*
The point sits at the centre of the square,
where its two diagonals intersect.
*
*
From the same intersection, another square
can be drawn at right angles to the first.
Like this, we create eight equidistant points.
*
*
By taking the original squares and extending all
eight sides, a new set of intersections is generated.
Continue reading at The Silent Eye
The dawn sneaked in without a blaze,
No flash of flame, nor golden haze,
No fanfare played to greet the sun…
And yet, a new day has begun.
Beyond an iron veil of rain
In summer’s absence, tears of pain
That wash the world and cloud the view,
A miracle begins anew.
I watch the silent start of day
Bring colour’s birth and blackbird’s play
And feel the first light grace my eyes…
Although I never saw it rise.
Beyond the cloud, beyond my sight,
Somewhere, the sun is shining bright…
It does not need that I should see,
The light behind the dawn must be…
Within a bubble
Limited by time and space
Consciousness looks out
Seeing itself reflected
Finding a home in beyond
*
One! announces ThreeLegs, eyeballing Βία up and down and all overs before lurching on.
Two! he starts along the cages, carefully counting off three…and four… until he reaches number five. He stops, checking the five toes of his one front paw, glances back at the cages to reconfirm the tally and lurches on. By the time he’s done counting up to fifteen toes on all three paws he stops again, scratching contemplatively at a tic at the stump where his fourth leg should be hanging.
Right then…one! he starts over, counting off his front paws. Etcetera.
Hobbling to the end of the barn, counting off his toes, resetting everytime he reaches the end of three paws. Finally to arrive back at the starting point.
Fifteen he concludes. A grand total of three paws worth of guests.
Wot a muttwit Βία grins.
ThreeLegs bangs his head against her bars that’s not nice
Yor not nice her hackles up, grin curling into snarl.
Before ThreeLegs gets ’round to defending his important ledgerings an unmistakable sniffy-red pervades the barn, a colour darker than the night outside.
“what’sallthisnoise,then?” scritches Freddy.
Just doin’ the ledgerings, yor honours whines ThreeLegs before receiving a lusty kick aimed at his head. ThreeLegs’ three legs back him out of range in the nick of time.
Freddy pokes his eyeballs all ’round abouts the barn before they stop at Scroggy.
“termorra,yergone!” he scritches at the Redbone Coonhound, rubbing his handpaws together.
Freddy eyeballs Βία next “notyous,gotbigplansforyous” before eyeballing ThreeLegs quivering in the doorway “stayawayfromher,Checkers,oryoragona,too!”
Freddy storms out the barn, shaking a warning handpaw at ThreeLegs, and wobbles back to his hindlegs den.
Wot a butt-licking nasty hindlegs mutters Βία.
Freddy ain’t so bad quips Scroggy, wagging his short tail and specially coz he sez I’m gone
A right goner, yu muttwit barks a large mixed-breed called Thunder gone to the Chinese take-away
Wot starts off a few more fours.
Sweet’n’sour
Scroggy!
Dim sum Scroggy!
Until the whole barn is at it, yapping and howling.
Scroggy Chow Mein
Aromatic crispy Scroggy, pancakes’n’salad
Chop Suey Scroggy
Number sixty four, Scroggy’s fried balls–
Enough of it yuz lots!! barks out ThreeLegs, terrified that all the bruhaha is gonna bring back Freddy.
Shut it, half portion jeers Thunder that’s the only reason why yuz ain’t gone there, yet
“WHATSGOIN’ONIN’ERE??”
Freddy wobbles back into the barn with his heavy stick.
“quiet,theloadofyers!” banging the stick on cages left and right.
Fourlegs cringe at his sniffy-red malevolence.
ThreeLegs desperately does his best to turn invisible. It don’t work.
“rightthen,that’sit” Freddy grabs ThreeLegs by the scruff and drags him out the barn, three legs scrabbling for purchase on the concrete floor. The barndoor slams shut.
Dead quiet.
I reckons that muttwit ThreeLegs is going to the Chinese after all Thunder nods his snout all sagely.
▪
Ifn’t a fully loaded bowl of police brekkers don’t beat it all – urghhhhhh Ahhhhh – erh, right lads? Jax talks-noshes-retches at the same time.
Keeping the peace’s hungry work agrees Duncan, nosing his bowl away from the wall so he can get behind it and tongue up the remains.
Police feeds me – I works police states Shadow.
Brekkers of champions, boys Jax looks up at thems, a string of lamb kibbles running down his chops.
Duncan and Shadow respond in dour munching silence, the results of the obstacle course still rankling both the older and more experienced PDs.
A winning start to the day Jax dollops on a little extra ag.
A short interlude of bowl scraping and water slurping later some familiar voice calls over the walls of the Thames Valley PD compounds.
Friends and fourlegs?
Shadow lets off an ear-flapping fart in response.
Lawmutts of Westley Piddle? the voice continues umm, a furry citizen of this fair city requires assistance, urgent, lyk
Piss off mammal growls Shadow.
That’s not nice replies the voice and, frankly barking, wotz uncharitable behaviour towards one of yor very owns
We’re police workers, muttwit, not charity workers growls Shadow again.
Same difference, kind sirs
Wot’cha want ThreeLegs? Duncan shakes earflaps firmly, stomping away from his bowl and lifting a nosh-covered snout to the skylight wot overlooks the road.
A moment of understanding only
Nah, trot off replies Shadow we gotta sort important police business
Police brekkers business adds Jax.
Dismissive silence terminates the conversation.
HELP! ThreeLegs yelps, changing tack help a poor four– threelegger in distress.
ThreeLegs reaches up with his one front paw, scraping at the wall a soupçon of assistance, that’s all I asks me dear bowl mates
Brekkers nosh murdered, Shadow and Jax sit at their cage doors, awaiting the start of their morning tasks, ThreeLegs already forgotten.
Duncan exhales, hard-wired training and the fourlegs creed reluctantly preventing him from dismissing another fourlegs so readily yuz the last muttwit wot deserves anything, but nows yor here, wotz up?
And ThreeLegs spills the beans.
Woe. It’s all very woey, matey. Cast out lyk I’m streetlegs or somethink – excommunicated from me flock, me guests, lyk – torn asunder from me tender bosom companion, wotz called Freddy
Sorry to hear it grunts Duncan, not particularly sorry at all.
Yessir. Sorrowful. Pitiful. And all coz of that feral bitch, that reeking vixen – that – that – he sighs with a shudder me beautiful Bee-Yah!
ThreeLegs then howls in sorrow.
Who? enquires Duncan.
Who’d ‘ya think? The moneylegs, corss. Bee-Yah the greyhound, corss. Appropriated-lyk by Freddy for cash, yessir, real spondoolies! And – and nows me…ME, cast assunda coz of it. Set adrifts all on me ownsums
Why? enquires Duncan again.
Dog-dammit, Duncan me bestie, I’m out of it. Out of it, beached. Out on the street. Skedaddled from Freddy’s Farm with nowheres to go but me own three paws for company
How? enquires Duncan a third time, had it with all the enquiring.
By that useless pizzle, Freddy hisself!!!
Duncan shakes earflaps, unsure if he’s actually hearing right. He looks to the others for an opinion on the matter. Kicked from yor very own homeden by that sniffy-red scoundrel mustn’t be taken lightly.
ThreeLegs or not, to help a four in distress is what a PD is fed and watered for. Shadow eyeballs Duncan dispassionately. Jax eyeballs are suddenly very interested in the top corner spot of his cage.
A very dirty business sez Duncan, lamely, to everyone.
ThreeLegs answers with prolonged and pitiful retching de-fener-strated is wot I ams
Alright then, Checkers Duncan makes a decision I’ll be out shortly on community walkabout, handling PC Andersen packleader–
And? ThreeLegs jumps in.
And – and I’ll bring yuz some brekkers, mate
Lamb kibbles adds Jax, encouragingly brekkers of champions!
Duncan sighs again, knowing this little bout of unnecessary compassion is all gonna cost more ag than it’s worth.
Yor trouble is Shadow contemptuously points out yor all heart and no plum bobs
Follow Zozo, Jools and the Muttwits crew at their blog, Usual Muttwits
or find them on Instagram: @usualmuttwits and Facebook: Usual Muttwits
Part Four will be published on Sunday
Reblogged from Art and Sacred Sites :
Sometimes you create a piece of art because of the materials you have available to you. This is especially true during the Covid-19 lock down. I had this beautiful large sheet of amate paper, a hand-made paper made in a village near Puebla, Mexico, rolled up in a corner and nearly forgotten. I bought the paper for the size, 45″ x 97″ – finding paper that size isn’t easy – so you grab it when you can. But the sheer beauty of it also attracted me. I bought a couple of sheets from the maker who was traveling through Mazatlan a number of years ago.
Continue reading at Art and Sacred Sites
We were up early next morning and were cheerful about an email we’d had, telling us that the friends we had found over breakfast on our first morning in Scotland would be joining us for the December workshop in Derbyshire. We had talked about leys, geometry and dragons and left wishing we had more time to talk. And now, once again, we were ready to leave straight after breakfast… which just about left us time to wander up the through the marketplace to Holy Trinity church. It stands just outside the gates of Skipton Castle, looking down the length of the main street. We would have nowhere near long enough… as had been the case everywhere on this trip… but it would be enough to see what was hidden within the golden stone, still wearing the dark traces of Victorian industry.
There was always a close association between secular and religious power and it almost seems as if the positioning of the church sends a whole series of messages to those who approach the castle gates. Was the castle saying that the church was under its protection or was the church giving its blessing to the denizens of the castle? Or were they simply presenting a united front and saying, ‘here is power…’?
The church would have been a wooden affair to begin with, built to serve the early incarnation of the castle almost a thousand years ago. Around 1300, the present church was raised and later extended. As with so many of our ancient churches, the traces of time are still visible in altered doorways, rooflines, and the general evolution of a building at the heart of a community.
The church was damaged in the Civil War, losing much of its glass and, until then, its interior was decorated with medieval wall paintings, of which only the hand of Death now remains. Most of our wall paintings were lost to the dictates of Cromwell. As if that were not enough, the church was struck by lightning in 1853 and again in 1925. Yet, as you walk in through the doors, you are confronted with something that seems both curiously whole and just as it should be.
The first thing you see is the original font; plain, unadorned and as old as the church itself. Above it hands an ornate Jacobean cover, carved at around the time the first British colonies were founded in America. Behind it, the base of the tower has been opened up to create a memorial area, flying the colours of the Duke of Wellington’s regiment. A board commemorates the dead of the WWII, while the window pays tribute to those who lost their lives in the Great War.
Continue reading at France & Vincent
*
…It happened that Coyote’s wife was sitting near the entrance to the Lodge of the Dead.
“Sit here, next to your wife,” said Death Spirit.
Coyote could not see anything. It looked to him like he was standing in open prairie but he sat where he was told and he could feel his wife’s presence as a shadow.
“Conditions in the Lodge of the Dead are different than the Land of the Living,” said Death Spirit, “when it gets dark here it is dawn in your land and when it dawns for us it grows dark for you.”
It had begun to grow dark and Coyote thought he could hear people talking in whispered tones all around him.
When darkness finally set in Coyote could now see that he was in a large lodge were many fires were burning. He saw people, too, with shadow-like forms and he saw his wife sitting beside him.
Continue reading at France and Vincent
Reblogged from Graeme Cumming:
Perhaps unusually, I’m going to open up by saying that I know both authors of this book – but in this case, that knowledge will provide context to my review.
I first ‘met’ Sue online through her blog, and later in person at a gathering of bloggers in London. It was there I also met Stuart. There is something about both of them that borders on otherworldliness – but I mean it in a good way. You get a sense of non-conformity, without being able to pin it down exactly, and certainly without anything other than a feeling that you (and your psyche) are safe with them.
I’ve met them on several subsequent occasions with my partner, and each time there has been the anticipation of an adventure, followed by the knowledge that I’ve been educated. That education has been as a result of opening up to nature – off the beaten track, exploring caves, woods and stone circles – and symbolism, as we stopped off at churches. All rounded off with pub lunches. There are few better ways to enjoy a day.
Continue reading at Graeme Cumming
Hokitika Kiwi by my son’s friend at Sloefox Fine Art
The first thought that sprang to mind when I saw work created recently by a young lady who is a friend of my son was that were I to write the children’s book that is wandering round my mind, I think she would make a perfect illustrator. There is a quality to her work with a fineliner that took me straight back to the books of my childhood… even though reading them may not be so far away as you might expect.
I still read children’s books. I make no bones about that, nor any apology. There is a simplicity and clarity in the way the stories are woven, often barely hiding the underlying message; sometimes disguising it so well that it is only as an adult that you realise what you had been reading all those years ago. In fact, I would agree with C.S.Lewis, the creator of Narnia, that, once beyond picture books, ‘a children’s story that can only be enjoyed by children is not a good children’s story in the slightest.’
Stig of the Dump by Clive King. illustration by Edward Ardizzone © Puffin Books
I’ll be honest, most of the children’s books I read are the old favourites. Worlds that were woven in my childhood still wait for me through the wardrobe or between the Beltane fires. Their familiar landscapes are home to my imagination, the characters I have loved so long are friends, teachers and the companions of my child-self.
Most of the books I read as a child had an element of magic to them. I was never one for the Famous Five type of thing, with lemonade and sandwiches to finish. No, for me it began early with the Magic Faraway Tree and the adventures of the Wishing Chair… which inevitably led on to Wonderland and the Looking Glass, via the Land of Green Ginger and meeting Stig of the Dump. And Narnia. Always Narnia. But then, that wasn’t just a place in a book… it was Real.
The Wind in the Willows by Kenneth Grahame: Illustrations by EH Shepard
What do I mean ‘was’… it is real for me, and always will be, as long as my name is both Susan and Lucy… my mother’s nickname for me…and for just as long I will seek to bury my face in the Lion’s mane with love… even though ’he’s not a tame lion.’
Many of my childhood books are still in my keeping. It is probably no surprise that they snuggle cover to cover with fantasy on my shelves; the evolution was a natural one and works of fantasy bear much in common with children’s stories. The best ones still share a deeper meaning with the reader and teach through imagination… something we have adopted for the Silent Eye too, oddly enough.
The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe by C.S.Lewis; Illustration Pauline Baynes
Dog-eared, well thumbed, some of those childhood favourites are decorated with my first, childish scrawl and early illustrations… even if I now have no idea what they were supposed to be. The majority of those books were properly illustrated too, in addition to my own infantile efforts. There will never be another image of Aslan for me than the one on Pauline Baynes’ cover for The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe. But the covers were only half the story, so to speak.
Inside these books were line drawings, pen and ink illustrations of the characters and action… and many I recall even today though the story itself may have faded. From the slightly sinister illustrations from Down the Snow Stairs, to the simple style of Dorothy M. Wheeler, via the magic of the illustrators whose names I did not know back then has stayed with me for a lifetime, shaping both memory and the landscape of my own imagination. They are, more often than not, the unsung heroes of the children’s book.
Down the Snow Stairs, Alice Corkran. Illustration by Gordon Browne
Yet even as an adult, the illustrations… rare in books intended for such lofty beings as grown-ups… still matter. Perhaps that is why almost all our books have images.. and why we ventured into the graphic novel with Mister Fox. Whether it be marvelling at Blake or Gustave Dore’s illustrations… or whether I am simply revisiting the bookshelves and finding once more the images created by such as E.H. Sheppard, Ronald Searle and Edward Ardizzone, there is something very special about those simple images that makes the magic happen and turns back the clock until the heart is as light as that clear, clean heart of a child once more.
The Thirteen Clocks and the Wonderful O by James Thurber. Illustrations by Ronald Searle
Watching the watcher
Little matter which is which
Eye meets eye in peace
Sue Vincent's Daily Echo 