Today, I finish one of my favourite jobs - putting up bamboo stakes for climbing beans. I have two kinds of frame. The first is a traditional continuous structure like a pitched roof, where two sets of stakes are crossed over toward the top, tied together and linked by horizontal stakes extending the length of the row. The second is a series of wigwam frames, where the beans grow in circles and climb inwards, then outwards when the they come to the overhang. The framworks will provide supports for runner beans called Lady Di and White Lady, and a purple bean called Blauhilde because it was so good and so fruitful last year. And, for the first time, an Italian Borloti bean.
In the shopping precinct, there is a machine blowing bubbles. It consists of a tray in which a motor-driven wheel equipped with series of wires with circles at the end aligned in pairs. As the wheel turns, the wires rotate through a sink containing bubble liquid. Hundreds of bubble a minute fly into the air. Small children gather like flies.
I pass a pet shop called Wolfit.
Tuesday, June 05, 2007
Monday, June 04, 2007
end of the lollipop, sewing, beam me up
Upright on a bench in the Grove, an elderly lady, enjoying, to the last lick, one of those choc ices on a stick.
Through an open window and a gauze curtain comes, with momentary interruptions, the unmistakable whir, whir of a sewing machine.
According to day's paper the science behind the process of teleporting as in the Star Trek films is not entirely fanciful. Remember the phrase "Beam me up Scotty". At present teleporting potential is limited to information. In due course, why not people? I wouldn't know, but it is lovely to speculate about. The operative term is "quantum entanglement" which relies on the fact that two photons can be created in such a way that they behave as a single object even if they are separated by large distances. The teleportation machine is explained by the fact, says the science editor of the Independent, that changes to one photon cause similar changes to the other. A third photon is teleported from the proton in the transmitting station to the photon in the receiver. In the process, the third photon becomes entangled with the transmitting photon, and so carries its quantum information to the receiving photon, which interacts with the third photon in such a way that it becomes identical to it. The study from which this information comes is published in the journal Nature Physics.
Through an open window and a gauze curtain comes, with momentary interruptions, the unmistakable whir, whir of a sewing machine.
According to day's paper the science behind the process of teleporting as in the Star Trek films is not entirely fanciful. Remember the phrase "Beam me up Scotty". At present teleporting potential is limited to information. In due course, why not people? I wouldn't know, but it is lovely to speculate about. The operative term is "quantum entanglement" which relies on the fact that two photons can be created in such a way that they behave as a single object even if they are separated by large distances. The teleportation machine is explained by the fact, says the science editor of the Independent, that changes to one photon cause similar changes to the other. A third photon is teleported from the proton in the transmitting station to the photon in the receiver. In the process, the third photon becomes entangled with the transmitting photon, and so carries its quantum information to the receiving photon, which interacts with the third photon in such a way that it becomes identical to it. The study from which this information comes is published in the journal Nature Physics.
Sunday, June 03, 2007
anything special, psychedelic bollard, warning
"Are you doing anything special to day?" asks the woman at the checkout in Sainsburys this morning. I'm still wondering.
There are lot of descretely painted black bollards in this area to deter motorists from parking on the pavement. Someone, for a lark, has turned one of them into a sort of psychedelic totem, by overpainting it mauve at the top and turquoise at the base.
On the windows of a pub called the Orson Wells, which has been boarded up for some time and is about to undergo a complete refurbishment, is posted the notice: warning guard dogs running free.
There are lot of descretely painted black bollards in this area to deter motorists from parking on the pavement. Someone, for a lark, has turned one of them into a sort of psychedelic totem, by overpainting it mauve at the top and turquoise at the base.
On the windows of a pub called the Orson Wells, which has been boarded up for some time and is about to undergo a complete refurbishment, is posted the notice: warning guard dogs running free.
Saturday, June 02, 2007
differences, more differences, and yet more
What's the difference between a glove and a foxglove? Unlike a glove, a foxglove is more beautifully patterned on the inside than on the outside.
There had clearly been a difference of opinion this morning, as I inferred from the angry voice of a girl passing on the pavement on the other side of our hedge, complaining to a companion. ". all morning...he slammed the door in my face. He's been rude all morning. I bit my tongue, all morning." A snatch of soap opera.
In Emil Zola's novel L'Assomoir, differences in culinary styles between the north of France and the south are noted. Lantier, the character, to whom this refers, comes from Provence. "He made himself omelettes, omelettes cooked on both sides, crisped like pancakes. So solid that they might have been biscuits.... But his gala dinner was a soup made with vermicelli, very thick, into which he poured half a bottle of oil... Only he ate it, with Gervaise, because the others, the Parisians, once having risked a taste, had almost lost their guts and entrails."
There had clearly been a difference of opinion this morning, as I inferred from the angry voice of a girl passing on the pavement on the other side of our hedge, complaining to a companion. ". all morning...he slammed the door in my face. He's been rude all morning. I bit my tongue, all morning." A snatch of soap opera.
In Emil Zola's novel L'Assomoir, differences in culinary styles between the north of France and the south are noted. Lantier, the character, to whom this refers, comes from Provence. "He made himself omelettes, omelettes cooked on both sides, crisped like pancakes. So solid that they might have been biscuits.... But his gala dinner was a soup made with vermicelli, very thick, into which he poured half a bottle of oil... Only he ate it, with Gervaise, because the others, the Parisians, once having risked a taste, had almost lost their guts and entrails."
Friday, June 01, 2007
Grass, hydrangea, elderflower
We are in the habit of cutting grass and of seeing it in its cropped form on lawns and in fields. But grass in flower and run to seed, is another and a better thing. Cereal crops aside, we miss a great deal where grass is concerned. And it's not just the feathery heads running in the wind - cream, pale yellow, red, gold, blue. In my grass book, I find the following grass names: Sweet Vernal Grass, Holy Grass, Feather Grass, Timothy Grass, Sand Cat's Tail, Meadow Cat's Tail, Creeping Bent, Yorkshire Fog,Gray Hair-Grass, Cocksfoot, Common Quaking-Grass, Mountain or Nodding Melick, Hairy Melick, Love Grass.
Climbing up the front of a terrace house, the cream-coloured flowers and pointed serrated leaves of Hydrangea petiolaris. It is a useful plant to cover a north or north-east facing wall, where other climbers are less happy or not happy at all. I imagine it clinging to a rock face in the foothills of the Himalayas, where it originates.
At this time of year the white saucers of elder, flying up the hedgerows or at the edge of woods lift the spirit; their scent is peculiarly English and makes me think of the Enigma Variations.
Climbing up the front of a terrace house, the cream-coloured flowers and pointed serrated leaves of Hydrangea petiolaris. It is a useful plant to cover a north or north-east facing wall, where other climbers are less happy or not happy at all. I imagine it clinging to a rock face in the foothills of the Himalayas, where it originates.
At this time of year the white saucers of elder, flying up the hedgerows or at the edge of woods lift the spirit; their scent is peculiarly English and makes me think of the Enigma Variations.
Thursday, May 31, 2007
Correction
Correction.
Please note that the link I was trying to establish for Lucy Kempton's log is as follows:
www.box-elder.blogspot.com I have tried to correct it but something is awry.
Just for the record, the correction has now been made and a typo in the poem adjusted.
Please note that the link I was trying to establish for Lucy Kempton's log is as follows:
www.box-elder.blogspot.com I have tried to correct it but something is awry.
Just for the record, the correction has now been made and a typo in the poem adjusted.
panama, rosé, grief
In a shop window, I spy one of those old fashioned, panama hats, which you can fold up and put in your pocket. It has a crease across the crown, to make it easier
Some bottles of rosé from the Languedoc, in anticipation of guests and fine weather. It is very pale, what, in California, they call a "blush" wine.
Something I read in Lucy Kempton's blog, www.box-elder.blogspot.com has stayed with me. She wrote of a conversation with her husband, Tom, in which he he referred to the modern, western world as being in "a continual state of low-level grief." It's hard not to recognise that state. It was a similar line of thought, which led me to a poem a year or so ago:
How to be cheerful
Adjust with care, the instructions in the handbook say,
For misalignments and breakdowns can occur,
Where balanced wheels are expected to engage and play.
Where the seesaw race begins, the dim, obsessive chime,
The winding up and unwinding of the spring.
Within the escapement's clutch, the seagulls scream
Notes of survival and the constancy of loss.
Yet yeasts ferment and prompt in the memory
How the Grosse Fugue's galloping colloquy goes
Further than sense can go, where laughter's the lingo:
Swifter than intelligence, deeper than instinct,
You won't know sad from glad then, or need to know.
Pick up this theme: even if our revels all aren't ended,
A silent smile will open like an estuary,
Spread wide its waters, where oysters have long bred
And wading birds among the reeds can taste the sea.
Some bottles of rosé from the Languedoc, in anticipation of guests and fine weather. It is very pale, what, in California, they call a "blush" wine.
Something I read in Lucy Kempton's blog, www.box-elder.blogspot.com has stayed with me. She wrote of a conversation with her husband, Tom, in which he he referred to the modern, western world as being in "a continual state of low-level grief." It's hard not to recognise that state. It was a similar line of thought, which led me to a poem a year or so ago:
How to be cheerful
Adjust with care, the instructions in the handbook say,
For misalignments and breakdowns can occur,
Where balanced wheels are expected to engage and play.
Where the seesaw race begins, the dim, obsessive chime,
The winding up and unwinding of the spring.
Within the escapement's clutch, the seagulls scream
Notes of survival and the constancy of loss.
Yet yeasts ferment and prompt in the memory
How the Grosse Fugue's galloping colloquy goes
Further than sense can go, where laughter's the lingo:
Swifter than intelligence, deeper than instinct,
You won't know sad from glad then, or need to know.
Pick up this theme: even if our revels all aren't ended,
A silent smile will open like an estuary,
Spread wide its waters, where oysters have long bred
And wading birds among the reeds can taste the sea.
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
peonies, growing drops, passion
A bunch of tight-budded, red peonies, the flowers emerging from dark green, spikey leaves.
In the garden today, plants are laden with ripe rain-drops.
PASSIONATE SALES PEOPLE SOUGHT, says a notice in the window of a new funiture shop in the High Street.
In the garden today, plants are laden with ripe rain-drops.
PASSIONATE SALES PEOPLE SOUGHT, says a notice in the window of a new funiture shop in the High Street.
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
settling up, cat arrangement, dog-walking
On the roof of the multi-story car park is a sign, outlined against the sky, where white clouds pass. It reads: PAY HERE.
Picture. A cat, mostly white, with a large marmalade patch, sits prettily on a front doostep. Next to it is an empty milk bottle.
In the Grove, I meet Giles whose house overlooks the corner of the little park. He is with his small son and his dog. The dog has two leads attached to it. Giles is holding one. The little boy hangs on to the other. "One last sniff," says Giles to the child and the dog. "We're learning how to walk dogs," he says to me.
Picture. A cat, mostly white, with a large marmalade patch, sits prettily on a front doostep. Next to it is an empty milk bottle.
In the Grove, I meet Giles whose house overlooks the corner of the little park. He is with his small son and his dog. The dog has two leads attached to it. Giles is holding one. The little boy hangs on to the other. "One last sniff," says Giles to the child and the dog. "We're learning how to walk dogs," he says to me.
Monday, May 28, 2007
fennel, old age, shadows
In the rain, the feathery fonds of fennel.
My friend Tristan points out a poem in the New Yorker by W. S Merwin, called Unknown Age, which makes me think that poems written in old age, or about it, deserve special attention. By coincidence I come across, just now, in an anthology of poems about dance, a poem,which also touches on age. It is by the Japanese Zen monk Ryokan:
Chanting our own poems,
Making our own verses,
Playing with a cloth ball,
Together in the fields -
Two people with one heart.
The breeze is fresh,
The moon so bright -
Together
Let's dance until dawn
As a farewell to my old age.
Though it is a day of thick, heavy cloud, there is a wild brightenss in the light, which allows the trees to cast shadows despite the absence of sun.
My friend Tristan points out a poem in the New Yorker by W. S Merwin, called Unknown Age, which makes me think that poems written in old age, or about it, deserve special attention. By coincidence I come across, just now, in an anthology of poems about dance, a poem,which also touches on age. It is by the Japanese Zen monk Ryokan:
Chanting our own poems,
Making our own verses,
Playing with a cloth ball,
Together in the fields -
Two people with one heart.
The breeze is fresh,
The moon so bright -
Together
Let's dance until dawn
As a farewell to my old age.
Though it is a day of thick, heavy cloud, there is a wild brightenss in the light, which allows the trees to cast shadows despite the absence of sun.
Sunday, May 27, 2007
sausages, surface tension, chives,
"Do want any sausages, love?" says a woman in the supermarket, as she draws level with me, her trolley before her. Never having seen her before, I don't know how to reply. Then the question is explained by a man, who must be her husband, overtaking me on the other side. He doesn't want any, but I thought, maybe I do.
In the rain I look down on the leaves of a miniature, red acer, where beaded rain drops are dispersed. Somewhat paled, the colour of the leaves comes through the drops, while patches of light are reflected off their convex surfaces.
I cut chives and chop the fine stems as a garnish for boiled potatoes to go with this evening's grilled plaice.
In the rain I look down on the leaves of a miniature, red acer, where beaded rain drops are dispersed. Somewhat paled, the colour of the leaves comes through the drops, while patches of light are reflected off their convex surfaces.
I cut chives and chop the fine stems as a garnish for boiled potatoes to go with this evening's grilled plaice.
Saturday, May 26, 2007
orange cat, snaggle-teeth, black violas
As I approach the Grove, I spot an orange cat on the look out by the gate. It fixes me with an unrelenting stare. What is behind that stare? Aggression, suspicion..? Or the need for affection? I draw level with the cat; it emits a single miaow, and rolls over on it back. Having made this obeisance, it gets to its feet and winds itself round my legs, in a slow and sinuous dance.
In the paper: a photograph of an alligator. It is surprising that such a powerful, remorselessly aggressive creature, should, by virtue of its snaggle teeth, appear to be both terrifying and comically benign.
In the market: the black (well, very nearly black) viola seedlings, which I buy every year, and plant in a wide, clay pot outside the front door.
In the paper: a photograph of an alligator. It is surprising that such a powerful, remorselessly aggressive creature, should, by virtue of its snaggle teeth, appear to be both terrifying and comically benign.
In the market: the black (well, very nearly black) viola seedlings, which I buy every year, and plant in a wide, clay pot outside the front door.
Friday, May 25, 2007
plimsolls, WG, party?
A pair of shoes advertised in a catalogue are referred to as plimsolls. That's what we all had at school for running and gym. Plimsolls, canvas shoes with rubber soles! That was a long time ago, before trainers, and the cult that goes with them. Welcome back plimsolls.
In a shop window, two books on W G Grace display his bearded face on the cover. The greatest cricketer of all time, they used to say. But no one expained why he was. Even when I was young there were few people around who had seen him play. I wonder if was as good as they made him out to be. A hero for some, but to me there is something shifty and calculating about the eyes beneath the horizontally striped cap. Perhaps, he is thinking about the outfield and how to steer the ball between cover point and mid on. But, as I examine the photographs, I begin to suspect that there is something more sinister going on in the old boy's mind. How refreshing if there were!
As we sit in the garden a voice or voices come up the road and over the hedge? What is the language? How many people? Is it a party? A riot? Spanish I say. I go and look. I am right. It is one Spanish girl sitting on a doorstep on a mobile phone.
In a shop window, two books on W G Grace display his bearded face on the cover. The greatest cricketer of all time, they used to say. But no one expained why he was. Even when I was young there were few people around who had seen him play. I wonder if was as good as they made him out to be. A hero for some, but to me there is something shifty and calculating about the eyes beneath the horizontally striped cap. Perhaps, he is thinking about the outfield and how to steer the ball between cover point and mid on. But, as I examine the photographs, I begin to suspect that there is something more sinister going on in the old boy's mind. How refreshing if there were!
As we sit in the garden a voice or voices come up the road and over the hedge? What is the language? How many people? Is it a party? A riot? Spanish I say. I go and look. I am right. It is one Spanish girl sitting on a doorstep on a mobile phone.
Thursday, May 24, 2007
wild, bee on iris, blanket
Next to the vegetable garden is a garden left, for the last few months, to its own devices. It is a marriage of wildness and tranquility. Rolling, clambering sheets of wild clematis - bindweed, gardeners call it, and you can understand why they hate it, because of its indefatigable root system, but what noble beauty they miss in the flowers - have spread their bold, white trumpets, quick-off-the-mark leaves and tendrils over what was once a rubbish heap. Here and there, where vegetables grew, a parsnip is in flower. There are docks, dandelions, nettles and sow-thistles, and grass flourishing everywhere and already in seed. Forget-me-nots, too, though I remember that the owner, some years ago, had taken a dislike to these pretty self-seeders, and banished them from his garden.
A bee enters the corolla of a deep blue iris. It crawls over the fine, variegated pattern at the entrance and pushes its way past a petal, arranged horizontally like a flap; in towards the pollen, and down the flower's dark throat it goes, where the striated pattern of black and yellow, now all round it, confirms the way. A few second later it emerges, slowly backwards, flies off, circles and then comes back to the same spot for more.
A woman spreads a blanket in the Grove. In her hands, it billows outwards and settles neatly on the ground, confirms its boundaries. She smooths out her territory and places her crawling baby in the middle of it. Her collie-type dog lies , its front paws forward, and watches approvingly.
A bee enters the corolla of a deep blue iris. It crawls over the fine, variegated pattern at the entrance and pushes its way past a petal, arranged horizontally like a flap; in towards the pollen, and down the flower's dark throat it goes, where the striated pattern of black and yellow, now all round it, confirms the way. A few second later it emerges, slowly backwards, flies off, circles and then comes back to the same spot for more.
A woman spreads a blanket in the Grove. In her hands, it billows outwards and settles neatly on the ground, confirms its boundaries. She smooths out her territory and places her crawling baby in the middle of it. Her collie-type dog lies , its front paws forward, and watches approvingly.
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
Linnaeus, hedge, lossy
Thanks to Carl Linnaeus, who was born 300 years ago today, there is a simple system by which, whatever language we speak or culture we belong to, we have, in common, short, descriptions of the 10,000 bird species, 400,000 plant species and one million species of insect in the world.
Relaxing while the hedge grows is something I find exceptionally hard. I meant to devote the weekend to trimming it, but having been laid low by a bug, and having asked someone else to take on the job, the prospect of being relieved of it is quickly becoming a delight.
From an unusual version of Hamlet:
Hamlet
How looked he, then, the noble King, my father,
When you espied him on the battlement?
Horatio
Lossy. One moment, there. One moment, not,
Like to the welkin, his very shape awash.
Relaxing while the hedge grows is something I find exceptionally hard. I meant to devote the weekend to trimming it, but having been laid low by a bug, and having asked someone else to take on the job, the prospect of being relieved of it is quickly becoming a delight.
From an unusual version of Hamlet:
Hamlet
How looked he, then, the noble King, my father,
When you espied him on the battlement?
Horatio
Lossy. One moment, there. One moment, not,
Like to the welkin, his very shape awash.
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
mustard, cistus, lossy again
Picking and tasting the first mixed leaves of oriental mustard in this morning's sun.
Bees are supposed to be scarce this year. Not in our garden. They are drawn to the white flowers of the cistus, never before as generous.
"Lossy, the moon in the silvery mist,
Lossy the maid alone by the lake.
Lossy the shadows that rise from the sedge,
Lossy the knight, the long night awake."
John Keats? Did he have a computer?
Bees are supposed to be scarce this year. Not in our garden. They are drawn to the white flowers of the cistus, never before as generous.
"Lossy, the moon in the silvery mist,
Lossy the maid alone by the lake.
Lossy the shadows that rise from the sedge,
Lossy the knight, the long night awake."
John Keats? Did he have a computer?
Monday, May 21, 2007
better, polish, lossy
It is a pleasing thing to be seeing things straight again after being struck down by a bug. Colour and shape come back to the world.
Seen through the window, the trunk of the bay tree, shines like polished ebony.
I have completley fallen for the adjective "lossy" which Clare Grant posted by way of a comment here yesterday. I can't it get it out of my head. I love it. I shall use it at every opportunity. Thanks again Clare. A beautiful thing.
Seen through the window, the trunk of the bay tree, shines like polished ebony.
I have completley fallen for the adjective "lossy" which Clare Grant posted by way of a comment here yesterday. I can't it get it out of my head. I love it. I shall use it at every opportunity. Thanks again Clare. A beautiful thing.
Sunday, May 20, 2007
bee, mist, new word
Through the window I see a bee blown off-course by a gust of wind. You don't often see bees in the wind.
First thing, in the supermarket they are displaying fresh meat on the butchers counter. A mist caused by condensation wafts round the joints and steaks.
A new word: I copy a photograph on to a file on the computer and a window informs me that "this photo cannot be rotated losslessly.
First thing, in the supermarket they are displaying fresh meat on the butchers counter. A mist caused by condensation wafts round the joints and steaks.
A new word: I copy a photograph on to a file on the computer and a window informs me that "this photo cannot be rotated losslessly.
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