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I want blow-up things on the lawn. Across the street, plastic snowflakes swirl in a giant sphere. Spectacle and pageant? Extravagant, in-your-face celebration?
No use. She grabs my h nd, ug h rd. A brown horse stands outside a ramshackle barn like a prophet who preaches each day is a miracle. I lower the car window and let the cold air grant absolution. Bru na Boinne New Grange Mist clings to parched grass grainy grey light conceals the mounds no creature join our pilgrimage.
Walking on my toes, I stumble conscious of bones under the soil the valiant song thrush who heralded many dawns and sweetly closed dusk. Families of rabbits who gathered to wonder at this new edifice. And the builders building a place of celebration community, marvel. Rejoicing at the return of the light to this small island on the edge of oceans and continents. N he e e kind y u can buy in a supermarket but true, wild strawberries dug from under he n w in J nu ry.
Imagine if you had never tasted any fruit and you had your first bite, rich and sweet, with a tang that made you want to dance in your snow boots. First you must steal the strawberry leaves from a ducal coronet. Plain gold is best, though one studded with pearls will do. Most are kept in bank vaults these days, so you just have to wait your chance to snatch one. Then you need a bear who understands human speech.
Not many of them survive, even in the forests of Russia, or at least, not many who will admit to their talent. I found mine in the north of Norway, not a polar bear but a brown cub in his first season away from hi m her. Bu he w curi u. He listened while I told him of the songs I would make about him, if our hunt succeeded. But it was the strawberries that tempted him: I knew that all along.
Tinkering Spaces: Interview with Emilie Brehm
You put the ducal strawberry leaves into a pot, with seven drops of your own blood, seven from the bear, a lock of hair from your true love, a feather from a white owl and petals from a rowan tree which m in ecem er. You stir the pot all night long. One little mouthful was all I got, just enough to make me crave for more.
Then the bear. One mouthful and none for my true love. She has never forgiven me. In exchange for cheese, bread, fruit a grocer gave old books, battered dictionaries— blue paper Minervas were doors to haunt the gothic horrors of fantasies that blew the boundaries of his playground with more than gunpowder in those nightly friendship kisses until occult Walker showed this son Saturns through solar microscope.
Like all caged spirits everywhere his rages erupted volcanically in fire balloons, grave wanderings, until from Lind hermetic lore, daemon raising and the art of postal debate disguised as distressed sender became a way to turn authority inside out and roundabout.
All youth delights in desire and love forbidden by foreboding redwoods that cast their fearful shadows on new growth so that all change becomes a type of war waged in by Hogg and Shelley in pistol shot at parliamentary franking, paper sailing boats, Voltaire Godwin, Paine and Franklin, dreams of Venus played out in all her different starring guises. I see him now illumined by ideal waging a secret war against warfare. Had he not mailed all the bishops all college heads copies of his pamphlet, or pledged support for Finnerty in the Herald, would it have become a party affair?
Or was it his refusal to acknowledge his authorship before the assembled authorities on the grounds of Anonymous publication? Not belief nor allegiance nor inquiry expelled him from Oxford but rule breaking— At the age of nineteen barred from family an outcast in exile.
Fiction was now fact born with fiend of solitude in cave of Fancy by dreams mists within dream of soul that terrified and mesmerised the pillars of his disbelief in Xt chasing after his chase of commune with Venus. There is nothing quite as Shelleyan as an August coffee shop lurk on Sunday in an enchanted , Nothing spells romantic more than elope in a night train from Green Dragon Inn bound for Edinburgh with Harriet Westgrove. There is a rescue urge chasing Shelley along the rushing river and rocky heights below the wooded valleys of losses. After wedlock his wolf would prowl the price of forbidden match.
Pattern of myth making key events, Pattern of three in free love households occlude easy tale but occult had lit a spark that fanned to flame in his time of occupying army in an England that was hungry, discontent, angry, and those strange lights and noises at his cottage brought out an atheist in all believers in non-believers in gang attack. Is there a myth more mythical than that of son falling from his father in faith and art? In his search for meaning he met his double future in Southey who met his past self in Shelley. Misunderstood in hi di e ief.
There is something braver in cowardice that stands its ground despite its fear.
There was something stronger in them now after this. They left Whitehaven in the rain for Dublin. The echoes of their pamphlet throwing ghosts chase the wind when papers blow about Fishamble Street in February rain. His speech was heard and noted by special agents and his name was filed away in Whitehall. In letters he sent to his soul sister Miss Hitchener tales of human despair replaced theory, but in letters sent to Godwin he tempered down as he wrote his Declaration of Rights he sent on to Devon in a large deal box.
The Irish mission. Nugent and swallowed the truth of doormen guarding bigotry by keeping out. The wolf that snapped at his heels gave him reason not to always pay his bills and gave customs reason to open up the deal box to see what it had hid within.
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Only Dan Healy, their Irish convert was caught in Barnstaple by covert spies pinning up hated Rights to barnyard doors and sentenced to six months for subversive. If his soul sister Portia had fallen from favour the Embankment project was vision of reform in earthly surroundAs he followed promised payments did he see the irony? If all hunted accept the role of hunter what do they reflect but wolf? All packs have alpha males that maintain the social order with force but Shelley threw caution to February winds.
If the Embankment was to survive work unrest could let high spring tides fatally breach all. Perhaps the future that he saw blinded him as he displayed again his sympathies for fourteen executed frame workers for Luddite activities. When the Honourable Robert Lesson was given the Irish pamphlet he sent. Saturday 26 February saw that sabre wielding poet retire with his pair of pistols. Perhaps he wrote some more of Queen Mab or perhaps he spoke to Harriet of their child that was due in June. Some like to say the house that night was visited by a haunting ghostly, others that his doppelganger was who he wrestled with that night after shots were fired.
The conspiracy of silence he thought was built against him across the waves to an island in Killarney never to be the sword of prophecy again. As in every mystery the theories that emerge say more about the teller than any tale. The hallucination tale centres on absent footprints on ground wet from torrential and paved with stones on all three sides of veranda.
The impression of ball on wainscot spoke of shot fired towards the window not from but trajectory of downward from east holed gown before wainscot rest. Behind deleted and obscured lies Lady Truth written down as letter by Harriet which finds intruder quitting office by shrubbery window who missed his shot at S who fired before struggle on wet ground found target on villainous who swore revenge by God on wife and sister before he fled.
The clock chimed four to sound of pistol shot then broken glass by death struggle. That they had heard it said Leeson had sworn to drive them out of that country is fact. Was Mr.
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S taunted by Gothic tale made real to terrorize their terror? A small Christmas poem A winter butterfly seeks his way into your house. He bakes memories, sometimes with soft centres. He makes you see no empty chairs at the table, no words waiting to be released from absent mouths. In the evening, he will turn your face away from the fairy lights chain, he will ask you to press your red cheeks against his cinnamon wings. Bleeding, he will tell you to put his dust in a small bag. He will say that is all you ever had and all you ever want again.
Burn all the Clocks The streets alive with sound and colour in the distance, lights of the promenade, the pier. The crowd makes heat and winter is dismissed in a flurry of white tissue paper lanterns. Our offerings tied to willow canes our costumes depict the clock-face, this is our home-grown offering. Later on the beach, on wet slippery pebbles we will march to the bonfire, cast our lanterns to the flames.