The sun sets on six months

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The sun sets outside the kitchen window, a yolk of light sinking into the horizon. The days are lengthening and I forget I am hungry. The light follows my pattern of the day, rising in the corner of the high arch window of the Dovecot, gently kissing me awake. I rotate, gradually, caressing the day, as the sun dances over the studio walls. Each sheeet of paper has its moment in the spotlight. The sun lowers its gaze and runs its fingertips across my brow when it’s time to retreat home. We are at last finding our rhythm, here, together.

Wild Geese

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
For a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about your despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting —
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.

 

Mary Oliver

Awake

 

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5:55 – 6:33
sunrise – sunset
Marking the vernal equinox with a daylight sleep performance on the moors.
A silk sheet coated with a UV light sensitive chemical embodies the memory of the day’s light.
Damp feet / sweat / tears shift the pigment to reveal the weight of the body yielding to the earth.

 

*Photography credits to Khosro Adibi

A kind of blue

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From Highgreen to Marrakesh, in search of the same kind of blue. The depth of indigo, that dive-into-the-blueness blue, the blueness of loss, of wonder, of grief, of freedom, of desire, of lament. That bluest of blue.

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Trees need surgeons, and friends.
Spinning Thursdays (yarn not bodies).
Telling the time sheep.
Curious Edinburgh-ites.