Aberystwyth, fro...

Aberystwyth, from Penglais Woods.

moss & mint

cell phone cozy i just finished knitting as a gift. crocheted frill and appliqued leaves....phew!

the view from my window

08MAR > 16 MAR > 04 MAYedit, 15 MAY:

ynyslas sa...

ynyslas sands with aberdovey in the distance.

"you're not...

"you're not really cultured until you've read ______."author and/or novel/play/poem, whatever. what do you think?

"If you don't h...

"If you don't have a dateCelebrateGo out and sit on the lawnAnd do nothing'Cause it's just what you must doNobody does it anymore"- fiona apple, waltz

well, i've g...

well, i've given this album a good month to redeem itself, but my opinion of it hasn't improved much.i'd like to know what the rest of you think; my final decision is that i'm not buying any more tori albums from now on. i'm just going to listen to my old tapes until they turn to dust.firstly, tori is discussing women and the bible; old, hackneyed, hackneyed old theme. she throws around concepts of nature as mother, woman as wronged, mother and daughter/child as the source of life. if you want to choose such cliched topics, you have to work hard at making your ideas sound new, and tori's blandness in the dvd interview just bores me.secondly, why backing vocals on so many of the songs? what happened to just tori and a piano; it's like she has no confidence in herself anymore.parasols - i suppose i should like this song; tame, repetitive little song. how cute. so it's about betrayal? um, like cornflake girl & the waitress? no, alas.sweet the sting - "shake me sane"? "shock me sane"?and "scor-beyown's tail" - is not how it's pronounced.the power of orange knickers - orange knickers under a petticoat don't have power, so we'll ignore tori trying to show that she's still eccentric, when she's forgotten what that was. and why is it knickers now, doesn't she still call them panties? & "terrorist" - that little buzz-word (pun pun) ruins it all. pity, if it was the old tori alone with her piano, maybe she could have pulled it off. am i alone in this?jamaica inn - cute. the lyrics seem to try very hard to fit a perfectly monotone song. trust isn't sexy though, and there's no need to keep repeating "in the jamaica inn" in a high pitched voice.barons of suburbia - starts out like "caught a lite sneeze", and ends like "professional widow". full of boring (half)rhymes, "carnivorous vegetarian" = pointless oxymoron. "Whether you're looking at certain governments or certain relationships, we go back to the personal and the political always." ... yes, very Foucauldian, tori, but it ain't in the song.sleeps with butterflies - sickeningly cutesy. i actually like the "Airplanes / take you away again" because it's true, that's what airplanes do. "butterfly" is better, if one must sing about butterflies.mother revolution - nice. i really like the phrase, "all along the watchtower".general joy - "I have to feel the pulse of what is current." oooh, tori. no you don't have to jump on the bandwagon and write a song dissing the war. "now “they” have Liberty gagged" - could you be ever so slightly more cliche, 'cos it would help us understand?ribbons undone - no. too slow, too cliche with "it is your time" and just the idea of a little girl running with ribbons in her hair, yeah we've seen it, done it, etc etc. and weird "music" too.cars and guitars - hmm. i don't really like the drawling way she sings it.witness - fun. i quite like it.original sinsuality - awful. i mean really truly god awful. "you are not alone" wail wail, you will not pull this off tori.ireland - WTF?the beekeeper - "- wrap yourself aroundthe Tree of Lifeand the Dance of the Infinityof the Hive -"ooo, tori does Metaphysical Poetics.(i wonder whether she knows about bees & death, or whether the beekeeper is just a random choice?)martha's foolish ginger - i love! ironic that it was a song she started 8 years ago.hoochie woman - i like the lower piano notes.goodbye pisces - the japanese-y theme is quite cute. i like the lines: "We’ve done this before / as Mars sauntered through his door". yeah, it's ok actually.marys of the sea - "in all of Gaul / is there safety?" love love love. tori's french accent, not so cool, but still, smashing song. i like the way it slows down and speeds up.toast - hmm. i like that it's unhurried, and i love the first line and last stanza, but all the bit about the toasting? well it's a little boring actually.garlands - yes, i do like it. it's a bit like "gold dust" in scarlet's walk - a gentle saving grace. & so what if it's a list of paintings? "datura" is mostly a list of plants and we love it.

eat me!...

eat me!

Victoria regi...

Victoria regiai wade my way through forest, thick green sea of unfurled ferns, reticular roots, fronds that catch the light on their vast fingers and cast huge lattices of shadow, tree trunks that loom dark and prominent with their tonnage of growth. the air that bites and nips and buzzes, and catches at you in moist, torrid breaths. i forage shallow pools, mud-clogged or clear and reflective, where dragonflies fly dizzy patterns in chase, and strange birds dive for food.the ladies-in-waiting, dressed in green liveries, bring me tea in laden tea-trays. they iron out my petticoats, arrange the folds of my dress into an impeccable white cluster, spray me with a haze of rare perfume. they bicker and nudge, whispering sharp, pointed snubs at the lowly maids, their skirts filling the room with a swirling shadow that denies any visitors.i find her at last, in a still sun-drenched tributary. there she stands above the waterline, on a peduncle long and erect, smelling of pine-apple or melon, or the fruit of some far off exotic land i have yet to explore. her petals are large and luminously white, and all around her expand the vast orbicular lamina, their edges curled up, their undersides reddish and covered in spines, attached to the stem by long, terete petioles.i walk out in the evening. the sun is just setting, but the cool night air is welcome after such perennial confinement as mine. i stretch my arms, my long legs under their many-layers. the ladies-in-waiting shoulder each other petulantly, they are red underneath, lively and lusty.he is by that giant river now, and it is day, humid, stifling. his hands are full of a magnificent blossom, which he examines and dissects.she flushes a deepening pink, and her petals reflex, layer by layer, until all that is left is a filamentous crown of deep rose, and the golden pollen at the heart of the flower is rendered visible. mindful not to breathe, i gently tap some of the pollen into a paper envelope, and wade back out onto the river bank, dripping with mud and tangles of plants. i rest alone on the floor of the rainforest, where it is nearly perpetually dark, and contemplate my small treasure, and the journey to the next bloom.the following morning, i dress in pink, and the ladies-in-waiting spend hours starching my skirts. at the palace a little girl dressed in dragonfly wings is sitting on a lily-pad, singing. they ask me when he will be back, and whether he will find what he seeks. i start to answer but a sudden, unseasonable rain, with its heavy droplets pounds against the plants and drowns out my voice. the rose-coloured skirts slap limply against my legs, the scent blows away. the ladies-in-waiting collect small pools but they are buoyant and laugh and prick each other viciously. my steps grow laboured as the dress soaks up the rain. i sink beneath its weight, into the watery depths which made me, where i brood, and invent the vernation of a new love.*- image from here.- INCREDIBLY BEAUTIFUL botanical descriptions of the victoria regia here.

scarf in progress...

stripes from the top, hearts from the side!(i know you can tell the hearts from the top as well, but it isn't quite so obvious in normal lighting.)

dire

The Double Star"I longed to arrest all beauty that came before me..."-Julia Margaret CameronI.i will write, but speak... not a word;all voices annihilate.you will not have to pronounce the 'I'which becomes life itself,an abrupt enlargementand severance of the sentence.if the existence of othersmeans the existence of you,then everyone else must die,and so must i,and in saving youfrom such imprisonment.i will speak not a word, and swaddle you with quietudeso you cannot say 'mother' and mean it.(the traceable identity divides and threatens,we look at each other -you kick and i shiver).so inescapable, this language.i will refuse you such inheritance,you cannot have it.so weak, this language,it denies all possibilityof unity.but come back to me, anywaywithout admitting you are not me.i will hold you closer,closer than words can determinecloser than they can fit betweentwo entities or even one.i will write becausei have learnt the waywords betray;how they draw differences where there are noneand make it altogether impossible to say certain things.words have their own secret passagewaysof principles which we live by;axes and axioms,language is a ruin we cannot deny.though i am already engenderedconcrete, with an obscure coreand a hidden artthat language cannot impart,though it is beyond my conceptioni will write you out.i will not call you.but i will hold you so close you will cease to exist.do all mothers dream thus... and resist?II.half-remembered couplets come, and touchme between my tired eyes; they bring suchcomfort as lines can bring. some slighttrembling of the clock awakes the night;i watch your image flicker through the screen...how long has it been?when this morning you left me, or last week,(or is it centuries that cling to that bleakmemory?) i thought it the sightto become a locus for all loss: the lightso particularly angled to set your facewhite and clear against the blank abstrusity of space.('the end of the world', a simple phrase to use,to send in orbit through my mind... to refuse.)perhaps i am glad that you have fled.now across the realm of your foreheada dozen dreams a minute might blaze and falllike empires of old. just your smallhand at her heart, and in her a tiltof the chin, an abandon the world builtin such short space, just thesei witness and arrest; a short-hand repriseof human history that none, now, shall read.my albumen in a sheer shell; you recedein the great exodus of double stars.i cannot tell you from this spawning world which marsidentity so flippantly. (the days come and goshall i dress you in scarlet or indigo?)the heart a cumbrous entity to fit betweena life and a love, both so keen;your heart that first broke the perfect symmetry of cellagainst cell, leaning right like a knowing infidel,your heart that led the birth of every traitaway from its initial regular state,as the birth of the universe created matterand asymmetry, and finally life, fashioned aftersuch a small chance. My alpha, my starling,i write here as all is ending,i cannot speak, but write and write,though none will read and none can right;what more is there to say, and how to deny -the world will evermore be a thing to kill us by.</center>it is not how i imagined it, when i thought it up half a year ago. but for a desperate underachiever it will suffice.i want to write in a language that disallows rest, that disappoints expectation all the time. i want to manipulate language while disbelieving it. quite disillusioned, nevertheless.apologies, dear girls. i miss myself also!but i have a verysmall resolution: this year i'm going to make a zine of short stories! i am!

wales;

where's th...

where's the girl who said, "inexperience: is really awkward grace"?i wanna kiss her RIGHT NOW!

At the mome...

At the moment I:-am back in my old room at uni.-have a cold.-don't give a damn about writing.-am obsessed with His Dark Materials.-want to garden & embroider till I die.-am a member of The National Trust.and you?

random;d...

random;does anyone play docking station & want to trade? my username is eurydike.(if you don't have it, download it, it's free!)

three of three

"Nightly she sings on yond Pomgranet tree,Beleeue me loue, it was the Nightingale."- Shakespearenightingales in the morning, while half-asleep i almost fancied they were speaking to me, hurriedly imparting of, their quick tawny lives. "I fully agree with Colonel Leake, that the ruins of Assos give the most perfect idea of a Greek city that we can now find anywhere."- Schliemannapparently aristotle founded a school of philosophy at assos, in exchange for the king's niece's hand in marriage.we visited the assos acropolis, the rest of the ruins being closed for excavation. walked quite a way up narrow cobbled streets, flanked by villagers wanting to sell us lemon thyme and hand-made laces and clothes and knick-knacks.the temple of athena was of course, the main attraction, at the highest point, with a wondrous view of the isle of lesbos and the lands around. it is the earliest example of doric architecture in anatolia! i am particularly fond of doric architecture; the grandeur & solidity of the doric order vie with the intricacy & beauty of the corinthian. i must admit assos does not possess quite the rugged beauty of segesta (which i have only seen in pictures); the columns are not particularly large, and their capitals are too flat to look very strong. still it was good to be near the ruins. i have recently felt happiest while clambering around ruins under the scorching sun.there are two cisterns on the acropolis, one beside the temple, and the other lower down. this latter is surprisingly deep, perhaps almost 8 metres? just opposite it is an ottoman mosque, making use of some columns found in the area, and a marble lintel. the floor inside was lined with many many kilims, and an ill-fitting chandelier dangled from the bare ceiling.*LXXVIIHigh barrows, without marble, or a name,A vast, untill'd and mountain-skirted plainAnd Ida in the distance, still the same,And old Scamander (if 'tis he) remain;The situation seems still form'd for fame--A hundred thousand men might fight again.With ease; but where I sought for Ilion's walls,The quiet sheep feeds, and the tortoise crawls.- Lord Byronan hour's drive later we reached troy. we were admitted through the newly installed turnpikes (something about bolting the barn door after the horse has fled) and started upon the path which every tourist must these days follow. the stupid horse & the "pithos garden" were the first things we saw. then one of schliemann's trenches, and then along the troia VI walls. probably the most remarkable sight to be found in troy is the view from the roman bastion, out onto the hellespont and the trojan plain. it is easy to make out the lighthouse, the english monument and the canakkale memorial.then another schliemann trench, then the temple of athena, of which very little remains. only part of a ceiling coffer, and some palmette designs, amongst other unornamented pieces. the troy II ramp, which is reconstructed, and some way ahead, the sanctuary of athena, perhaps the most important part of the site.there are also some walls from very ancient megarons that are now sheltered under a white roof (which is apparently meant to be reminiscent of a ship's sail), but they are simply walls...then the south gate, with a waste drainage channel down the middle of the street. a little way on is another temple, opposite that, the odeon, and then the bouleterion.there remains very little that is familiar to the untrained eye, and thus i can hardly comment in any detail. troy is a confusion of peoples and constructions, all juxtaposed senselessly and confounded further by the ravages of time; the average tourist cannot come here and leave with a clear picture of one city, it is practically impossible to separate the nine layers, even with guidance. >> also, flora and fauna of troy, & the trojan oak (Quercus trojana)."I've stood upon Achilles' tomb,And heard Troy doubted; time will doubt of Rome."- Lord Byron*canakkale, walking along the prom at night, watching fireworks in eceabat, and the bright ferry. a little girl walking between her mother and father who kept asking the words -line by line- to the canakkale song and singing it after, in a happy halting voice. i hadn't thought that saddest of songs could make me smile. sitting at the tea-houses and drinking strong turkish tea and eating sunflower seeds. people looking wonderingly at my wholesome volume of byron; saying, "i heard he was an enemy of the turks, is that true?" and my hesitancy and my mincing when i want to scream, "yes, yes, maybe he was and what do i care?" turkish people have narrow understandings of nationalism. there was also a strange old man who mumbled something about, "who have the british got, but shakespeare? and it isn't even certain he existed," to which all i could do was stare with a mixture of horror and confusion.on the last day we visited tenedos; the wine factory, i was sure, would make us drunk with just its scent! but it was cool and lovely and we learnt a little about wine-making. then ayazma beach, where it is thought the greeks hid, pretending to have given up their siege of troy. a ship lies grounded there, with its stern underwater, immovable.>> and as a final note, perseus has much better pictures of assos & troy.edit: added a few more photos.

port out, st...

port out, starboard home!

two of three

blustery ferry; giving my hair up. intent upon unwinding the ribbon of my dire straits tape off the spokes of my walkman. a knossos of parked cars!those monuments and graveyards i saw a few years ago: the english monument is still my favourite; grey monolith surrounded by grey wall, every inch carved with names which at first you do not notice. the ships at the centre with their bold nomenclature, agamemnon, goliath, inflexible. it is much like a dead lighthouse, one that has turned to stone from an excess of helplessness and grief. its live twin stands nearer the sea, in folds of sunflowers coming to seed. last time i visited they had been reaped, leaving an anonymous yellow stubble.the çanakkale monument is malum*. i think the original architects must have meant it as a collosal, stark symbol, something you couldn't elude or adorn, something that wouldn't go away. [it is visible from miles away, from the height of troy you can see it.] and yet, it succumbs to bad management, idiocy, incompetence. it succumbs to people who will make car-parks of cemetaries; people who can make the sinking british fleet look like a child's bath toys, and carve it upon the dead men's stones. at least two people died per square metre of this peninsula. every april when the fields are tilled people still find bones.the anzac cove was more beautiful than when i last visited. the grass was alive, clumps of lavender growing between the stones, a hedge of rosemary in bloom, an 'e' missing from Atatürk's speech.çimenlik castle is full of engines of war; they made me think of milton's lucifer [a triple-mounted row of pillars laid / on wheels (for like to pillars most they seemed, / or hollowed bodies made of oak or fir, / with branches lopped, in wood or mountain felled), / brass, iron, stony mould...]. there was one barrel at the entrance which had been ruined by the retreating foreign forces; it had folded into a metal flower at the end, like one sees in cartoons.our hotel in assos was among the olive groves. in the afternoon we walked through them to the sea and picked white sand lilies.*"To Ida's spring-abounding hill he came,And to the crest of Gargarus, wild nurseOf mountain beasts; a sacred plot was there,Whereon his incense-honour'd altar stood:There stay'd his steeds the Sire of Gods and menLoos'd from the car, and veil'd with clouds around.Then on the topmost ridge he sat, in prideOf conscious strength; and looking down, survey'dThe Trojan city, and the ships of Greece."- Homer."...the highest summit of Ida is Mount Gargarus, now called Kaz Dagh, 5750 ft. above the level of the sea. On Gargarus was 'a temenos sacred to Zeus, and a fragrant altar.'"-Schliemannnext morning we went up gargaros to the zeus altar! i realised how ridiculous i was to think that ida would be anything similar to the dry dusty shingle of lycia. the house which the sea nibbled looked upon the ida mountains; i spent so many summers drinking of their springs, but to me they were always the kaz mountains, the name which the turkmen gave them.gargaros was mostly covered in a lovely species of pine. very vivid in colour and various in form. the altar itself wasn't very interesting, built only for the use of local people; some steps led up to a terrace where the altar was built up of stone in a square shape, with a well in the middle. the view was magnificent, though: the bright blue aegean, the isle of lesbos, huge and looming, a little mistily as islands do upon the horizon. on the way down we stept off the path into the forest; (i must mention this especially for the benefit of Sarah) the fallen carpet of pine needles is soft and extremely slippery! we city dwellers were quite surprised.*the night was glorious; we went down to the old harbour of assos, which is lined with quaint cafes. a man was playing the guitar, exactly what aegean nights are about. we sat until midnight under the moonlight, singing out songs of love and heartbreak mostly. a german woman went up and asked the musician to play a zeki müren, and we all burst out laughing, i am sorry to say. some people lit a bonfire, and drew up chaise longues by its side, in the half-gloom the waiters walked by with deep red trays that looked quite like offerings of viscous blood. i watched the lights across the bay, in the shape of a great ship half sunk into the cliff-face. the fishing boats went out to sea like a row of ducklings. we kept singing. the waiters danced the misket to the beautiful "ah bir ataş ver". * here is the new ceiling; it is mosaic that has been painted over, rather patchily. i realise the old ceiling needed a bit of work, but i cannot imagine anything more ill-suited than a round patch of red in an otherwise angular and monotone monument.i am ever so sleepy now; i shall probably edit this post tomorrow

one of three

kalbim ege'de kaldı:imbros: swinging seats by the sea & forty-winks under straw parasols. stormy night; at 3 am waking, walking out onto the balcony half-clad, cold and hearing the aegean thunder, with implements of water against rock; a good deal more of the milky way above my head; the sea more darkness than i have ever met. the morning ferry got cancelled; no papers arrived until the afternoon. we visited some villages; sampled barba yorgo wine, standing around the tiny square, hoping for a cup of tea. a man shouted across the street for the proprietress to come open the cafe, and she came, unlocked the door and told him to go in and brew his own. at the next village we sat at quaint little cafes and bought pistachios and apples and walnuts.watching my aunt's interminable & complex rituals; of lotions and soaps and creams and tissues and cotton wool and cologne and seemingly many other obscure cleansing utensils. my other aunt out on the shallow salt lake, smearing black mud over her expansive thighs.windsurfers at aydıncık beach; there was such a very strong wind from the land out that i almost got hit by one of the huge plastic sails, but the man carrying it managed to hold on and i was showered only with sand.next morning we took the 7 ferry back to the mainland.

rathe...

rather late for me to be asking this, but if you would like a postcard from the gallipoli trip i am about to embark on (for a week!), do comment with your address! (especially you, Sarah, as I can't find your address anywhere, and you must have one from you know where!)i leave at 20:30 GMT! take care, everyone!

Alon...

Alone on my zazen matI forget the daysAs they passThe wisteria has grownThick over the eavesOf my hut. - Muso (1275-1351)from 1992 (bayram):from 1995 (new year):these days:

i've...

i've uploaded photos from my travels to göcek, letoon, xanthos, telmessos, tlos, and kaunos. more to come when i get them developed.

BİRDENBİRE

Her şey birdenbire oldu.Birdenbire vurdu gün ışığı yere;Gökyüzü birdenbire oldu;Mavi birdenbire.Her şey birdenbire oldu;Birdenbire tütmeye başladı duman topraktan;Filiz birdenbire oldu, tomurcuk birdenbire.Yemiş birdenbire oldu.Birdenbire,Birdenbire;Her şey birdenbire oldu.Kız birdenbire, oğlan birdenbire;Yollar, kırlar, kediler, insanlar...Aşk birdenbire oldu,Sevinç birdenbire.-- ORHAN VELİ KANIK