Author Archives: rthepotter

Saving up blue

Standard

And opal.  I strayed briefly onto best beach as the short afternoon completed itself.

Advertisements

With the aid of a twenty-seven-day moon

Standard

and the last hour of a falling tide, it was possible to walk further along than I have been before.  (Click a thumbnail for the gallery.)

Bussed

Standard

It’s a time indeed since being on a bus.  This one ground and clanked its way through the villages, past the sea, up the Shute, down the chalk, wound beneath the hills, and at last to town.  I shopped:  bought only some minute wooden butterflies.  After business, there was welcome tea of reprieve.  I’ve been reprieved in this place before.  And the social event of the day.

Then the bus:  out of town through the clogged traffic (glad to see the driver knew his bus width to the inch), below the hills where sheep did picturesque things on the skyline, up the chalk, down the Shute, past the sea, now glowing like tarnished silver in the twilight (a radiance perhaps exaggerated in my eyes), and through the villages.

More tea.

When I look, it’s cloudy

Standard

Probably the stars have been there all along, but time has lapsed since we visited.  At sunset I waited impatiently in the porch, out of the wind, until they began to pop in the deepening blue.  I watched the Summer Triangle down into the west as if for the last time.  Orion was rising in the east, holding open the sky to let the cold air in.

I would not want Jung to be my psychopomp

Standard

on the way through the pale trees, although I am naturally gratified to use a recently-acquired word.

The mind of this strange man is worth a visit, however, and demonstrates the truism that images and narratives are diminished by their exegesis; even Jung could only make his stories smaller when he enlarged upon them.

Not in it

Standard

Here’s a photograph.

Not in it:  the sparkliness; lively air; cormorant fishing well out (and I forgot the binoculars again); chattering of flints in surf; an orderliness making long long long curves of wave; steam engine noises of solid water hitting concrete; a cool sun.

There were manes being pulled off the white horses by the contradictory breeze.  Nearly caught.

Things to do when you can’t sleep: lxx

Standard

lxx  :  Have an argument

No, not the kind taking place in Room 12A.  In the darkness before today’s sodden dawn the pen scrawled reluctantly across sheet after sheet of file paper (can’t produce a good argument using a word processor, however ten-fingered I may be).

Looking at the result is like looking at holiday packing: gloom at the shabby aspect of one’s possessions, grave doubts that the right things have been selected, wondering what is the essential item you have certainly forgotten, and a growing conviction that this monstrous heap will never all go in.

Difficult to get on

Standard

… with anything much, when there is water dripping through the ceiling, and the plumber clonking about detectively.

With November imminent, it was appropriate to groan and say, Here we go again, and cut out paper.  Every year the most tiresome part is trying to squeeze uniqueness into a hundred squares, each no more than an inch and a half on a side, when there is barely room to turn the scissors (the large squares are much easier).   So I applied the worst-first rule.

Seventy-five minuscule squares later, and with a shiny new ballcock in situ, that seems to have been a sound decision.

Looking for something in C

Standard

The storm has not stripped out the sand, though I think the landslides have been on the move again.  Today was benign but perhaps not quite paddleable – at least, we did not paddle.

Later, what is possibly the cutest instrument in the western world made a reappearance:

the curved soprano sax.  This one has been having a little rest in its case for most of the last eighteen years, but there was its voice again, parping occasionally from lack of practice, contending with the piano and giggles.  While listening, I compounded apple cake in the kitchen, and (enjoying the ironies) thought, Thank God we are a musical nation.

A matter of routine

Standard

… obviously, as I no longer pause for photographs.  Still, being on the inside of a large damp cloud all day may have had something to do with it; not even the cathedral could manage to be photogenic in the gloom.

It is a great treat to be on the loose in a real library again, though I must say some of these are rather forbidding tomes.  The one I fancied most was entitled Dissenting readers.  Then I looked again and found it was really called Discerning readers, which put me right off.  Very Freudian misreading.  There was also a fat anthology of literature just called DEATH, which looked inviting, but I didn’t have enough borrowing allowance by the time I’d selected the others.  Another time perhaps.

In a way this is the one I’m most looking forward to:

It’s years since I had a Homeric binge, and I’ve heard good things of this translation.  And it doesn’t come with a time limit (apart from good nature on the part of the lending library).