On Fists

Through the eyes of David Shrigley

On Ends

Home is where one starts from. As we grow older
the world becomes stranger, the pattern more complicated
Of dead and living. Not the intense moment
Isolated, with no before and after,
But a lifetime burning in every moment
And not the lifetime of one man only
But of old stones that cannot be deciphered.
There is a time for the evening under starlight,
A time for the evening under lamplight
(The evening with the photograph album).
Love is most nearly itself
When here and now cease to matter.
Old men ought to be explorers
Here or there does not matter
We must be still and still moving
Into another intensity
For a further union, a deeper communion
Through the dark cold and the empty desolation,
The wave cry, the wind cry, the vast waters
Of the petrel and the porpoise. In my end is my beginning.

In the words of T. S. Eliot

On Cities

Each city recieves its form from the desert it opposes.

In the words of Italo Calvino

On Peppers

Through the eyes of Edward Weston

On Essays

The motor of fiction is narrative.
The motor of essay is thought.
The default of fiction is storytelling.
The default of essay is memoir.
Fiction: no ideas but things.
(Serious) essay (what I want): not the thing itself but ideas about the things.

In the words of David Shields 'Reality Hunger'