Author Archives: essiep

I’ve returned, this far

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14°C, light clouds, warm afternoons.

This is: the new me. Or at least I am back, after wandering in the mires; I have returned. I shall not be stifled this time.
My cold is nearly over, my legs have the urging fizzy feeling again, so I rode at race pace to work today despite my lungs not being clear, none-the-less, I am out of the slow country. I draw breath through flared nostrils and the air smells sweet. My heart pounds against my chest in the old way it used to.

Wyeth: much to think over here, the more I try to understand the visual language, the more I am drawn in. I have two problems to solve, one is my own lack of experience with tempera painting. The other is the desire to become more fluent in this visual language. I shall read on.

Revenge Songs

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14°C, crystal clear, sunshine and hard-edged shadows.

Jacob Golden: "Revenge Songs" is presented with a euphonic sound, simple songs with charm and energy in places. Other times the close miked vocals create an intimate contact with the singer which invites repeated listening. There is none of the bitter melancholy of Malcolm Middleton, but this chap is far younger- this is, after all his debut album. there is another which should be worth getting.
The other new purchase worth discussing is the Andrew Wyeth book: "Memory and Magic". His art is a natural step from Hammershøi’s paintings. Some bear very close comparison, if only to suggest further understanding of both. The book is based on a set of excellent quality plates and three main essays by; Christopher Crossman, Kathleen A. Foster and Michael R. Taylor. I confess I have only heard of the last one, and have yet to read any of them- the book only arrived yesterday.

Fledge, little one

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9°C, rain & it’s heavy.

Sketchbook in watercolour: it came out as I expected, but it’s just too close to post here: take my word for it.
Instead, a short line of verse that entered my head in the early hours:

"I start this walk through bramble hedges and wait for the view to soften into cherry blossom"

Goodbye, but not for too long.

Period 5

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Sun & gales, 14°C.

What a muddle: I left my sketchbook at home today, today of all days! What with a period five meeting, I needed that book. In the end I cut some paper in the art department.
The face was from a  meeting, but the hand was drawn in Sch. Assembly this morning.

Murder, rain and rage.

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15°C, rain.

Unsettling: I rode passed a murder scene on the way to work this morning. The Police had closed the road, set up a cordon and a canvas tent stood ominously over a garden. Clearly, something dreadful had happened. Read
Later: I was subject to a road rage assault from a dustbin lorry driver. Had he some upset to recover from that drove him to verbally attack me? My “offence” was trivial, I overtook his lorry climbing to Shire Oak and which put him driving two cars behind me blasting his horn and shouting. He thought I should have stayed behind him. The rest of his thoughts were a jumble of obscenities and fist waving, all incoherently thrown as he stood at a red traffic light.
I remained calm.
Perhaps he was always like that; how unfortunate.

The Intensity

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14°C, started bright, but it’s drizzling now.

Sore muscles

Ride later: but perhaps I need a rest-day. Various muscles ache, need stretching or steadily burn a bit: hamstrings, quads and trapezoids. Another muscle is giving trouble too; the one that beats against the wall causes so much damned trouble.

I’m going away now to s t r e t c h.

Leonard Cohen, "Hey, that’s no way to say goodbye"

 I loved you in the morning
Our kisses deep and warm,
Your head upon the pillow
Like a sleepy golden storm.
Yes, many loved before us
I know that we are not new,
In city and in forest
They smiled like me and you,
But now it’s come to distances
And both of us must try,
Your eyes are soft with sorrow,
Hey, that’s no way to say goodbye.

I’m not looking for another
As I wander in my time,
Walk me to the corner
Our steps will always rhyme,
You know my love goes with you
As your love stays with me,
It’s just the way it changes
Like the shoreline and the sea,
But let’s not talk of love or chains
And things we can’t untie,
Your eyes are soft with sorrow,
Hey, that’s no way to say goodbye.

I loved you in the morning
Our kisses deep and warm,
Your head upon the pillow
Like a sleepy golden storm.
Yes, many loved before us
I know that we are not new,
In city and in forest
They smiled like me and you,
But let’s not talk of love or chains
And things we can’t untie,
Your eyes are soft with sorrow,
Hey, that’s no way to say goodbye.

Is this how it works?
On Youtube, Solimorphus wrote:

when i was a boy i adored this man with a kind of desperate infatuation
which, i guess, stems from loneliness. now that i am a grown man, and
have a family of my own who love me, i feel we are kind of friends who
meet very occasionally but have an intense relationship regardless.
maybe one day when i am old, and there is no love and hope for me in
this world, i will finally understand him.

Beautifully put; there are writers making gracious contributions on YouTube.

Whatever will…

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19°C, Dry, it’s been a beautiful looking day.

How is this all going to work out?
The open threads, they ought to lead somewhere. When we get there we ought to be able to look back along the threads and see the story spread out in front of us, back across time. Even those threads that lead nowhere, or were just not followed up could be visible. We can journey in only one direction, but at least we can look in the other. If we look.

Crass! Life doesn’t have a plot. The only thing I do know, is that I weigh 14st 1lb.

norepinephrine, adrenaline and glucagon

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20°C, clear, warm and still; Cycle 64.8 miles.

Feels like the last day of summer; the air is warm, smells sweet and the sunlight warm. Any passing clouds reminded us that the autumn is only so far away and there is little growth in farmland apart from those rich velvety berries glimpsed within hedgerows.
Feels like I could go for ever on that bike, just like last Sunday, no tiredness, no lapsing into poor cadence, just rolling mile after mile, comfortable, unstoppable.

I’ve got work to do, I’m relishing it because I feel more alive than years have seen.
The fronts of my arms have picked up an unfamiliar scent. It’s not mine, but a startling and welcome surprise.Smile

They heard me calling.

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17°C, calm.

Crane Fly: one flew in through the gap in the curtains this evening while I was painting. He flitted his strange legs against my shoulder then tottered off in another direction, I wasn’t sure that he knew how to work the direction controls.