[I originally posted this image as early access for my Patreon patrons on 11 July 2021].
beers and bikes in belgium
[I originally posted this entry as early access for my Patreon patrons on 19 May 2021].
Googling tonight to figure out where this was, and now having seen photos of the interior of this establishment, I'm gutted I didn't get to visit during opening hours in 2014.
Another reason to return to Belgium in the future.
known unto god
rear window (you can see hollywood from here)
[I originally posted this image as early access for my Patreon patrons on 23 March 2021].
terrain de jeux
[I originally posted this image as early access for my Patreon patrons on 3 March 2021].
untitled #176
[I originally posted this entry as early access for my Patreon patrons on 19 January 2021].
So, I'm trying to be a bit more planned and less haphazard with what and how I share my work with my patrons this year.
Although there'll still be plenty of room for me to be spontaneous, I thought it would be helpful for me to have a bit of a pattern/routine in sharing some of my photography.
With that in mind, the past two Sundays I've shared early-access posts featuring newly edited images from my sepulchre series.
I'd been weighing up how to work these into a weekly programme. Having a hashtag-worthy concept without sounding too flippant, morbid, or offensive.
I'd started weighing up #CemeterySunday (I couldn't bring myself to alliterate to the point of #SematarySunday) but, being the semantic stickler I am, I couldn't settle on that. Some images would be from churchyards, graveyards or other burial places, not all would be taken in cemeteries.
I'll likely use #CemeterySunday appropriately on social media depending upon the subject. But, for Patreon, I'm thinking of this collection as #SepulchralSunday, falling back to the (now glaringly obvious) use of my overall series name for the alliterative and catchy collective term for these images.
#SepulchralSunday images will include those from my stained glass series, season's grievings curated series and any new curated series. As well as one-off photographs appropriate to the theme.
Another genre within my work 'upvoted' in my recent polls on Patreon (which are still open until the end of the month!) was my travel photography. So I'm going to default to social media type and declare this the first of my #TravelTuesday posts. It seems particularly appropriate to focus on these one day a week while most of us can't travel far from home.
As these are two genres strongly represented in much of my photography, it seems like an incentive to gradually work through editing images long overdue to see the light.
Without any particular catchy hashtag to accompany them, I'm hoping to share a more in-depth post with you each Friday. A small series of images focussing on a specific place or subject, likely accompanied by a bit more writing than I might offer on other days.
With these new plans, sepulchre and travel images won't be restricted to Sundays and Tuesdays*. But I hope they'll become regular features my patrons come to eagerly anticipate in their inbox.
Along with my new Love letters to London series, I'm hoping to write a new instalment of my postcards from another's life series to share with my patrons each month.
I have more plans for this year, but let's start with these.
And let's start with a view of Bruges taken in 2014.
*I realise that depending upon your location, these may actually be #SepulchralMonday and #TravelWednesday since I have a tendency to post in my evenings ;)
beautyberry
They unfurled the blanket on the damp ground. The sun had appeared. The rain had stopped long enough ago for them to feel confident of a pleasant, warm spring afternoon. But the soil beneath their feet still held a lot of water. And, here and there, raindrops still rested on the leaves, flowers and berries around them.
The berries, in particular, caught their eye. A royal purple. A vibrant, saturated colour set off by the green of the leaves separating the bunches along the branches. The berries clustered in groups at regular intervals along the stem, like disordered regiments at ease on their tea break. Clustered but unorganised.
They talked while they unpacked their afternoon's repast. They laid out their plates, cutlery, glasses. The cheese, crackers, fruit jelly and wine.
The sun licked at their cheeks. Added an extra pinkness to their complexions; a gentle glow.
They kicked off their shoes and took a seat. They nibbled at the tasty morsels they'd gathered together. Feasted upon the cheese; drank deeply of the wine made from the berries that overhung their current resting place. It warmed them from the inside while the spring sun warmed their skin with gentle kisses.
They spread the jam - made from the berries festooning the clearing - across their scones. Placed generous daubs of clotted cream upon it. The sweetness was overwhelming and welcome.
Once they had eaten their fill - talking animatedly throughout - they reclined on the blanket and gazed up at the blue sky. The light breeze caught the berry bushes' branches and caused them to swing in and out of their line of sight.
She looked up at the berries and let her gaze drop in and out of focus. As she let her eyes rest and her focus soften, the berries took on the soft, blurred, bokeh appearance of lights photographed out of focus at night.
She reached a hand up and gently twisted a berry off the branch with her fingertips. The berry still held the last vestiges of the spring shower, causing its purple blush to stain her fingertips as she rolled it between them. She drew the berry under her nose to smell its scent of crushed leaves.
As she turned the berry between her fingers, they talked of immortality in all its guises. The banter between them outlined the potential pitfalls of an eternity of life. They lay side by side curled up against each other, lost in a comfortable silence.
Unbeknownst to each other, both their thoughts turned to how pleasant it would be for this moment to last an eternity. They both sank into this thought, unaware of the collective power it held over them. They closed their eyes and let the spring sun warm their skin as the thought warmed their hearts.
They poured more wine and drank it as they talked more with each other. Listened more to each other. They nibbled at the remaining cheese, sliced apple and beautyberry jam. They roused themselves enough to draw out the Scrabble board and laugh their way through a close game.
As the game ended, the sun's warmth receded. The light had dropped without them noticing while they were absorbed in letters, words, high scores and banter. They pulled their jackets about them, feeling the cool afternoon breeze caress their arms and cheeks.
They gathered up the remnants of their meal. Their belongings. They shook out the blanket. The beautyberries that had fallen onto the blanket as they sat and conversed, teased and taunted, and lost themselves in the moment and each other, scattered around them.
The purple berries settled into the damp grass around them. They unwittingly trampled them underfoot as they moved around the clearing gathering up the detritus of their picnic. As they packed away the last of their picnic items, the remaining morsels of food and drink, and bundled them up, a light shower started to fall.
They moved faster, now conscious the clouds coming in threatened a greater downpour, but they savoured the touch of rain upon their faces. Dampening their hair. They paused as they both reached for the picnic basket.
He paused to wipe away a raindrop from her cheek. She paused to taste of the sweet rain that rested on his lips. They shared one last moment that felt like an eternity before turning to run, pell-mell, for the car.
They reached the warmth and dryness of its interior as the summer rain started to fall with full force. Pelting the windscreen and obscuring them from view of the outside world.
leonine
She shook out her hair, giving nary a care, and glanced around at the flock
She arched her back, gathered her pack, and plotted the demise of the stock
She watched and she waited, anticipated, observing their comings and goings
She paced and she paced, assessed the enemy she faced, she watched for their weaknesses showing
The air was so clear their words she could hear, they drifted across on the breeze
She took it all in, their clamour and din, as it carried across narrow seas
She awaited their landing from where she was standing smelling their scent on the air
It seemed such a long time but in the meantime she prepared for their imminent scare
Meanwhile on the incoming boat her enemies they stayed afloat, oblivious to her presence
Their doe-eyes distracted, their future seemed fractured, but they clearly had no sense
Of what was soon coming, no hawing and humming, their future by her was well-mapped
She openly taunted, her strength it was flaunted, but meanwhile those sheep were well napped
As she yawned her teeth bared, they were suddenly scared, they saw from the boat their demise
Too late they foresaw the strength of her maw, too late their route to revise
She slavered and drooled, her hunger it ruled, her teeth gnashed together in anticipation
Her mind was intent, her appetite unspent, she eyed her incoming meal with elation
From the shore she surmised their growing surprise at the future that faced them on landing
It gave her great pleasure to enjoy at leisure their burgeoning understanding
They were cowed and they wavered, their lowing it quavered, their courage it turned to milk
They flocked together, as if by a tether, shimmering as though they were silk
The shepherds and crew, devouring their stew, continued oblivious below decks
They had not a worry for nought but their curry, but definitely not for their necks
The men would continue to strain every sinew and entertain each other
They'd chew on their gristle and emit a whistle and fantasise 'bout their lover
They drank deep, ate hearty, they dressed oh so smartly, they exhibited oh so much style
They sang and they jigged, their boat they had rigged, to carry them one further mile
Their journey's end was in sight, they continued to enjoy the night, oblivious to what may await them
They revelled in anticipation, experienced overwhelming elation, despite the oncoming mayhem
The sheep and the cow, alert at the bow, gazed upon her mane
The second mate and the drunk navigat-or revelled in their shame
The boat it did falter, its course it may alter, but none at the wheel were prepared
To change the ship's course, avoid all remorse, so lives of those creatures were spared
They bobbed on the waves, contemplated their graves, they lowed and they baa-ed until hoarse
The shanties below, sung by every young fellow, drowned out their sounds with such force
Meanwhile on the land, the lioness took her stand, she focussed on what was to come
She stifled a roar, surveyed the seashore, and wondered where had they come from
Her pack stood attentive, eager yet pensive, intermittently licking their lips
They paced and they wandered, their energy squandered, their eyes fixed on the ships
They maundered, meandered, their thoughts underhanded, victory certain as life
Their leader so strong but the boat's approach so long, their attention, it turned to strife
They fought and they tussled, their fur it was ruffled, they argued amongst one other
They were distracted with thought, they played and they fought, they pursued another's lover
In short, they grew weary, some grew teary, their minds moved away from the prize
They bickered and teased, they snickered and sleazed, they mislaid the element of surprise
As the boat drew up to the shore, she let out a heart-stopping roar, that made the boatswain faint
Her teeth bared, ferocious, her manner precocious, the crew all prayed to a saint
Quite clearly it wasn't the same one, as their salvation wasn't won, so their fate lay in the paws of the beast
Her mercy was not what they hoped, the weaker ones fell and they moped, as she came at them from the east
Despite her pack's distraction, the campaign gained much traction, they tore apart man, sheep and cow
The blood it flowed quite free, it coloured all the sea, the colour red still dominates it now
She watched her pack quite proudly, she expressed her gratitude loudly, they dragged the creatures one by one back to the den
She knows the outcome could have been different, though she's not one to be diffident, but this time it was simply a matter of when
tunnelling
He ran his fingertips along the wall as he walked toward the light. The surface of the wall crumbled away, falling to the tunnel floor as he moved forward. He raised his fingers to his nose, looking ahead into the light, not pausing for a moment.
The smell as he ran his fingers under his nostrils brought back so many memories. Days spent with his mother in the yard picking strawberries from the patch. Gathering blackberries from the bush out front of the house.
The damp, dank smell of the tunnel mixed with the dirt to bring back a sense of petrichor without the grass. There was no grass to be seen.
He felt it should have been an unpleasant smell, down here, but the mixture of scent and memory made for an overwhelming feeling of inexplicable nostalgia. Inexplicable because he had never been here before.
The light from the stone, glassless windows played on the wall. The wall's uneven surface glimmered a little in the sunlight. It brightened and darkened as the sun played over it, and as the clouds moved across the face of the sun.
He gently placed his fingers on a sun-kissed patch of wall and felt the warm clamminess of the soil forming it against his fingertips. It brought back overwhelming memories of days spent by the local creek on sweltering summer days.
He pressed his fingers into the warm, moist mud and watched the soil curve around his fingertips. He wondered if the sunlight ever dried the wall out, or if it just warmed the moisture like it was doing now.
He dragged his fingers down the wall with movements more deliberate and less tentative than those previously. The surface of the wall smeared and distorted with the movement of his fingers.
He left his mark on the wall but doubted it would remain. For he could see no evidence of another's presence here beyond the existence of the tunnel itself.
Clearly many had been here before him. No one man could have created this opening, this entrance, this channel, on their own. No solitary man was up to that task.
This was a collaboration. A mammoth task. But around him he saw no evidence of man. No evidence of those before him. The tunnel appeared untouched, but simply by its existence it could not have been. He was not the first being to have wandered through this darkened hall.
He moved forward. He was drawn forward without really knowing why. He just didn't feel that moving backwards was an option. A valid avenue to take. The light led him forward. The possibility of what was beyond enticed him. It scared him, but he was hypnotised by the prospect of what may lay ahead.
To be honest, he didn't even really know how he had come to be here. He felt he had some vague sense of 'before', but it was just that: vague. It didn't really make a lot of sense and was just a mixture of sounds, smells, lights, tastes and textures. Nothing solid he could put his finger on.
Not like the warm, earthen tunnel walls his hands continued to gently glide over as he moved forward.
Before he had felt smothered by the dark. Warm, cocooned, safe. But smothered. As he moved forward he felt less so. He felt the air thinning. Less choked with the musty, but homely scent he'd become used to.
He tentatively but optimistically moved forward. He noticed new scents. Ones he couldn't identify. Confusing. Fascinating. Terrifying. Enticing. He felt overwhelmed but knew that turning back wasn't the right way either. His curiosity overpowered his fear. Drove him forward, despite not knowing where it drew him.
The light grew brighter. He saw colours around him now, not just shades of black, white and grey.
He heard sounds beyond what he'd heard before. Previously they were always muffled. Calming, but unclear. A dull aching sound that he'd wanted to draw closer to and hear properly. Like listening in to a conversation through a wall that you can't quite make out.
The sort of muffled conversation that keeps you awake nights as you catch an exclamation, a cry, a sob here and there, but you can't quite make out the context. What it all means. Whether the people you hear are arguing or conversing, happy or sad, excited or angry.
But as he moved closer it felt like a lens coming into focus. A camera zooming in on the scene. It all became clear.