bluntie

another impossible island, almost submerged in tasmania.

lido, market, front seat of top deck of bus, another market, a very very empty turbine hall, circles of people watching other people pretending to be statues, covered in facepaint, cameras, large wheels, bens and bridges, palaces, parks, picnics. And, finally, the calmness of wolfgang tillman’s show at the serpentine gallery. so understated, large photos with smaller ones which were taped to the doors of fire cabinets, no fuss. really beautiful, i wish you could see it too. there is also an architectural pavilion masquerading as a cheap ‘pop-up’ coffee shop / american apparel corporate branding exercise. it is very red, but not much else.

my favourite photograph was this one, called Growth:

how could you possibly invade against the white chalkiness of these cliffs? this is what i think of england, must be from watching too much kiera knightly. the clouds are english, the weather is english, the surrounding pubs are very. shocking white cliffs, then tiny war-time bunkers, still there and rocky in the barren landscape.  must have been cold and damp in there, must have been aching.

The train departs in a sunny interval and slides between the upper levels of terraces and warehouses, their east faces lit up.
Then quickly expanding and wide, the overgrown stinky greenness of hackney’s marshes begins the pattern of outer London: the green, the remnants, the disused railway bridges, the rusted gas holders, the allotments, then warehouses. This is the Lea Valley. Industry melts into ditches of grease, geese, swans, a hundred dusty white vans.
On my left are the backs of  terraces, with their washing on the line and their lace curtains in the windows. To the right are so many trees, the saplings suffocating the old, undergrowth creeping into the canopy, weeds towering over ponds and stinky crevices. And then a power station. This valley will be one of the cradles of the post-apocalyptic world.
And then I am into the gently sloping pastures. If you have an empty heart, a positive side of this is that even small amounts of sunshine, a scrap of blue sky, a brief message, a short story, quick journey, glances, flickers, glimmers… all make it completely weightless.

Is this what it feels like to be Norwegian? So many things to make me smile in a single day:

^The memory of Victoria Plum, my saviour on that harrowing day 18th january 1987, when I was taken landscape painting in the 40degree Clare Valley heat, and when a fatty tiger snake crossed my dusty path.

^From nowhere, a heavy downpour for 5 minutes. Or maybe it was more prolonged but localised in this small patch of nowhere. Don’t be fooled by the sign, Cambridge City Centre is an hour ride away. Imagine me sheltering in the woods, building this quick shelter on Grug’s prototype. The sun came out instantly, just like the moral of this story.

^ Thatch is lovely, so thick and spongy. Again Grug’s hair.

^ And then, amongst all the thatch and winding roads, immediately after the rain and unpleasant wind, there it was: An Australian landscape. By some trick of the crop the land looked parched, and the sky was wide, opening up toward the A14.

And a cacophony of animal. Cows on the cycle path, cats in the lanes, ducklings in the river, bunnies in the golf course, two turtle doves, and a foil sealed baby frog for the journey home, gross. I savour the journey home, as the train goes through Ponders End which is my spiritual home and where I hope one day to settle.

rainbow at the end of the world.

x carol. maybe i can be back here?

couldnt work out what these were for a while… how old? really old?  they are  just on the verge of being part of the natural landsdcape, part of the man-made. is just simple terracing on the slopes not mystical but necessary to keep the soil still and the lavender crop happy.

1. house on barren island, croatia
2. floating forest, lake luzern, switzerland
3. hover-rock, Raleigh Beach, thailand
4. the isle of the dead, adreas bocklin, from meg’s childhood bedroom wall

as evidenced by happy cats and captain woofie.

i don’t want to be a travel blog, but this hvar is beautiful rock plunging into cool turquoise adriatic. if you want to fill any hollowed heart, then float in salty water in sunshine for a bit and the gap in your chest will be replaced by a longing deep in the belly for chips and grilled calamari, for spaghetti, for pizza, milkshakes and beer. that day we ate boiled egg mayonnaise sandwiches while we air-dried our salt-crusted bodies (like a fine pork product) on a mat of pine-needles. the pine scent reminds me of tasmania.
also like tasmania; the grasshoppers who jump from each footstep, magically, and the sound of crickets.
the town is second in my memory to the landscape of the island. i imagine that we all are drawn to the landscape of our childhood, and this is barren and dry, with lavender fields and scorched hills like australia. snakes would like it here.
here are some photos in summery summary, more later about the hills, the old town and its lickable stone steps, and the improbable islands.