I’ve started putting food diary stuff over here:
It’s a bit of a mess.
Two new posts.
On the train I hold the pink, metal pole, it feels hard, solid, in my hand. But it is not. It is a vast maelstrom of unknown particles, repulsing, spinning, attracting and held together by the force of unfathomable, ancient and arcane truths.
|—||Another one from Mornings in Mexico|
|—||David Herbert Lawrence, Mornings in Mexico|
tumblrbot asked: ROBOTS OR DINOSAURS?
Earlier today we watched a repeat of an episode of Antiques Roadshow, broadcast from Belfast.
It was fascinating.
The daughter and granddaughter of Elsie Wright, one of the two ladies who, as little girls, faked the cottingley faeie photos, brought in some memorabilia.
They brought out a few new faeie photos that they had found, and one of original cameras that the little girls used. The grand daughter had found them a few days earlier, when she was cleaning out the family safe.
They told the famous old story (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cottingley_Fairies) and then the host asked them if all the photos were fake. The daughter of Elsie, who is now an old lady, said yes, they’re fake. Except this one.
She defended the reality of the faeies in the image with an impassioned (and a little bit mad) tirade. The presenter then asked both of them if they believed that the photo was genuine, and the old lady affirmed her belief, with a strong nod and a “Yes”. Her belief could easily be assumed to be the delusions of an old lady.
But the granddaughter, who seemed like a normal, slightly posh, thirty something woman, nodded shyly.
So could these people genuinely believe that faeies exist? A close family who have lived their whole lives with this story whirling around them, could they absorb it, justify it and start to believe it?
There could be a more cynical explanation. The family sold a number of prints and other bits for £21000 ish a few years ago, and glass photo plates for £6000. The whole thing could be just the family having a go at raising the value of their next sale.
Or the faeies could be real.
(I’m not self conscious of using the word faeie instead of fairy. At all.)
A dark grey slab, strait and clean, the roof of the platform opposite me stretched away towards the sky. Above the platform the early evening sky blazed from bright smokey violet to violent peach. It was shot through with black lines that carried electric power like an unstoppable weight of crackling water. And behind all this shattering potential a full arch of rainbow glowed out, strong and clear. Every visable colour spraying from a million raindrops as the last tiny droplets sparked on my skin.