Christopher's Online Journal

Maybe the purpose of this journal blog in my life should simply be to remind me how quickly time passes, especially with the last week's good weather. How we drove in both directions along the East coast roads, unsuccessfully looking for the Watts for Tea cafe, where we remembered their selection of delectable cakes. Also how such a long, long queue, had formed at the ice cream parlour, such that we didn't join it then, but we did call twice, later in the week. And a shout out to those nice people from the Environmental Agency, who have put steps up to the top of the hills and dunes at Rimac. Nice one. This was the week of the European Super League. A failed attempt to nudge the status quo, which was widely rounded on as opportunism. They will be back. To close? Well, the Brackenborough Arms allowed us to reserve a table in the sun, there to serve their finest Carlsberg lager, and beer-battered fish and chips, with mushy peas of course. Good on you. The poem is:  Triggered Rep

In my current reading on Edvard Munch by Karl Ove Knausgard, I am introduced to the artist Peter Doig, who when I look him up at MoMA I find he is compared to Edward Hopper. That Doig was introduced to Knausgard by the photographer Stephen Gill continues this circularity of the art world. But how does one join the joyride, or is it the sad-ride, bearing in mind the subject matter of the artists so far mentioned. Lapeyrouse Wall is one Doig work that I think Knausgard has in mind, unfortunately, I can't find an image to show you, so I will have to give you a link , but please do come back, after you have found out what a wealthy man the painter must have become. Separately to following the art trail, I was considering, as a project, the visiting of all of the monasteries of the United Kingdom, or at least all that, like my favoured Buckfast Abbey below, do actually offer accommodation. I found a website that seemed to offer a neat solution, Monastery Stays website promised no conf

I was (I am) looking for a new project, perhaps for the next five years or so. I thought of building a house, in the style of Frank Lloyd Wright, sadly there is insufficient Falling Water in these parts. I turned to the idea of building cairns, a la Chris Drury, this appears to be a much more achievable project. I particularly cared for his Seven Sisters Cairns in Sussex, unfortunately there is no image on the internet, so instead I show you his Medicine Wheel , from Leeds City Art Gallery. I thought I saw it in York, in the late 1980s but perhaps my memory is playing tricks. The medicine wheel was a year-long project I believe, collecting one object every day of the year, and assembling them onto the circular frame, of wood and paper. Maybe my five-year project could be to make five of these, but in a triangle type form to become the five sides of a pentagonal pyramid.  Like any pyramid, it is self-dual. The regular pentagonal pyramid has a base that is a regular pentagon and latera

It's just not working is it, it's almost a week since the last post, what sort of journal is that. Yes I know last week was Easter, and we did take a week out from writing groups, but that doesn't include the journal, or does it. Today was the hygenist at the dentist, the last visit being three months ago, so no fear of repetition in these words is there. I came back via the country lanes, which gave me a chance to remember a photography trip near Aby. I spotted a trainer, hanging from a tree, near a railway bridge. This seemed a bit odd in this rural outpost, but, as I was returning from Skegness I thought it might be holidaymakers whose party had veered off track. Sadness in this morning's reading of WS Graham's letters. Within a week, two of his closest friends had passed away, well before their time. He writes this late in the night, almost in the morning, with the drink well and truly careering within him. Just as I find the folder with the photo (2007 would yo

The days pass so quickly, can you believe it is  already  three days since we communicated. And in that time lots of things have happened, in just the same way that no things have occurred. The new words are coming on apiece, largely thanks to reading Georges Perec who talks of his bedroom being like a Proustian madeleine , while Roland Barthes gives me Sadean erotics , though to be honest, erotics was pretty close to my existing knowing. The new fence and the new flagstones are also being installed at quite a rate of knots. It sure is good to see competent tradesmen at work, sometimes we do drop lucky, and this definitely is one of those occasions. Next, it might be the sauna and the hot tub (in my dreams). These being alternatives to renewing my membership at Kenwick Spa who seem not too interested in responding to my emails. A bit of an effort will be put into getting this journal into a more regular rhythm but without resorting to too much poetry, though here is an extract of one f

This is not a promise, no. Neither. is it any sort of commitment. But it is another journal entry, one day after the last one, even if the layout, or the house style, has been changed. I was forever having to reset the typeface with the last one; hopefully, this is a little better formatted, software-wise that is. That is now, what I see is what I get, not what I see becomes the basis for something other. The poetry is still being written, even after the positive criticism, which in itself sounds a bit like an anachronism, if that's anywhere close to being the right word, or of the right time. Image courtesy of Julian Hochgesang on Unsplash when searching for Anselm Kiefer Anselm Kiefer is absorbing me a bit at the moment, I have been looking at his, mainly lead-based, exhibition at the White Cube gallery. Without doubt he is an inspiration, if somewhat prolific. Talking of inspirations I have been listening to my playlist Cotton , based on Sam Baker's song of that name. Right

Easter Sunday it is. Bright sunshine on the garden, and through the East-facing windows. The Audacious Red ink has arrived, complete with Lamy fountain pen. All that is needed now, is a return of the inspiration which caused the purchase in the first place. That is unlikely, let's be realistic, if we don't catch hold of the muse in the moment we don't catch hold of her at all. Note to self, always, always write things down, don't wait for the prestigious instruments to assist you. Image courtesy of Nelly Antoniadou on Unsplash The football was a return to the sad old ways, where mistakes were made, almost without effort, focussed as it were on the confusion brought on by the many-faced spectre of relegation. Yet there is a light, for I remember the day of the play-off final, which got us back into this championship place the last time we were relegated. Bring it on I say. Let us regroup and rebuild, let us get back to winning ways. Does that, in any way, sound familiar