September 19th

white dove and old stone

above the city chatter

somewhere south the sea

(took this pic in Montpellier’s old town, it might actually be a pigeon, but hey ho)

August 1st

 

the claw foot flexes

scoring stone as the flames lick

on Mithras’ altar

This photo is from the Altar of Mithras at the recently restored Wrest Park where we went today. We joined English Heritage, so we can go in free for a year. Seeing as it’s round the corner we’ll be regulars. It’s only around three miles from our house. An enormous country house with beautiful gardens, dotted with outbuildings, classically influenced sculpture and smile inducing follies. You can get lost in the grounds, but the Altar is marked on the map and it seemed alluring, so we found it, deep in the woodlands, an imposing stone block. I should have got a pic of the whole thing, it had a brazier on top (rather, I assume it did but it was around 10 feet up so couldn’t see) with Greek and Persian inscriptions. But the four claw foot stands appealed to me the most.

Who was Mithras? He was worshipped around the time Christianity was picking up. There seem to be many parallels and similarities between Mithras and Jesus, they were contemporary developing religions. Also, Mithraism was a secretive religion, which would, I believe, appeal to the gentry already soaked with classical teaching. Mystery stokes interest. I can imagine this altar was built in the woods as a kind of naughty folly, fires probably burned on it and I can imagine tongue in cheek summer parties lasting well into the night with everyone in Roman fancy dress. “Roman Priests” would conduct rites and the wine would flow. Do I have any evidence for this? Of course not, but if I built a great big altar in honour of a mysterious deity, I would certainly use it for fun historical reconstructions!

June 8th

flatland fringes end

reassured by cold stone weight

the ninth wave crashes

The Ninth Wave is lifted from Alfred, Lord Tennyson’s Idylls of the King*. I used to love Tennyson when I was younger. Sod knows why a north London working class lad was so much into the Arthurian romances, but I read about them voraciously. I also read Le Morte D’Arthur by Sir Thomas Malory. The modern English translation was, from memory, still very challenging for someone of my competence (and no doubt it would also be today). I then got into the art of the Pre-Raphaelites, the tragic realism of their depictions of myth, history and romance. And the gorgeous laydeez they painted of course. (I think that was the appropriate ‘street’ spelling of ‘ladies’ there).

Below is the Lady of Shallot by John William Waterhouse (1888), another Arthurian subject of Tennyson, although like most things Arthurian, the poem’s story was cobbled together from a number of sources/legends/historical facts, who knows who the true Arthur was, let alone what he and his peers got up to.

(pic from wikipedia)

Despite my above average academic abilities, I got cut from taking English Literature at school. This was from a time when you just stoically accepted that teachers knew best. What it meant was I was shut out from some wonderful books, which although I might not necessarily have appreciated at the time, would have given me a different outlook and set me up in some small way for the future. It’s a small moan, I admit, but it’s not borne of a deep seated rage, more of an observation. People must still take responsibilities for themselves so I have no gripe or simmering regret to this incident. I think I’ve turned out alright! But who knows, I might have been given an honorary doctorate for some reason or other (much like Mike Tyson) had I taken English Literature at school.

But.. Back to Arthurian Romances. Why? I think they played into the moral values I loved. People who wanted to do good, but were in some way flawed (Lancelot). People who wanted to do good, often did, but were flawed and let down by those they loved (Arthur). People who could achieve great things from humble origins (Percival).

They are archetypes. Whether they appear in comic books, Arthurian romance or mythology, they pull levers deep set in our psyche somewhere. Or at least in mine! Especially comic books!

So here I was, standing on Aldeburgh beach at dusk, holding a beautiful two tone pebble. Listening to the sea, thinking how wonderful the moment was. How it couldn’t last. How in a few years, the very spot I was standing on might well be under those waves as East Anglia is always at risk of the sea reclaiming it. But we live for moments like that, most of life is a flatline, with small peaks of wonder and light. This was one of those moments.

Extract from Idylls of the King, The Coming of Arthur

It seemed in heaven, a ship, the shape thereof
A dragon winged, and all from stern to stern
Bright with a shining people on the decks,
And gone as soon as seen. And then the two
Dropt to the cove, and watched the great sea fall,
Wave after wave, each mightier than the last,
Till last, a ninth one, gathering half the deep
And full of voices, slowly rose and plunged
Roaring, and all the wave was in a flame:
And down the wave and in the flame was borne
A naked babe, and rode to Merlin's feet,
Who stoopt and caught the babe, and cried "The King!

My pebble and the ninth wave -

* – Kate Bush, someone who is significantly more famous and talented than me, also used The Ninth Wave as a concept for her Hounds of Love album. And what an album it is too. Side one is the commercial side, magnificent, a pinnacle of her talents, but side two is just immense, so out there, beguiling, mysterious, almost frightening. Just thought I’d mention that.

February 13th

Boulder dragged uphill,

Granite legs thump, relentless,

Misery drizzle.

 

I hate running when I’m unfit and out of shape, but you’ve got to start somewhere after being inactive for so long. At least I could listen to the new Mark Lanegan album whilst I did it.