December

Scattered thoughts again, akin to the kirby grips that have lost themselves on my floor. My favourite things of this month. The Sylvia Plath poem that described the night sky as carbon paper, the tiny fractures and tears made within the stars. The Francesca Woodman exhibition, her black and white photographs that seemed to capture the same exquisite fragility of those words. Walking along Southbank in the biting cold, seeing the river always settles me. Arcade Fire. Rediscovering a burning love for Haiti, discovering the Suburbs live. Snow. Borough Market and late night Tate visits, getting misty eyed in Analogue whilst browsing endless amounts of zines and beautiful books.

'She was angry with him, turning everything into words. Violets were Juno's eyelids and windflowers were unravished brides. How she hated words, always coming between her and life? They did the ravishing, if anything did; ready-made words and phrases sucking all the life-sap out of living things.'

Lady Chatterley's Lover

It reminds me of something about signs, semiology. How we communicate in reference the visual only through language, something completely removed from the visual. Or something. I probably should have been listening more in my seminars about the particulars of what I'm thinking but there's definitely something in there about how our world is framed. Maybe.

Edinburgh. Standing side by side with Faith as she said to soak it up. We stood at the top of some snow laden steps and looked upon the horizon. No photos, only memory. It seems to have done the job, I can remember the pastels of the sky, the lilacs and blues fading to dusk and the christmas lights rising to prominence against the dull browns of stone building rooftops. Discovering that the colours I am attracted to is the ever changing palette of the sky. Except for maybe anytime that it's a bit red. I'm not on that.