Author: admin

29 Aug

Posted at 20:45h in Sarah's Journal by

The name of the mill was built into the brick façade with the confidence of the industrial revolution’s entrepreneurs. The history of the family is bound and twisted – like the ropes they made – with the mill. The place, its legacy has been knitted into my own psychogeography. Here it is, my first encounter with this legendary edifice. The dark red brickwork and broken windows conceal a complex weave of family history, ethics, and exploitation, and the story of cotton in Lancashire.

28 Aug

Posted at 21:43h in Culture Reviews by

This is an acerbic, witty slice of the politics of 1988. It shows a stone hurled from Thatcher’s Britain and the consequences reverberating into 2019. Lindsay Duncan and Alex Jennings spar with brilliance as a tory minister and his bitingly sarcastic wife. The punch, however, when it comes demonstrates the destructive power of undigested grief. Simon Woods underlying manifesto is a prayer for compassion.
www.nationaltheatre.org.uk/shows/hansard

27 Aug

Posted at 21:57h in Sarah's Journal by

In 1901, my great great grandfather William, his brother and sister with their families lived in this terrace of 3 houses. The houses, ‘The Brooklands 1, 2 and 3’ still stand. Well to do briefly at the turn of the century, signs of worth and respectability have fallen into disrepair. My great grandfather who would later live in one of the houses is a cotton spinner living in a red brick two up, two down on the other side of town in 1901. My mother recalled him saying knowingly, “it takes 3 generations to go from clogs to clogs”.

26 Aug

Posted at 20:49h in Sarah's Journal by

Four hands sweep in unison across one after another back, shoulders, calves. We know the rhythm of each other as we kneed together. Then it is our turn to be stroked, by an emerald green cricket eager for the residue of jojoba and sweet almond oil. It tends to me, its proboscis tickles my skin.

25 Aug

Posted at 15:49h in Sarah's Journal by

On waking there are two symmetrical neat circles of fox curled on our neighbour’s shed roof. I inspect the garden and note this morning’s flattened plants, where they lay earlier. I find a totem, lost by someone else. Fox energy is clever, playful, shape-shifting, signifies the ability to observe unseen. Dog chases, myopically barking.

24 Aug

Posted at 15:40h in Sarah's Journal by

There is a cotton skin between me and the weather. Inside I can hear the percussion of rain, but feel dry. I am less separated from nature, yet swipe at the sides of the tent. I coax a wasp out into brief sunshine, return to my canvas indoors. Spider, beetle, hover fly take cover in my beloved summer palace.

23 Aug

Posted at 13:57h in Sarah's Journal by

Droplets of water sweat inside the plastic pocket, ink slowly dissolves to turquoise. A black and white cat is missing – lost, injured, dead? I wonder about the untold story, the ending. I wish the neighbourhood was full of posters bright with fresh pictures of found cats. At the miraculous return of one cat I heard about recently, I felt tears rise to my eyes, my breath quickening.

 

22 Aug

Posted at 10:18h in Sarah's Journal by

Blackberries need enough rain to swell the berries, and enough sun to sweeten them. This wet sometimes sunny August grows an irresistable prize to pluck from a hedge row. The sharp sweet tang of vitamin C spreads on my tongue.

21 Aug

Posted at 08:05h in Sarah's Journal by

Under the sign of Leo, at ‘Lion’s Gate’, a lion demands to be bought at Heston Service Station. He feels like an ally, with his open smile and tousled mane. ‘Syrius Blumenthal’ becomes his name. ‘Ginger Girl’ – less easily pleased – makes friends with him. Her eyes also glitter, dark holes at the centre. Two creatures sit side-by-side, ginger fur asking to be stroked, inviting love.

20 Aug

Posted at 16:45h in Sarah's Journal by

I found a mouse left dead on the pavement. I instinctively swept it deftly into a doggy poo bag. If it has been poisoned it could cause serious harm to other animals if eaten, so I take it home. On close inspection it has been squashed – a blunt force trauma to the torso, but no obvious signs of blood. It’s tiny paws and teeth – so annoying when busy scratching under our stairs – now fill me with awe. I am sad to see its limp lifeless body, admire the way its whiskers glisten in the sunlight.