30 January 2013

The last days of January 2013 mood board...

textile wall panel - http://www.tactileinteriors.com/textiles.htm / feathers - http://their-theyre-there.tumblr.com/post/17758122847 / wood - unknown 
rain drops -  d90 fotografie http://www.flickr.com/photos/d90fotographie/5026222917/in/photostream/ / mud photo - Bernhard Edmaier / studded door - http://baucisetphilemon.canalblog.com
branches painting -  Marci rawford Harnden / snowy pine trees - unknown / wave painting - Lia Melia  / snowy garden - http://ysvoice.tumblr.com/page/9#.UQmiZb8gaLA / mother and child illustration - Jessie Willcox Smith                     rust photo -  The Joy Of The Mundane / rose photo - Theresa Durant http://500px.com/photo/15500217 / man - Francois Bard
tulips photo - http://www.iphonewallpapers.me/wp-content/uploads/2012/02/Purple-Tulips.jpg / trees - William Hyde / moonlight snow linocut - Mark Donaldson / snow woodcut - January by Wharton Esherick 1923

29 January 2013

The doorway...

The name January comes from Roman mythology and is named after Janus, the God of the doorway.

Benoa Bali by  LifeInMacro | Thainlin Tay

photo -   Shawnoula

photo - http://greigedesign.blogspot.co.uk/

26 January 2013

25 January 2013

In memory of my father...

"There are times in your life when, despite the steel weight of your memories
and the sadness that seems to lie at your feet like a shadow,
you suddenly and strangely feel perfectly okay." - Kevin Brockmeier

painting - N. C. Wyeth 1933

24 January 2013

Brompton Cemetery...

 photo by  hebazay from http://www.flickr.com/photos/hebazay/5824717251/

Walking in the snow...

The snow was falling
but mister dog needed his walk...
so we wrapped up warmly and set off

and when we arrived home...
      an old jumper I'd knitted for my son when he was two
found a grateful new owner.

22 January 2013


In the eyes of mourning the land of dreams begins. - Pablo Neruda 

18 January 2013

The still point...

"This is the solstice, the still point
of the sun, its cusp and midnight,
the year’s threshold
and unlocking, where the past
lets go of and becomes the future;
the place of caught breath…"

 - Margaret Atwood from 'Shapechangers in Winter' 

16 January 2013

The criminals...

A short while after moving into our house on a quiet private road, we realised all was not as it seemed. The other neighbours were mostly bankers, publishers or lawyers, but then there were the criminals, or the crims as we named them. The crims owned their house for several years before actually moving in, leaving it vacant whilst a continuous flow of inept builders extended it in a haphazard fashion, and also in the space of one weekend, suddenly moving the boundary of their property to incorporate several hundred square yards of open common land that had until then separated the crims house from it’s neighbour. The mystery of how they managed this was never fully explained, but as it was already enclosed with a hedge of leylandii before we had moved in, we were none the wiser until informed about it by the other neighbours.
Leylandii are bloody awful trees, they grow at the rate of 4 ft a year, and the law courts are inundated by elderly suburban pensioners charged with murdering their neighbours with an axe after years of dispute about the loss of light to their gardens.

The eventual arrival of the crims was heralded by their house warming party and in the early hours of the Sunday morning by the arrival of the police.
Mr. crim had decided to give his aunt a lift home in his brand new Mercedes, but upon returning evidently misjudged the corner. The car slewed across the road sideways flattening a picket fence just  missing a tree, knocked down the roads ornate entrance pillar and ended up in the front garden of the corner house after demolishing their wall, upon which mr. crim exited his car and legged it up the road home.
A short while later his wife was sent to fetch the car, but it was too late. The owners of the  house had already called the police, who were now busy measuring skid marks and taking photographs. She fled.
With no driver in sight to claim the car it was towed away, and upon searching the registration the police eventually arrived on the doorstep of mr. crim, who to their surprise promptly denied all knowledge and ownership of the car. No one ever saw the car again.

After the excitement of their arrival the crims led a very private life, except on the occasions when the police came to take them away.
On one particular night, the flashing blue lights of a police car awoke the neighbours, who, stumbling sleepily to the windows to check what was happening, watched in amazement as mrs. crim was led down the front drive in only a nightdress and handcuffs.
Mrs crim would often be away, and it was on one of these occasions when mr. crim was alone in the large seven bedroomed house the two of them shared, that the police arrived and proceeded to hammer on the front door, but mr crim refused to answer and barricaded himself in. After a fruitless half hour of trying to get him to open up, a very old gold rolls royce with personalised plates arrived, and from it emerged the rotund frame of mr. crim’s uncle, who after talking with the police, raised a police megaphone to his mouth and like a scene from The Sweeny, urged him to come on out son. After a short while, mr. crim did indeed decide to come on out, and was hustled unceremoniously into one of the waiting police cars.

Sweeney Todd, which is Cockney rhyming slang for 'Flying Squad'. 
Illustration - Matte Stephens

14 January 2013

12 January 2013

Box of colours...

Life is about using the whole box of colours - RuPaul

painting by Paul Klee 1925

11 January 2013


photo from - http://goreczki.tumblr.com/post/35281918399

10 January 2013

Cowboy Ace...

                                 American Pit Bull Ace enjoying a ride on his hobby horse

photo by jhovenstine

9 January 2013

I will return...

“Some other time, man or woman, traveler,
later, when I am not alive,
look here, look here for me
between stone and ocean,
in the light storming
through the foam.
Look here, look for me,
for here I will return, without saying a thing,
without voice, without mouth, pure,
here I will return to be the churning
of the water, of
its unbroken heart,
here, I will be discovered and lost;
here, I will perhaps, be stone and silence.”
I will return, by Pablo Neruda

 painting - swell by Ran Ortner 

8 January 2013


photo by Mark Philpott - http://www.flickr.com/photos/fftang/3296515623/in/photostream/

7 January 2013


"I prefer winter and fall, when you feel the bone structure of the landscape—the loneliness of it, the dead feeling of winter. Something waits beneath it, the whole story doesn’t show."— Andrew Wyeth 

6 January 2013

Secret places...

At any moment you have a choice, that either leads you closer to your spirit or further away from it.                     Thich Nhat Hahn 
photo - http://themagicfarawayttree.tumblr.com/post/38087410588/doors


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