Thursday, 2 September 2021

Blood Harvest

was a title from the first sf 12", I think I was thinking of the Aztec God, Xipe Totec, Our Lord the Flayed One, who wore the skin/flesh of his sacrifices, who were flayed then harried through the corn fields so their blood would adorn and bless the crops. These days a simpler fruitifying sates our humble needs, sweet berries in profusion on the margins of the horses fields, and noise-brambles and trinkets have accrued, all which will be laid out at our humble digital market-store tomorrow 3/9. As ever, we are thankful for your kind indulgence....
















Monday, 16 August 2021

Rainbows End...

I have been a little underwhelmed by rainbows lately, On our daily trek down the valley to horses they have been common and fleeting, partial and weak, and mainly served as a reminder of how as a symbol, they have been stolen by the weak and needy as an anodyne happiness emoji. Last nights example started out that way, and then grew in strength and intensity, til it seemed to shimmer and reverberate, I was suddenly struck by how the arch, the grounded arch, the bridge to valhalla, affects me like a 'power-chord' (and again the power-chord is often a risible parody of 'when chords had power') but it happened, in the shimmer was a tingle, a contact high with higher power that contained as much vertigo and fear as pleasure, and in that moment, Beauty, the beautiful Cob, put her head close to mine and I saw the bow arched over her magnificent mythical horsehead, the nearest end of the arc falling between the greensward down by the river, almost as an incandescent physical object piercing the canopy to join the river worth, and Beauty was just letting me know she saw and felt it, and this we share; the Valley, the elements: a rainbow on fire extinguished in the waters that gush down from Gondal. That emily B saw and knew these horse archetypes, Beautys strength (Thor, Freya), Dominos unruliness (Loki) and saw them daily. 








Monday, 2 August 2021

Sweet habit of the blood


Daisy & Angel (& Beauty) 

"A human life, I think, should be well rooted in some spot of a native land, where it may get the love of tender kinship for the face of earth, for the labours men go forth to, for the sounds and accents that haunt it, for whatever will give that early home a familiar unmistakable difference amid the future widening of knowledge: a spot where the definiteness of early memories may be in-wrought with affection, and kindly acquaintance with all neighbours, even to the dogs and donkeys, may spread not by sentimental effort and reflection, but as a sweet habit of the blood. At five years old, mortals are not prepared to be citizens of the world, to be stimulated by abstract nouns, to soar above preference into impartiality; and that prejudice in favour of milk with which we blindly begin, is a type of the way body and soul must get nourished at least for a time. The best introduction to astronomy is to think of the nightly heavens as a little lot of stars belonging to one’s own homestead." George Eliot (
Daniel Deronda)

I was struck by this, as more than ever, this summer, it is those neighbors; the feral cats and goats of cackleshaws, the deer and cobs in the next field, the animal frens who nourish our souls, and we do what we can to help them thrive. Beauty asked us for help, two legs had old infected wounds along with muddy conditions had left her fetlocks stinking and covered with lumps of granulated flesh (a condition we eventually learned was common in the injured warhorses of the first world war). We'd previously been wary of Beauty and, especially her psycho-eyed daughter; Daisy. Daisy was also in foal and due any day. Of course the bad reputation was more based on them not liking screaming kids in their field, defending their patch had become habitual. Their owner had too much other adversity going on, and so we begain washing and treating Beautys legs every evening after feeding our ponehs. Beauty has been so patient, so gentle and easy to help. And after a week Angel, Daisy's foal was born. Perfect miniature awesome equine beauty, and because we visit and help, Daisy is entirely at ease with us around her baby, and we get to watch in awe, as this virgin consciousness totters and runs and spreads the butterfly wings of her foal-mind. It is a Compact, a Bargain, not all are Familiars (linked through blood and family) but all are part of the web, the chain that links us with these dragon-lands.






Friday, 23 July 2021

The Illustrious Forger of Dreams

 is the title of the Max Ernst painting below, and also my adopted solo busking alias
recently a cousin of the bat spirit in the picture has taken up residence in a tiny forest
ruled over by a unicorn statuette and featuring thread cross, spanish moss and a 
porcelain grave flower from the Cimitiere du nord. 









inhaling an old boys dreams

Friday, 2 July 2021

Liberation of the well tuned honeysuckle mind...

I am free....


















New hymn to freedom, and assorted objets d'art
over at skullflower.bandcamp.com