannot be rushed.
Summer barbecue smoke drifting across The Meadows. Little day trips when the weather holds. And very soon, at the end of the week, a trip back to America for a family wedding. It’s been four years since D and I left. All these things to be done, and quietly, this great exciting thing that will follow, at the thick end of the season.
Forgive me for taking up this space with dreaminess and vague words. But I hope these images will be enough to charm a little.
For now, this waiting, exploring, hoping with purpose and work that’s too young to share. See you again with photos and snippets of America, sometime in the next few weeks.
D and I are leaving Edinburgh, for Glasgow.
That means new neighbourhoods to explore. But for now – the old city, on a soft summer night:
(flowers with and without the low-light setting)
Train tracks leading outwards. Tomorrow is flathunting. For now, there’s sleep.
This was a few days ago, but it is also May
A smudge in a grey dressing gown. I’ve been writing, too much. If that is possible. Fourteen flash in the last two weeks. More in a collection I’m building. But I’m beginning to feel the cracks. In among the cracks, the heads of cherry blossoms, folded neat as sentences.
I’ve finished the book that took a month and a bit to read, and expect to review it shortly. When I am not a smudge sick with creativity. When I’m not pink candyfloss puffball seen torn through mist, adding up to – something. I pick up a book – Jamaica Kincaid’s Lucy, and hope I can devote to it what it deserves, and that it will repay me with severe and stinging balm.
More news here when it is to be shared.
Damp and bright day. Reading flash. Drinking tea. Bouts of comfort and dis-. Writing, small pieces. Listening here. and here. Moored to the room, moored to the moment.
Rain at dusk, and rain later, and rain likely all through the night in the city. So, a poem for it, rural:
Some feel rain. Some feel the beetle startle
in its ghost-part when the bark
slips. Some feel musk. Asleep against
each other in the whiskey dark, scarcely there.
When it falls apart, some feel the moondark air
drop its motes to the patch-thick slopes of
snow. Tiny blinkings of ice from the oak,
a boot-beat that comes and goes, the line of prayer
you can follow from the dusking wind to the snowy owl
I don’t know that these photos are any good; I was trying to capture a sun-shower that started up as I walked home yesterday, through Edinburgh’s financial district. It is raining in that top picture too, though it might be hard to tell. There’s always something magical when it rains while the sky is so bright. That gap in the bottom picture, beyond the cars, is where a plot of land stands empty and unsold. It’s all weeds and piles of earth that, if not one lays down concrete, will soon be covered in new grass, thistles, those waving purple-blossomed trees that butterflies are said to love.
I hope that if developers do take it over, they make it a park. To keep the opening, open, for just such times as these.