struggling for time and motivation … half-heartedly struggling … half-hopedly. Seeking a grit to build on, a feature of some kind; something salvaged from the landscape of the local but exhibiting possibilities beyond the burden of ‘sense of place’ perhaps. It could have that too, if it so wishes … without a possibility of wishing. Probably. Pffft. Pit. PIT. pit. A tangle of uncertainties. The obligatory pour of agricultural rubbish (pit > dump … Stig?).
It’s a site of digging, of excavation; quicker then, quicker than the slow filling now. Can it sustain a fragment of practice?
With the advent of wood anemones at the pit’s erstwhile entrance it could inspire a quasi-historic descriptive text. But ‘pit’ … an etymological excavation? A small test pit of discovery perhaps amongst the ivy and brambles. Art historically maybe some kinship should be claimed with the subject matter of Crome; the geography is right and the feel of the place could become a “poem vibrating with life.” 1
But not for itself, as something else. A stepping off point, a point of departure but one which remains a point of reference even at the most seemingly pointless of times. A pointless pit. What is this ‘pit’? What can it do? Where will it go?

1. https://en.wikisource.org/wiki/Dictionary_of_National_Biography,1885-1900/Crome,_John(1768-1821)

verso voce


living voice
(silent) reading

slowing slanting
towards an I
that had
once written
of voice           [in       multiple voices]

the living voice’s
– distance decreases
– difference absorbs
the living voice
waits as words brake

the living voice will re-member the once written


sending under

awaiting renewal
the (text) bodies
lie before despatch
They promise nothing
as snow-filled ditches
winter-browned fields
words drift                              [word drifts]
away                                                [word rifts]
from this                                                [words rift]
awkward (st)art


… unending …

As I cursed the conditions on Cam Fell only two weeks ago I now curse conclusion and introduction (I swear loudly at and in their presence). The finish is (cartographically at least) proximate but it holds little current reality. Conditions are once again disorienting and deceptive. I am haunted by the shades to my sides that smother for my attention. The claustrophobia of the elements is uncanny. Awkwardly, and urgently, a pressure impels me forward as the wind did on Cam Fell; but this urging only forces me into wrong turns and faux pas. Briefly righted. Sgraffito word-steps suggest a way onwards; they lull with the knowledge that others have been this way recently and might be cautiously accepted as some form of guide. The steps are erased and Gates offer nothing but reflected light and a swirling influx of darkness. Slowly. The certainty of the one surface is found to be duplicitous, easing me into a world of reflected topography. I re-turn a place I do not know and try again.

The scenarios are deceptively analogous.

Analogy is deceptively scenic.