Windy Sunday

16.58pm ( sitting at the table in the front room)

Naoise is watching How to train your dragon. P is chopping onions to make lentil dhal.

There are men on the train track, working by flood light, chopping trees and shifting soil with a digger. The train track men woke me around five this morning. I wondered why it was getting light so early. The moon was big but not that big. The light was from the work lights.

Its miserable weather. Wind gusting at 60 miles per hour. Rain rain rain rain. Floods of tears gushing down hillsides.

We never made it to Leeds to see the British Art Show, we got as far as Keighly and the council museum full of fossils and crystals and badly stuffed animals and freakish objects and ceramics resting on brown felt Notices saying do not run and turn off your mobile phone.

A heart wrapped in brown paper and punctured with nails found under floorboards.

A hen pecked husband society adult sized cradle resembling a coffin.

A two headed sheep.

A display of art work from the local art society, people and pet portraits, the Mona Lisa on a mobile phone, an idilic white cottage in a landscape, a ballet dancer drawn in pastel.

A Paul Nash painting with explantation and poem.

Portraits of upper class folk.

Above the taxidermy collection two paintings one of Adam, one of Eve completed in the 1970’s by a professional local artist of notoriety, he even painted the royals. The naked pair are hung far too high on the emerald green wall  to be properly admired. You would need a ladder to get a proper look. Perhaps a prudish curatorial decision or making a connection between the family of man and animals?  Yet the human is up high looking down, all powerful? Too powerful. There really should be no hierarchy.

Crystal, prehistoric bones, Egyptian mummy unnamed and x-rayed, a bird call, green and brown carpet. A security guard reading a book. A chandelier and a cornered off room in rope that you cannot enter. A family of four children running wild and playing hide and seek between the high glass cases.

A box of worn out pencil crayons in boxes, chair, round table but no paper to draw on. Long forgotten victorian museum, lacking in investment. Dusty beauty. Nostalgia.

P and Naoise slipped on the moss before we entered the museum. P cut his hand and his finger as he broke their falls. Naoise bumped his head and bruised his knee. He walked around the museum without his trousers on. P walked around the museum with toilet tissue stuck to bleeding flesh. There were no plasters in the first aid box, only large bandages and other useless stuff.

Traveling home over the high moor, I pulled over into a lay-by and we watched a kestral hunting, being blown around and battling the wind.

I have spent the day feeling sad and exhausted and dismal. I am just like the weather. I am sick of being like heavy weather. I am sick of eating chocolate to comfort the frustrations.

Syd is away at his dads. I am glad he is back tomorrow. I hate it when he is away.


Chris Shaw: ‘Art college was full of rich kids so I used my camera to speak to normal people, Sean O’Hagan, The Guardian, Sunday 27th November, 2015



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