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A summer's day of parasitic protagonism in Bitsy. bitsy.org

If the Queen was ever spoilt, or rude, or deathly cold or inappropriately horny, either those who remember are now dead or those faults have been rubbed out by the sheer friction of her legend; a legend that we need to keep whole, if this century was to have meant anything at

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I'm not sure Charles will have the opportunity to become mythological himself, even for children born in coming years. Not in the same way - with such deference that illustrators only depict him from the waist down, or shadowed beneath the brim of a wide hat.

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Our son was born the year before Queen Elizabeth II died, but to him she is still 'The Queen'.

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The rain falling Scotchly, Scotchly And the hills that did not soar up but in Ian Hamilton Finlay

a glitched satellite image of a british coastline, showing clouds and sea in geometric, squared blocks with different apparent climates

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On New Years Day I long to meet my parents as they were before my birth. The grassy lawn: amid the shimmering heat waves a dog's dream.

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Game Boys and gloaming: Ripon Tor, Pil Tor, Top Tor, Ruddycleave Brook, Buckland Beacon, 2nd November 2025

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The calf was born unacceptable (a long neck like a swan's, testicle-eyed) and so it went into the lake alive. The thing was so young that it hadn't ever known gravity. We didn't recognise it either: it was 1562.

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Where Does the Night Start? - Dark Mountain

Dark Mountain have published an improved version of my essay Where Does The Night Start? - the improvement mostly due to Nick Hunt's thorough editing. You're right, Nick: washing the gravel path in the sink was a bit much. dark-mountain.net/where-does-the-ni…

dark-mountain.net

Robert Sherman writes about the legal arguments surrounding the right to wild camp on Dartmoor, England, and a victory for the dreamers

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John 'Kyffin' Williams, Y Garn and Foel Goch, 1950

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St. Fagan's National Museum of Welsh History, 2018 museum.wales/stfagans

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Anselm Keifer, "Aus Herzen un Hirnen spriessen die Halme der Nacht (From Hearts and Brains the Stalks of Night Are Sprouting)", 2021

Ramsay Island, on a seabird's birthday, 2017

the old keepers cottage on Ramsay Island

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         eyes, asking who's this moving in the dark? Me. Alice Oswald, Dart

         restrainings: each winter they gather here, twenty seals in this room behind the sea, all swaddled and tucked in fat, like the soul in is cylinder of flesh. With their grandmother mouths, with their dog-soft

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There's a defeated slump to the owl stitched on the cushion, back broken by the pressure of my back against her. There's a likelihood that the water in the glass is no longer water: that it has mummified into a paperweight, its bubbles blown into glass.

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There's something unfair about using emotionally-loaded words - screech, cry, moan - to describe a bird's call when we cannot assume the feeling behind it. A human never screeches without an entire complex of reasons: sometimes it's easy to mistake for a whoop.

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There's my smell still rising from the back of my watch. There's dust on the upper flanks of every bottle. There's lights blinking, like our Internet - our small pet piece of it - is turning in its sleep. There's crows in the lime trees.

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Don't carry this on for too long, because without warning it can snowball into a sort of of ego-vertigo: a sudden wrench that tells me that I don't exist quite anywhere, within myself, not even in that part of me that has always been considered the cockpit.

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It will be abstract at first, but very soon it will start to seem like an artefact, a foreign body moving between different regions of your insides. Very rarely do I find it in the centre of my head, or in my chest, where we've thought for centuries we might be found.

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It takes practice - now around a minute or six, for me - but eventually you will sieve off the outside world, and start to notice your sense of self: to pay attention to the source of your attention.

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You don't need to shut your eyes, or even move your head: just let the crown of particularity fall upon your brow. Tick through the ratchets of attention.

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This particular episode has been trigger by the same stimulus as that first fit, in Winton Safari Park, where the tigers watched her writhe without hunger; the strobing of light through leaves.

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There's horseboxes teetering in scrub. There's words on the road. There's someone behind me. There's everyone breathing. There's purple dye in the fountain, to celebrate the cleanliness of the waters.

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There's an offer at the cafe, but it pointedly excludes the almond croissant. There's a glint on the information booth, because they think that the public can be trusted with glass. There's the sun, toothlessly gearing itself up. There's a gull unspeakably dead somewhere.

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A summer's day of parasitic protagonism in Bitsy. bitsy.org

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I wonder if it's the time, or the man, that's different. He had too long to make mistakes in the public eye.

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She lives in a perpetual, slightly off-focus Preterite, a legendarium shared between Winnie the Pooh, Paddington Bear and the Big Friendly Giant, who still come to visit her and shelve their naughtiness or chaos for just a moment to pay homage.

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The rain falling Scotchly, Scotchly And the hills that did not soar up but in Ian Hamilton Finlay

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On New Years Day I long to meet my parents as they were before my birth. The grassy lawn: amid the shimmering heat waves a dog's dream.

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Where Does the Night Start? - Dark Mountain

dark-mountain.net

Robert Sherman writes about the legal arguments surrounding the right to wild camp on Dartmoor, England, and a victory for the dreamers

John 'Kyffin' Williams, Y Garn and Foel Goch, 1950

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St. Fagan's National Museum of Welsh History, 2018 museum.wales/stfagans

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Anselm Keifer, "Aus Herzen un Hirnen spriessen die Halme der Nacht (From Hearts and Brains the Stalks of Night Are Sprouting)", 2021

Ramsay Island, on a seabird's birthday, 2017

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         eyes, asking who's this moving in the dark? Me. Alice Oswald, Dart

"Suddenly it was very pleasant, sitting by the lochside across the way from Quinag, on a weekday morning, drinking strong coffee in weak sunlight. Kings do not have it better." Andrew Grieg, At The Loch Of The Green Corrie

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