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    the tiding light / praefatia / work in progress


    a collaboration with Christopher John Thornhill



    in the fluid

                nudities of dream



    The Tiding Light / Aquarius (extract), Christopher John Thornhill, 2019 - 2026


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    the castle



    Those who imagined it to be limitless forget that the possible number of books is limited. I dare insinuate the following solution to this ancient problem: The Library is limitless and periodic. If an eternal voyager were to traverse it in any direction, he would find, after many centuries, that the same volumes are repeated in the same disorder (which, if repeated, would constitute an order: Order itself). My solitude rejoices in this elegant hope.



    The Library of Babel, Jorge Luis Borges, 1941



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    spores




    ...A spore is an instrument of survival across discontinuity. It is produced precisely when conditions become inhospitable — when the parent organism cannot continue — and it is designed to persist through whatever comes next and to germinate when conditions change. It is, in the deepest sense, a message to a future that cannot be predicted: everything you need is here, compressed beyond legibility, waiting.


    The title Spores is therefore more than a metaphor for process. It is a statement about what images are for. These photographs propose that the fragment (the tiny, the overlooked) carries within it the full instruction for a world. That enlargement is not distortion but revelation. That the world we cannot see at normal scale is not a reduced version of the world we can; it is the same world, available from a different position.


    Blake knew this. "To see a World in a Grain of Sand" is not a claim about poetic licence; it is an epistemological proposition — that the grain contains the world's structure, that perception is a matter of threshold and attention rather than scale and size... 



    Spores (extract), M. P. Pearson, 2026

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    the leather pit, hertfordshire



    Somewhere in the hollows and spaces between our carefully-managed wilderness areas and the creeping, flattening effects of global capitalism, there are still places where an overlooked England truly exists; places where ruderal shrub plants familiar here since the last ice sheets retreated have found a way to live with each successive wave of new arrivals; places where the city’s dirty secrets are laid bare and successive human utilities scar the earth or stand cheek by jowl with one another; complicated, unexamined places that thrive on disregard.


    Paul Farley & Michael Symmons Roberts, Edgelands, 2011

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    ravenglass estuary



    ​...riverrun, past Eve and Adam's, from swerve of shore to bend of bay, brings us by a commodius vicus of recirculation back to Howth Castle and Environs.



    James Joyce, Finnegans Wake, 1939





    I am passing out. O bitter ending! I’ll slip away before they’re up. They’ll never see. Nor know. Nor miss me. And it’s old and old it’s sad and old it’s sad and weary I go back to you, my cold father, my cold mad father, my cold mad feary father, till the near sight of the mere size of him, the moyles and moyles of it, moananoaning, makes me seasilt saltsick and I rush, my only, into your arms. I see them rising! Save me from those therrble prongs!


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    James Joyce, Finnegans Wake, 1939


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    “over the bowls of memory where every hollow holds a hallow” 


    James Joyce, Finnegans Wake, 1939

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    each fracture holds its echo




    Each fracture
    holds its echo,
    a map
    of what endured.


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