FogBlog: October 2018

Far from it for me to wax lyrically about the mundanities of life, but this morning, I had a sort of
Wow! Cosmic!
Moment.

Taken At Dawn
Heavily Cropped Negative, But . .
I Like This - It's WEIRD!

Y'see there I was, at 6.30AM hanging out a line of washing in the preternatural dawn light, that I think is peculiar to Scotland . . not that I've been up before dawn in many places, but certainly comparing it to my experience of English mornings, it's different. Helluva different.

Firstly, there's the smell.
If you've ever read Ray Bradbury, you'll know that a lot of his stories are based in Green Town, Illionois; a sort of distiallation of his childhood, good and bad, all in one place.
It's a place of soda fountains and small town life; parents who love you; friends; adventure; beauty; awareness. Just plain growing up!
Now that might sound rose-tinted, but it isn't, because there's nearly always danger too:
Weird canyons and strangers, murders, space, ageing, pretty much every single thing of life, good and bad, served up like the supplies in one of those long-vanished Mom and Pop stores you always see in films.

But above all else in Ray's writing, was his sense of nature.
There's trees and meadows, cliffs and hills, and the one abiding thing above all else, is smell.
That life-infusing smell you get from grass.
All grass, not just freshly mown stuff (though that, of course, gets into your blood).
It's that smell.
A freshness like a world broken free from the shackles mankind is imposing upon it.
There's no fumes, no over-blown artificial scents, no pollution.
Just pure freshness.
And that, to my mind and schnoz, is the Scottish smell.
If you live here, try it.
Get up early and go and have a sniff.

Anyway, there I was with a pair of socks in my hand, sniffing the air, and I glanced up at the pre-dawn sky, and for a couple of minutes or so, the stars were intensified.
Not just bright and clear, but unnaturally so.
It was so noticeably so, that for a moment I was catapulted back in time, to the late 1970's and myself then.

As you might have read elsewhere on FB, I used to live in a semi-remote cottage.
It was a middle of nowhere sort of place, surrounded by trees and hills and a river and space.
There was nowhere quite like it in the Winter and I have only rarely since experienced the deep awesomeness of those Winter skies.
My bedroom had a fairly deep window-ledge - the cottages walls were around 30 inches deep in total (two stone walls, with a rubble infill) - so could accomodate a fairly large arse.
And it was on this I would sit, and (and I know this sounds weird) gaze into my mirror.
Now unusually for me (and my poor Mum and Dad . . . no, they weren't poor as in ill-health, I am talking about church-mouseness) this wasn't a cheap mirror at the time, it was Danish and plastic and made by a company called Termotex.
Here's some images of what I am talking about - mine was PURPLE! to match my purple carpet and lime-green walls . . .

OK, so it's a mirror - SO WHAT?
Well the whatness was that you could tilt that mirror and fix it so that the mirror was horizontal.
Put this on a window-ledge, angle it slightly towards the darkened sky, position yourself on windowledge, get your headphones on (and a mug of Camp Coffee) and gaze downwards, without neck strain, into a bowl, brim-full of stars.
Ah, y'see, got you there - you thought I'd gone all Narcississsisssi didn't you?
I was quite proud of my improv. skills in this.
It worked wonderfully and I was able, over long hours, to infuse my soul with the movements of planets and stars; cold, hard moonlight and that strangely intense quality of light known as The Twinkle.
I was frequently astonished by meteors.
Of course, the showers are all named these days, but to me they had no names at all.
They needed none, because they cemented a feeling that as a human, you are (no matter siblings, names, parents, possessions) ultimately alone in all this awe-inspiring order and chaos.
It was beautiful, and formed a deep well of peace inside me that I was to draw upon heavily in the Winter of 1979 . . but you've maybe read about that already on FB, so I'll not bore you.
(If you haven't search 1979 at the side . . . it'll bring it up).

Watching the skies move every night made me feel infintesimally small.
I guess that feeling that everything is, ultimately, finite, has influenced my (surprisingly to me) lack of ambition.
But is it a lack?
I am rather proud of the tagline of FB "More Detritus For The Skip Of Eternity".
Is there any point in ambition when it all ends in dust?
Well, it is hard to say.
Certainly if you want to move ahead in this loose conglomeration of folk we call 'society' then lacking ambition is seen as a serious fault.
You can't progress anywhere unless you have 'drive' and 'grit' and that old fashioned word 'vim' and even more un-PC, 'spunk'.
Yet to me that looks like folly.
You can see it on The Apprentice - all these young people, driven to the point of madness, to get a payment off an (admittedly interesting and funny) old man to further their ambition to make a mark on that cold hard sky of stars.
For what?
Self-affirmation?
Money?
A hot urine stain on the lamp-post of life?
I don't know - it's their lookout and each to their own.
As I often say in the face of everything, you can't judge someone by your own set of ideas, because EVERYONE is different.
Live and let live.
But really, is a lack of ambition that bad? I'll leave that to further convos, and anyway, I have wandered and ambled and look, we're lost in deep country and a heavy mist coming in.

Back to Levi 501's, Dunlop Greenflash and home-dyed t-shirts!
I think that 1970's mirror influenced me in ways I could never have realised at the time.
Let me explain myself . .

Yes, go on then you wittering olde git, get on with it . .

As you'll maybe know I take a LOT of pictures of reflections. I used to think that that was the influence of looking at other photographers' work, like Ernst Haas and Lee Friedlander, but it now seems to me it is more than that.
Deeper, more a part of me.
I am fascinated with reflections.
As my friend Julian (a long time reader and commenter on FB) said to me recently:

"It's the levels of reality and planes of illusion layered on one another. And your presence as a photographer, literally, in the reflections and shadows."

I pondered that for a couple of weeks.
It was a touching and very pointedly observed, and Julian, I have taken it to heart.
You are right.
These photos aren't just me, they're a part of me.
So, as I stood, frozen like a rabbit in dawn's spotlight, socks in hand, with the stars making their shine, and the presence of a young Sheephouse standing there with me, I said to him, aloud in the quietness:
"Still here; still OK"
And gently beat my chest with my fist to prove it.
And we stood, me and him, and watched those stars we knew, till the dawn clouds drew a thin veil over them, and we continued, hanging socks and pants, trousers and tops, and then came in and wrote this.

That mirror was a fascinating thing.
Not just for its ability to capture the heart of the Night Sky with a modicum of comfort, but also in the way it cut off reflections with a curve; took the glow of my fishtanks and reflected all that green and silvern light across my walls and ceiling.
How it bent reality and took the vastness of the land outside my window and reflected it inward against the window glass.
How it mixed "reality and planes of illusion layered on one another".
Weird eh!

Maybe I am speaking bollocks, but I don't think so.
I do have this habit of self-examining things and trying to find an answer.
It isn't always correct, but it often feels correct to me.
And I suppose that is all one can do as a human.
Examine your actions.
Try and be yourself.
And above all, be nice to other people.
It's not long till you're worm food and bone dust and atoms of star stuff.

Anyway, enuff ov the fillosoffikal schtuff, here's some photos . . not many, but reflections for a reflective mood.
Oh and the mirror?
Smashed by accident. . . R.I.P.