A week-long fantasy

For this soul needs to be honoured with a new dress woven
From green and blue things and arguments that cannot be proven.

Why do you look for co-incidences? In John Gray's fascinating book (of which more later) there's this line-by H.G. Wells, I think- which goes something like: we cannot know future patterns.

And yet we surround ourselves with frames, have an eye for geometry that matches the keen vision of the nomad, are tied down by an obsession for precision: how was it, exactly? And repetition, as the memory of you fades: how was it again?

In a discussion with T about one of your favourite paintings-and a brief mention of his other one: Icarus. Desire goes unnoticed. How the world carries on; how the seas rage on without us knowing or caring.

Within these phantasmal boundaries each lord's hall is a place of refuge. Within: warmth and light; human solidarity and culture;rank and ceremony. A solidification of time.

Outside: unredeemed time.

~~~

At the medieval-like market you bought beetroot, delicious with its oak, earthy, woody covering. You cut and washed the lot, each piece gleaming like a new-born baby or a piece of glistening coal brought out from the depths. Also bought some 'black carrots'. Must take a photo of them and the market next time, next week...the market, full of tractors, donkeys, straw, mud, and shit, as if time had passed it by. Also bought a large earthenware jar in which to keep the drink. Very Roman. A few indecipherable hieroglyphs, like black crows circling around a cool well.

The black carrots, peeled and diced (by the end I began to feel a bit sorry for them..is there something as a vegetable soul?) But for the most part it was great fun preparing this fermented drink (mustard seeds, red chillies, and black salt as well). Handling them left ink-marks on my fingers . Not indelible-very little is-but still under my fingernails as I write this. Hands that would know...

Takes a week to mature. Until then, just dream on. The outer skin of the carrots piled up, like the bark of a black tree, or charcoal; the fleshy carrots put to one side, slowly secreted a light blue liquid that gradually became gray-blue, then purple. And I couldn't but help think of Bonington, and his wonderful water colours at the Wallace Collection. Twenty six! Jesus!
~~~

And then the art of (un)dressing.

Let's not go there.

But how things come together, and then fall away in their own separate way. Of this I cannot write.