Snow trees

In the pink light
the small red sun goes rolling, rolling,
round and round and round at the same height
in perpetual sunset, comprehensive, consoling,

layered

See inside . . .

. . . bom bom

passing by . . .

inside outside inside outside

On the inside, looking outside, inside - how do I traverse the . . . space between. Without inhabiting the outside, always yearning to be contained.

Oh bollocks. Do give it a rest. . .

rainy daze . . .

leaving . . .

It's been a strange two or three days - with a flurry of communications from those absent, enquiring how I am, after silence for days and weeks. Some kind words, some concerns, and some evasions . . . some understanding, some misunderstanding, some not wanting to understand.

A friend commented that she's concentrating being in the "Here and Now" . . . I'm jealous of that - I feel I'm expanding outwards in time and space. Yet, I'd love to feel contained. I'm looking for an edge. Or maybe an anchor point. And, maybe there aren't any, and maybe I don't need any.

It's odd, this opening up to be a part of people's lives; it seems more often than not, it leaves me feeling lonely.

Secret lights

Woof

Having just said that I felt a certain relief that, through Saul Leiter, that it's ok to sit off on the side and take photos unnoticed, I find myself taking more photos of people in tight corners. It's a bit scary; but seems necessary.

Morning light

From the 59 - Orange and Green

I'm not sure . . .

Red pillars

where left is always right,
where the shadows are really the body,
where we stay awake all night,

Passersby

Apparition

If only I weren't so shy, I would have asked if I could photograph her properly...

Red cliche

Each screaming
"Get up! Stop dreaming!"

Conversations

The tumult in the heart
keeps asking questions.
And then it stops and undertakes to answer
in the same tone of voice.
No one could tell the difference.

Uninnocent, these conversations start,
and then engage the senses,
only half-meaning to.
And then there is no choice,
and then there is no sense;

until a name
and all its connotation are the same.

Night station

Home . . .

bexhill blue

Drove down to the sea - to see - an exhibition of photographs at the De la Warr Pavilion in Bexhill - entitled "Myth, Manners and Memories - Photographers of the American South".

William Egglestone, as ever, stood out . . . gorgeous prints . . . so pure, I sigh. And as ever, I was flushed - inspired; and at the same time, I feel despondent, knowing I'll never reach this beauty . . . But damned if I wont keep trying.

From the Southern Suite

Umbrella and hook

At night, on the roof,
blind drops crawl