A jackdaw is pecking at buggy nibbles beneath the slim outstretched arm of an oak tree whose trunk is obscured by dark holly.
The forecast is for the hottest day of the year so far. I’m battening down the hatches. Or the Summer equivalent.
This room Safe Without walls
A splurge on the back page Or the back of a dismissive hand
Personal narratives are something we all construct, even if we choose not to share them. We invent them. Weave them. Like making up reasons for what we did after it’s already happened; as if there were some considered rationale or deliberate reasoning before it was done. Which there probably wasn’t. But we can be very […]
It’s approaching three months since I last wrote anything in my gardening journal. Since I last wrote anything at all. The urge or inclination to write is cyclic, like the whorling seasons. And as frustratingly sporadic and reliably unpredictable as bursts of unseasonable weather. The process of writing demands a greater input of concentrated energy […]
• Tri die cup: “Perfect Attention span vessel,” roll Writers, readers, gnats.