I graduated from art school in 2000 and have been keeping going creatively ever since - although sometimes by my bootstraps, if you'll forgive the mixed metaphor. I write fiction and poetry (& this) and I draw and paint and make collographs and monoprints. As the world is not always friendly or conducive to the artistic life I am very proud of keeping my creative fire alight. But sometimes it is a struggle, and in this blog I aim to write about all of that! I also write about examples of the True Creative Fire, wherever and whenever I come across it. The true creative fire burns bright at the Royal Festival Hall, but also at WOMAD,and it shines out at the Tate but also in the local park... & I love it as I do life itself.
This lovely little plant is Corydalis lutea; it grows not just everywhere but absolutely anywhere. It grows in walls, in dust, in drains. I'm very fond of it, which is a good thing as my bit of garden in Turnham Green is full of it. Sadly not even the good old Plants for a Future database can suggest any uses for it, and they think Datura is useful (albeit with some serious provisos regarding its toxicity, hallucinogenic properties, etc).
And as for the undead: I treated myself to two "soothing and relaxing" cds at the weekend; "Sounds of the rainforest", which really is soothing; and "Sounds of the British Coastline", which is lovely for about three quarters of the time, but has several tracks that are just a little strange: for example
Track 5; Kittiwake colony. Sounds like several thousand of the Virgin Mandy all shrieking "He's not the Messiah!" at full volume.
Track 11; Manx shearwaters coming in to roost. Or possibly a symposium of asthmatic flying chain smokers.
And, best of all
Track 9; Grey seals at night. Do you know that line that comes up in the Bible at intervals, about being "cast into the outer darkness where there is wailing and knashing of teeth"? That's a grey seal colony for you. Their vocalisations are truly ghastly - I now have a mental picture of terrified sailors coming round the coast of East Anglia after dark, hearing to what sounds like the Undead in full cry off the starboard bow, and steering out into the wilds of a North Sea storm to escape.