A couple of instances back I was posting historical runestone images found while digging into Sweden's Runor archives. I think I only managed two posts before abandoning the idea, but I'm now thinking of revisiting it. There's some great photos hidden away in that database that deserve to be more widely seen.
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Repost. Gotland sheep w/ grave-field stones.
Häglinge gravfält.
RAÄ-nummer: Häglinge 1:1.
(Rollei Paul & Reinhold).
[#]BelieveInFilm #SheepOfMastodon #StandingStoneSunday
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Another night of apparitions. I wake in hot sweats and haunted and set about occupying myself. I kindle the oven at 04:30 and spend an hour rearranging shelves and firewood piles. Another hour nursing a pot of coffee. Yet another watching for a sign of sunrise through the forest.
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Repost. Gotland sheep w/ grave-field stones.
Vätteryds gravfält.
RAÄ-nummer: Norra Mellby 1:1.
(Kodak TMAX 3200).
[#]BelieveInFilm #SheepOfMastodon #StandingStoneSunday
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Overnight drifts bury the front steps. Breakfast is two cups of coffee and a bowl of porridge topped with last season's berries, honey and poppy seeds. A sprinkling of cinnamon. By first light I'm wrapped in hat and scarf and in calf-deep digging out the cottage, barn and woodshed. The snow easy to shovel, fine and loose like the wash of sandy beaches. My face turned against the spindrift mists.
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A sudden cold snap after bemoaning the mildness of Winter. I wake at 03:00 to a blizzard pounding the cottage with cricket ball flakes. My bare feet on freezing floorboards while I look for an extra wool blanket to throw over the bed. The bedroom half-lit by the halation glow of moonlight off snow.
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By 08:30 a dim grey light diffuses the mountain. The spruce horizon – like a long smear of soot – obscures the slate sky. I listen to the chatter of very late, or very early, migrating geese.
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Foul winds continue to batter the mountain. I wake in darkness to the sound of cracking trees. I dress quickly and shuffle to the kitchen to discover the power is out. I fumble with my phone flashlight for the oil lamp, the candles, the kindling to start the fire and get the coffee brewing.
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Comparison.
"I feed a sheet into my Olivetti Roma, manufactured in the 1980s by Olivetti Do Brasil
A travel typewriter with smooth keys, 13pt micro elite typeface, grey case with eye-catching red trim
A detail that recalls the best known works by the architect Lina Bo Bardi"
[#]Architecture #Typewriter
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An exchange with @allysseriordan inspired me to do this. It was made quick and dirty, and it sounds like sludge because it's recorded via an old Zoom H4n propped up next to a speaker, with no attempt to adjust the levels. Was fun to mess with field recordings for the first time in years though.
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Lofi experiment.
Bird song, squeaky leather boots, kicking rocks.
[#]Ambient #FieldRecording
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His hermitage in a fen of immense size with immense marshes, black pools of water, foul running streams, and also many islands, and reeds, and hillocks, and thickets, and with manifold windings wide and long
And far far older than this two-hundred-year-old cottage
https://write.as/fltmtn/a-land-covered-in-darkness
[#]Journal #Writing #WritingCommunity
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A dry crust of earth nostalgic of char sack. A droughty soil rind reminiscent of smoke. From the brackish water a ridged backbone worn smooth in granite. A glacial outcrop growing goldmoss stonecrop, purple loosestrife, seaside aster. Warded by grand pitchy cormorants, a legion measure of devil's-bird terns.
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The only way out is full immersion. Winter accelerationism. There's a reason my wardrobe has been 98% black since 1998. I will become the dark. I am the dark.
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Struggling to adjust to the darkness this year. Lethargic. Looking towards the Winter solstice. My lower back has started aching and I'm already tired of the daily firewood and kindling splitting. Six more months to go.
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Minus twelve degrees. First of the wintry feeling days here on the mountain. No snow yet, only frosted grass cracking underfoot. Heat radiating from the fired kakelugnar.
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Cottage garden.
Expired Polaroid.
[#]BelieveInFilm
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A land covered in darkness. A land grown over with swarths, swards, swads. Remnants of yellow rattle and foxglove beardtongue haunting the meadow, the leasow, the mædsplott, suppressed by tussocky matt. Thistle, nettle, ragwort. Half-buried a broke plough gone to moss and mildew. The ghost of a pasture. A farmland sold off decades prior. The family hung on longer than most. Mosaic ecologies becoming bramble, scrub and tree.
Rough stuff that wears down wildflowers.
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And I'm finally starting to work on my flora print project again.
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This is my tiny workspace lately. Note the lack of laptop. This is also a phone free zone (aside from taking this photo).
It's pretty cosy up here and I get a good elevated view through the forest.
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text/gemini
