The tantalising Tarn turns to terrible thoughts

Leaving the snow-dusted valley behind, I begin to climb.

Mutli-coloured rocks protrude through a frosty coating;

their staccatoed presence offering steps for weary feet.

Fern corpses, reddening the banks of the path;

bowing down, as sorrowful as the combed hair of a bolding man.

Gushing foams of crashing water to the right;

thundering in to clear pools, creating chaos and delight.

Wolf-like sheep stare as I clamber to the top;

their black beady eyes bore through and beyond me.

The Tarn sumit offering a tranquil place to rest.

Sitting on a rock beside the frozen lake the chill of it all;

creeping within me twisting my heart like the 'Mirror of Reason'

All becomes ugly, distorted and misery sets in.

The waters wash over me as I sink beneath their icy waves;

Lost to the tantalising Tarn and my terrible thoughts.

 

 

Books

As a Happy Post-Christmas self-indulgant gift I bought myself a book. Stephen Fry's 'The Fry Chronicles' was purchased, really, as a much needed something more interesting than a rag to read as I waited for @gazcook to meet me in the increasingly vacumous of soul-sucking shopping centres in Blackburn, Lancashire. As a pawed through the first saccharine sodden pages, the swirling chaos of shoppers and coffee slurpers, about me, were silenced to a dull-throbbing hum. Joy. I had been swept away by another's life and felt that guilty greedy glow of pleasure at reading of Fry's flaws, fragility and gratuitous self annihilation.

  Part way through the book I noticed that the publishers, as with most autobiographies, had thought it of value to supplement Fry's words with images. Now, whilst I am a lover of a great image (illustrous images being a fundamental feature of my love for @gazcook - photojournalist and all-in-all photographic God) once I find a book contains them I become lost to an overwhelming urge to look through all the images instead of working chronologically towards them. So strong is my desire for the photographic imagery that I only managed to reach Chapter 3, page 67 before the dark internal calling engulfed me and I was leafing intoxicatingly through Fry's life in all its black and white, colour and waxy paper glory. On reaching the final page of images (notibly Fry in his glasses, as an almost handsome fellow) I was then hit with the rack of misery I always feel knowing that I had downed the lot in one hit. Silly me. Silly publishers.

  If only the temptation was removed. I could have wallowed, undisturbed, in the delight of Fry's delicious collection of words. Images, as I see it, are far better left to photographic books (like the 'flashes to ashes' documentary photography book @gazcook works to sell - images included below). Where leafing through a collection of images is encouraged - supplemented sometimes by a scattering of words. Or perhaps, in future autobiographies, all the images could be stored at the front so that my ugly craving can be suitably and immediately sated. I can then move gracefully on to the magic of the words with my mind lacing the memory of the seen images in to the tapestry of my imagination. Although in short, I should undo the worry and waste not a second more mumbling on and get back to C is for College......   

Anna Byrom

See and download the full gallery on posterous

Yanomamo: The Jaguar

via youtube.com

one for @cmb_dixon and @CharHarAgain the only one I could find.

Vodka - a tall tale.

This recording was taken over the festive period 2010. 

It's an alcohol induced tale of Vodka.

  
Download now or listen on posterous

Vodka_words_2010.amr (116 KB)

Being directionless, finding my life spiraling down a well-trodden path feels sickeningly slow.
A wieldy net harpoons my fast beating wings.
Occasional loosening of the fine ropes tantalises inner spirit.
Yet the quickening race of my heart,
the rapid flurry of feathers
the bright glare of widening pupils
are all in vain.

There is no escape.

The burning grip of reality shears at my face, deep through the skin
I find myself pinned down by some grappling hand of fate.

There is however, the lingering hope.
A secret imagining a captured glimmer of escape.
Yet not beyond the net, the cage
but within it
within me.