73 minutes of a painted sky.
This is what I do with my life; make pictures.
I'm not too pleased with the sky so far, but I don't paint as much as draw. I pretty much know that by the time I'm finished I'll probably be more pleased with it. I don't know what I'll put underneath the sky yet. Some dark field leaning toward twilight, surrounded by dark trees - possibly evergreens. There might be the silhouettes of pylons beyond the trees. Maybe old factory machinery - or the shadows of. I think the field will be littered with leaves, despite being surrounded by possible pine trees. I don't know whether there'll be a figure in there or not. Perhaps a vague one, toward the trees. The possibilities occupy my mind.
This is what I do with my life. This is the real work, not answering phones in a call centre.
Could really have spent more than 73 minutes working on it though...
Oh well.
Sunday, 31 March 2013
Songs of Silent Chimneys
The first of the shifted British Summer Time evenings. Nearly 5:00pm and it's as light as the mid-afternoon. We've only put the clocks forward an hour, but it always seem to stretch out the day so much longer. A paradox, as we've lost an hour today. The whole chrono-fusion pleases me - are we earlier - later? Not so much where we are but when we are? The first Sunday always feels timeless, like some memory, some dream, rather than the present moment.
Sat on my sofa in my room. Curtains wide open to the late afternoon. It is still bitterly cold (an earlier walk to the shops to get some gas did not encourage a further constitutional) and though there is no snow, it feels like there should be snow. To balance out this wintry air, there is the sound of a springtime bird singing, some delicate lament against the thuggish squall of the seagulls who themselves are strangely silent.
Waiting for my dinner to cook (baked potatoes and vegeterian sausages), and waiting for the first layer of white paint on a canvas to dry. I'm listening to a long album (one song goes on for half an hour) by a band called Nuclear Torn. Mostly acoustic guitars and pianos, with the occasional burst of violin. Despite the sometime dashes into jarring black metal, the album has the feel of a haunted, timeless landscape... being followed through English fields on days full of white sky and melancholy. Songs for lost days.
I glance back out of the window again, through the spindly branches, looking for wisps of chimney smoke. The chimneys are silent now, and I miss the white wisps, wonder if I imagined them. It is easy to imagine so on quiet Easter Days like this, where there is something both peaceful and deep - lulled to a kind of sleep by a ghost story. Feels like I'me being followed, but I don't really mind.
Sat on my sofa in my room. Curtains wide open to the late afternoon. It is still bitterly cold (an earlier walk to the shops to get some gas did not encourage a further constitutional) and though there is no snow, it feels like there should be snow. To balance out this wintry air, there is the sound of a springtime bird singing, some delicate lament against the thuggish squall of the seagulls who themselves are strangely silent.
Waiting for my dinner to cook (baked potatoes and vegeterian sausages), and waiting for the first layer of white paint on a canvas to dry. I'm listening to a long album (one song goes on for half an hour) by a band called Nuclear Torn. Mostly acoustic guitars and pianos, with the occasional burst of violin. Despite the sometime dashes into jarring black metal, the album has the feel of a haunted, timeless landscape... being followed through English fields on days full of white sky and melancholy. Songs for lost days.
I glance back out of the window again, through the spindly branches, looking for wisps of chimney smoke. The chimneys are silent now, and I miss the white wisps, wonder if I imagined them. It is easy to imagine so on quiet Easter Days like this, where there is something both peaceful and deep - lulled to a kind of sleep by a ghost story. Feels like I'me being followed, but I don't really mind.
Silence of Easter Day
The clocks gone forward. British Summer Time. I went to sleep in the deeps of last night. Pulled those quilts over me and drifted into the coma-dark. I dreamt deeply too, but in the coma-dark, the amnesia-shifts took them away, left me with gaps in sleep and the silence of Easter Day.
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