Little Things


This Heat - Cenotaph

History repeats itself.

In the Shadow of Joy Division

And into the light, New Order.

The way clouds form in Prague.

Reading Bernhard’s Correction with its call of purity through auto-negation (cf. Closer wearily disintegrating into icy beauty).

In fact, any of those brutal writers who make Sylvia Plath look like an amusingly mad aunt.

New Horizons, heading into the cold depths of the Kuiper Belt without blinking.

100000 anaemic imitations pallidly strumming their guitars, staring moodily, writing shopping lists in their head.

Posthumous fan culture, spectral Curtises and Cobains standing on the battlements of teenage rooms.

“Oh Manchester, so much to answer for”.

Werner Herzog etc. etc.

A dense forest and a disused factory in the same image.

Thick frost painting everything with winter.

I too beneath your moon, almighty Sex
Go forth at nightfall crying like a cat,
Leaving the lofty tower I laboured at
For birds to foul and boys and girls to vex
With tittering chalk; and you, and the long necks
Of neighbours sitting where their mothers sat
Are well aware of shadowy this and that
In me, that’s neither noble nor complex.
Such as I am, however, I have brought
To what it is, this tower; it is my own;
Though it was reared To Beauty, it was wrought
From what I had to build with: honest bone
Is there, and anguish; pride; and burning thought;
And lust is there, and nights not spent alone.

- Edna St Vincent Millay

Lake Vyrnwy, Powys, Wales

Lake Vyrnwy, Powys, Wales

Currently watching Southampton v West Ham with the sound turned off and Mika Vainio and Joachim Nordwall’s drone masterpiece Monstrance playing in the background instead. I will be extremely surprised if anyone has ever found a more inappropriate football soundtrack than this.

Soviet War Memorial, Tiergarten, Berlin

Soviet War Memorial, Tiergarten, Berlin

St Mary’s Basilica, Kraków

St Mary’s Basilica, Kraków

Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe, Berlin

Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe, Berlin

Sep 8
Französischer Dom, Berlin

Französischer Dom, Berlin

Sep 5

somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond
any experience,your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot tough because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skillfully,mysteriously)her first rose

or if your wish be to close me,i and
my life will shut very beautifully,suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility:whose texture
compels me with the colour of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands

- e.e. cummings