Blog/Documentation

The Cartographer

The cartographer began to examine the contour lines of her life when she turned fifty.  She knew the grid patterns of city streets; the place names of her native county; sea charts that revealed the hidden reefs off the Cornwall’s peninsular. She knew the antipodean lands at risk from sea level rise.  But she couldn’t understand the choppy waters of …

The Writer’s Lost

Writing is a form of getting lost.  There is the “good lost” of a great idea, which plucks you out of time itself, so absorbed do you become.  But then there is the other kind.  The fear that strikes when somewhere, mid-story, mid-sentence, mid-sentiment, you stop.  And if writing can be likened to a walk, a fog rises so thick …

Getting Lost

A path tells me where to walk. I am confident, seeing it even when it begins to peter out. Confidence takes me beyond the vanishing trail until the bracken is thick enough to slow my movement, high enough to close the view ahead. I aim high, to find the lay of the land. On a beach the shore directs me …

When Rain Gets in by Claire Dean

‘The building belongs to the weather now.’ The older woman was staring up at the broken altar as she spoke and a younger man, her son perhaps, rested his hand on her shoulder. Hearing the woman, one of the cleaners tucked a cloth into her pinny. She’d left her sweeping brush propped against the information board in the Lady’s Altar. …

Windermere by Anne Caldwell

Windermere  (1)   Rowing                   out on the water,                three of us drifting,   we are                                  letting go with nowhere                                                                       to get to. Our boat absorbs                                                 the wake               of a larger craft, a raven flies up     into a bright blue sky whiffling above the shore                  line. The lake is pulsing: waves quicken   then …

Notes from Windermere by Ellen Jeffrey

We’re discussing words, and naming, and language – how names are both an opening, a means of seeing, but also a closing and a restricting of thing-into-language. Are words containers? If they are, can we empty them out and fill them with something else? We’re by the lake, and I make a note of the sea-words, the water-words that we …