Unrelated thoughts and scribbles from my notebooks lately.
It’s been weeks since I’ve been trying to catch the dormouse behind the house on camera.
Oddness. I want more oddness.
I draw a bird because I saw one for three seconds and haven’t stopped thinking about it.
…It’s made from a feeling, there are no words yet…
Little nest, blown from a tree this summer. Another creature’s work. Made from hundreds of tiny decisions. How does something so small make this?
…But the ache behind the hesitation is not fear of being seen,
but fear of being seen without context...
Forest language, please.
It’s dark. But I’m not afraid. Why would I be? Nightingale lives here, there’s nothing to be afraid of.
The garden is being devoured by weeds.
The heat is gone.
It’s the end of September. The dormouse remains uncaught.
