Fragments

In London, if I ever felt wound up by my lack of time, my lack of creativity or by my own apathy, I used to cross the street and wait for the first bus to Brixton. I might make my way into town and wander around, get lost in art galleries or browse bookshops or sit in the dark of the Renoir and watch a film.

But here the strategy has to be different. Here you focus on small moments and tiny changes. Taken together, they might start to build a picture of peace which you can wrap around you.

You might focus on the way the seaweed seems to fling itself upwards inside the bulge of a wave, flailing wildly, as if to make itself known, then falling back and disappearing into the break. Or the small flowers, whose names you don't know, which have started growing from the soil and in the cracks in the rocks. Or the colour of the light through the trees' new leaves. Or the sheep and their lambs which congregate around your house some time after midnight and decide to sing you awake. They jump between the trees in the absurd late-light.

In my case, it helps to write these things down. In some strange way, that's when they become real. This week I wanted to show you some of these details.