Pandemic Pondering #255

A funny thing happened overnight on Thursday.

©Karen Mills

The picture above was taken at sunset. My Thursday evening started well, witnessing these amazing skies, but then took a more arduous turn when I joined in with a Zoom AGM. The meeting took serpiginous routes through regular business and decision making and lasted three hours. Not many important decisions were made and, as can happen at these things, some folk got on some high horses and rode the poor things into the ground. Thankfully I am not a chairman , I fear my finger may have inadvertantly grazed the mute button on more than one occasion.

Safe to say three hours prepped me very well for sleep. Not the restful sort though. I woke myself up reciting a poem, almost word perfect, that I had no idea was still stored in my brain.

Who could guess why such a volatile poem hijacked my sleep . Maybe that dramatic sky or maybe an AGM where raging and raving were bobbing just under the surface.

Do not go gentle into the night.

By Dylan Thomas

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Old age should burn and rave at close of day;

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,

Because their words had forked no lightning theyDo not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright

Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight

And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight

Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,

Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

After all that nocturnal culture it was good to wake up to a calm morning.

©Clare Law

Pandemic Pondering #204

These were harvested from a friend’s garden yesterday. The vibrancy of my harvestings is a reflection of the wonderful weather we’ve had in Cornwall throughout the Pandemic, that, and the green fingers of my friends Ed and Mel who are currently in Turkey, Lotus eating.

Lotus Eating fascinated me as a child, there was a TV programme, broadcast in 1972 , the story evolved around expats living on Crete. I was too young to take in the nuances of the plot, but watching the programme from a small Essex market town, I was enchanted and the glamour of Crete wormed its way into my head and has never left me.

https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Lotus_Eaters_(TV_series)

The link above takes you to the Wikipedia page of the TV Series.

Lotus Eating has been a life long escape for me. For a long while the bookish Essex Girl that I was and am only did it with imagination. Then foreign travel became easier, and my diligent reading of books gave me a career that could facilitate actual Lotus eating. Just as my childish imagination had shaped it permanently in my head. Lotus Eating in this Essex woman’s head requires travel to anywhere in Greece or Turkey, hopefully not too touristy . Sunshine and swimming are the two essentials that the location needs to provide, I will bring a mountain of books and painting materials.

The reality of becoming my own version of a Lotus Eater has shaped me. I spend way more time imagining myself as a Lotus Eater, particularly in the brutally wet Cornish winters than I ever do actually basking in Mediterranean sunshine.

Our interior design and storage is influenced.

The whole extended family yearns to be owners of goats.

My love of rust and palimpsest probably started with that TV programme. Both are more vivid in sunshine and better preserved in a Mediterranean climate.

Lotus Eating is not, of course, expats living a hedonistic lifestyle or me reading in the sun. In fact it was only ever a myth. See link below to a poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson.

https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Lotos-Eaters

But the fantasy and holidays in the sun make it real, often enough, for it to be as tangible as reality, and for everything else there is memories.

Pandemic Pondering #136

August 2nd. Prompt word for Drawn to the Valley is Seascape. I loaded up a series of random images that represent seascapes in my image file.

None of them are aspirational. Some, like the one above, are fictional. Some are painted. Humdrum would be the word. Seascapes captured in daily life, none involving exotic locations. All within an hour of home or work. All give me the space to think.

An explanation of August Pandemic Ponderings.

Drake’s Island, Plymouth Sound.

This stretch of water is known as Firestone Bay. In this picture, it is masquerading as a Mediterranean Port. As an artist it eludes me. There are more versions of this on my painter/artist ‘Wall of Shame’ than any other single subject.

The next three are my drone-9 fantasy seascapes. In truth they are the drivers-eye view in a car wash.

The Mewstone,Wembury, a cup of tea.

One of the best places I know to contemplate my life. Many of life’s treasures and tribulations get thinking time here.

A recent painting. Still unsold.

Portwrinkle Beach, Cornwall. I have a friend who creates the most beautiful textile art inspired by this beach. Her amazing talent at harvesting the beauty of this little known beach is inspirational.
https://www.rippengale.com/

The next picture is one that illustrates another friends wisdom. He is a wise and talented photographer. I asked him once which was the camera he would recommend?.

“The one in your hand when the perfect shot appears”

Hannah caught this with her phone, at Widemouth Bay.

Finally another painting. Dungeness.


Seascapes just another excuse to ponder…

What becomes of a careless Seagull? Not exactly Mardi Gras.

Obviously theoldmortuary has some history with the deceased. Today is Mardi Gras in many countries and I was trawling my photo files for masks as you do, and these popped up. I can think of no time when it would be appropriate to share these images of forgotten Seagulls extracted from our chimney, but they do have a feel of Mardi Gras. So today they are getting their moment in the spotlight.

I posed them on decaying flowers and in bright shafts of sunlight to enhance the feel.