24 09 07
This morning is cooler and the wind has returned.
I am missing home today.
It is a long journey to here, in lots of ways.
The detachment and seperation is a double edged sword.
Its a good space but I am missing loved ones.
And when I am away the present is not real in a work sense. It takes time for the unfamilarity to permeate.
All the work that is done seems empty, It has no context.
As a traveller I am caught up with the present, maybe when I am back in my studio the work will make sense - as before.
I could drive around the world - from here the sense of going on.
There is an autumnal feel outside brought by the wind. Is there such thing as Sicilian autumn, not in the English sense.
Maybe here marked by the passage of time rather than the enviorement.
Marsala seems less dry than other parts or maybe I have just got used it.
Could I ever get used to it? In a way I’d like to try.
Finished of Salt by Mark Kurlansky. Mozia is one of the oldest salt producing areas.
The windmills are based on a Turkish design brought to Sicilia by the Spanish.
The Tuna fishing was here because the Tuna migrate past Sicily.
- the big bastard - sicilian tonne fishermen who dive down with the fish and herd them through the nets.
I like connections, however oblique. It is a bit like a hobby.
The Island thing which seems to be entirely a geographical yet connections keep cropping up.
Scilly - Venice - Sicily - Mozia
The weather is slowly turning towards rain. Up from Africa. Tunisia is near, four hours on a boat. I like to think of ‘ that other world, other continent is there.
Looking through the map of Europe flicked past the pages of England, their names seem so familiar, like the back of my hand.
Marsala is almost North Africa. You can sense it in the dust and streets. Another country.
Its greyed over but no rain, hasn’t rained for five months here.
Nicola has some pomegranite trees in his garden. large wooden friuts hang, a mix of yellow and red like old english apples. I pick one for Sal.
don’t know whats happening in the world, it will greet me when I reach Santander.
Tommorrow i will take a last look at the saline and do some shopping for home.
Anchovies, Marsala and Olive oil.
Think of somewhere else, north from here
over a hill
over the hill
past the summit
beyond ascent
can’t see the wood for the trees
in the thick of it
Lapland was good
not through trees but above them
for a moment
through a gauze
the wilderness and endless wood
fell land
the wish to find the edge
edge of sun
the edge of season
a long curve through the bright northern night
suspended in an orange gold
at this midnight
and small hours become wide open
like faces
and bright flowers in night
gazed and made awake
arctic.
I am missing home today.
It is a long journey to here, in lots of ways.
The detachment and seperation is a double edged sword.
Its a good space but I am missing loved ones.
And when I am away the present is not real in a work sense. It takes time for the unfamilarity to permeate.
All the work that is done seems empty, It has no context.
As a traveller I am caught up with the present, maybe when I am back in my studio the work will make sense - as before.
I could drive around the world - from here the sense of going on.
There is an autumnal feel outside brought by the wind. Is there such thing as Sicilian autumn, not in the English sense.
Maybe here marked by the passage of time rather than the enviorement.
Marsala seems less dry than other parts or maybe I have just got used it.
Could I ever get used to it? In a way I’d like to try.
Finished of Salt by Mark Kurlansky. Mozia is one of the oldest salt producing areas.
The windmills are based on a Turkish design brought to Sicilia by the Spanish.
The Tuna fishing was here because the Tuna migrate past Sicily.
- the big bastard - sicilian tonne fishermen who dive down with the fish and herd them through the nets.
I like connections, however oblique. It is a bit like a hobby.
The Island thing which seems to be entirely a geographical yet connections keep cropping up.
Scilly - Venice - Sicily - Mozia
The weather is slowly turning towards rain. Up from Africa. Tunisia is near, four hours on a boat. I like to think of ‘ that other world, other continent is there.
Looking through the map of Europe flicked past the pages of England, their names seem so familiar, like the back of my hand.
Marsala is almost North Africa. You can sense it in the dust and streets. Another country.
Its greyed over but no rain, hasn’t rained for five months here.
Nicola has some pomegranite trees in his garden. large wooden friuts hang, a mix of yellow and red like old english apples. I pick one for Sal.
don’t know whats happening in the world, it will greet me when I reach Santander.
Tommorrow i will take a last look at the saline and do some shopping for home.
Anchovies, Marsala and Olive oil.
Think of somewhere else, north from here
over a hill
over the hill
past the summit
beyond ascent
can’t see the wood for the trees
in the thick of it
Lapland was good
not through trees but above them
for a moment
through a gauze
the wilderness and endless wood
fell land
the wish to find the edge
edge of sun
the edge of season
a long curve through the bright northern night
suspended in an orange gold
at this midnight
and small hours become wide open
like faces
and bright flowers in night
gazed and made awake
arctic.
No comments:
Post a Comment