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    landslips / north yorkshire


    a series of images made in the light after 98 hours in the dark.
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    Perhaps in the world's destruction it would be possible at last to see how it was made.

    Oceans, mountains. The ponderous counterspectacle of things ceasing to be.

    The sweeping waste, hydroptic and coldly secular.

    The silence.

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    Cormac McCarthy, The Road, 2006



    Picture



    Look around you. Ever is a long time. 

    But the boy knew what he knew.

    That ever is no time at all.


    Cormac McCarthy, The Road, 2006


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  • Published on

    interlude / rosa

    Picture



    Love is the bone and sinew of my curse.


    Sylvia Plath, The Colossus and Other Poems, 1960



  • Published on

    rifts & erasures / dartmoor


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    Erasure is never merely a matter of making things disappear: there is always some detritus strewn about in the aftermath, some bruising to the surface from which word or image has been removed, some reminder of the violence done to make the world look new again. Whether rubbed away, crossed out or reinscribed, the rejected entity has a habit of returning, ghostlike: if only in the marks that usurp its place and attest to its passing.


    Brian Dillon, The Revelation of Erasure, Tate Etc. Issue 8, 2006




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    What the eyes had seen could not be erased. 


    ​Frank Herbert, Dune Messiah, 1987

  • Published on

    caput mortuum / hertfordshire

    Picture



    When sunset, like a crimson throat to hell, is cavernous…


    ​George Sterling, A Wine of Wizardry, 1908

  • Published on

    caput mortuum I / black grounds / foulness




    Everywhere I looked were pivot-points and fulcrums, symmetries and proliferations: the thorax points of a winged world. Sand mimicked water, water mimicked sand, and the air duplicated the textures of both. Hinged cuckoo-calls; razor shells and cockle shells; our own reflections; a profusion of suns; the glide of transparent over solid. When I think back to the outer miles of that walk, I now recall a strong disorder of perception that caused illusions of the spirit as well as of the eye. I recall thought becoming sensational; the substance of landscape so influencing the mind that mind’s own substance was altered.


    Robert Macfarlane, The Old Ways (Silt), 2012

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    There are no beautiful surfaces without a terrible depth.


    Friedrich Nietzsche, Notebooks, 1869-70

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    Picture
    The Broomway, the most perilous path in England
  • Published on

    witherings IV / cynara cardunculus


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    According to Greek myth, the artichoke owes its existence to the philandering Zeus who, on a visit to his brother Poseidon, spotted a gorgeous girl, Cynara, bathing on the beach. He fell instantly in love, seduced her, made her a goddess, and took her back with him to Mount Olympus. Cynara, however, lonesome and missing her mother, soon took to sneaking home to visit her family. This duplicitous act so infuriated Zeus that he tossed Cynara from Olympus and turned her into an artichoke. The modern scientific name for artichoke, Cynara Cardunculus, refers.

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    Looking back on months and years of intimacy, to feel that your friend, while you still remember the moving words you exchanged, is yet growing distant and living in a world apart —all this is sadder far than partings brought by death.



    Yoshida Kenko, Essays in Idleness: The Tsurezuregusa of Kenko, 1330 - 1332