coalbrookdale
No names. It's not important you know. Impressions. Emotions. And context. Other things going on. So a documentary about Daniel Ellsberg and the Pentagon Papers makes me feel fresh distaste for Richard Nixon. But mainly for the Vietnam war. It connects up later.
A family walking away from the Iron Bridge.
'I don't want to.'
'We're going to the next museum.'
February.
Briefly in the morning my mobile phone gets signal. My brother's wife gave birth to their third child yesterday.
Around three in the morning break off talking briefly.
'It's snowing.'
A track through woodland uphill. Coalbrookdale Watercourses. Being alive. I start running. Uphill. Up wooden steps. It feels great. This is why I like running. Not to get anywhere. Not to be first or fastest. Not for fitness. Because it's liberating. It's just nice to run. Then to be seriously even painfully out of breath.
On only a brief acquaintance Ironbridge seems like a weird place to grow up. Ten museums. Not long after the bridge time stopped. Industry went away.
It snows between Stockport and Wolverhampton. About one until two in the afternoon. It snows in Coalbrookdale from around three in the morning. It snows briefly in Manchester from four in the afternoon before turning to rain.
Despite the lies that led up to the invasion of Iraq. Despite the long and bloody engagement in Afghanistan. Despite this America continues a slow build up to war with Iran.
Saturday night. Go out several times to sit in the cold.
A small featureless snow person on a wall.
After the wedding ceremony. Before exchanging rings. The rings are passed round and we say something. Some people cry.
Sleep in Friday morning. Change trains at Wolverhampton.
No time to work on two separate proposals. No time to work on two poems. No time to work on a blog post for a friend.
The build up seems familiar. The same lies. The same claims that a particular country offers a fundamental existential threat.
I like water. Walking by water. Whether a still pool or lake with extensive reeds and plant growth blurring the edges. Whether a black and litter filled canal. Whether a narrow river over stones. Whether the coast. The coast with mudflats. The coast with sharp sandstone. The coast with pebbled beaches. Streams down hillsides.
Top up mobile phone credit.
Call university to pay an outstanding invoice.
Talk to people I haven’t seen in ten years.
Concern about Israeli use of stolen passports. Apparently no concern over extra-judicial murders in third countries.
Walk across the bridge. Apart from the history it seems unremarkable. An attractive structure. My acrophobia won’t allow me to go right to the edge and look over. Or not for long.
Waiting in Telford unable to go far from the station. The town centre is across the motorway. A footbridge over.
I buy a Saturday Guardian a cheese and onion pasty a chocolate bar and a bottle of milk.
‘Is that breakfast or lunch?’
It’s breakfast.
A family walking away from the Iron Bridge.
'I don't want to.'
'We're going to the next museum.'
February.
Briefly in the morning my mobile phone gets signal. My brother's wife gave birth to their third child yesterday.
Around three in the morning break off talking briefly.
'It's snowing.'
A track through woodland uphill. Coalbrookdale Watercourses. Being alive. I start running. Uphill. Up wooden steps. It feels great. This is why I like running. Not to get anywhere. Not to be first or fastest. Not for fitness. Because it's liberating. It's just nice to run. Then to be seriously even painfully out of breath.
On only a brief acquaintance Ironbridge seems like a weird place to grow up. Ten museums. Not long after the bridge time stopped. Industry went away.
It snows between Stockport and Wolverhampton. About one until two in the afternoon. It snows in Coalbrookdale from around three in the morning. It snows briefly in Manchester from four in the afternoon before turning to rain.
Despite the lies that led up to the invasion of Iraq. Despite the long and bloody engagement in Afghanistan. Despite this America continues a slow build up to war with Iran.
Saturday night. Go out several times to sit in the cold.
A small featureless snow person on a wall.
After the wedding ceremony. Before exchanging rings. The rings are passed round and we say something. Some people cry.
Sleep in Friday morning. Change trains at Wolverhampton.
No time to work on two separate proposals. No time to work on two poems. No time to work on a blog post for a friend.
The build up seems familiar. The same lies. The same claims that a particular country offers a fundamental existential threat.
I like water. Walking by water. Whether a still pool or lake with extensive reeds and plant growth blurring the edges. Whether a black and litter filled canal. Whether a narrow river over stones. Whether the coast. The coast with mudflats. The coast with sharp sandstone. The coast with pebbled beaches. Streams down hillsides.
Top up mobile phone credit.
Call university to pay an outstanding invoice.
Talk to people I haven’t seen in ten years.
Concern about Israeli use of stolen passports. Apparently no concern over extra-judicial murders in third countries.
Walk across the bridge. Apart from the history it seems unremarkable. An attractive structure. My acrophobia won’t allow me to go right to the edge and look over. Or not for long.
Waiting in Telford unable to go far from the station. The town centre is across the motorway. A footbridge over.
I buy a Saturday Guardian a cheese and onion pasty a chocolate bar and a bottle of milk.
‘Is that breakfast or lunch?’
It’s breakfast.
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