'One cannot speak anymore of being, one must speak only of mess.' - Samuel Beckett

Wednesday, April 20, 2005


In the dust and swept up was the body of a little bird, a small Bluetit, as fragile as the dried leaves and dust in which it lay. It must have dropped dead from disease or just plain old age. The cat that once proudly governed this small enclave of English garden had died some months before so the little bird couldn't have fallen prey to that obvious predator. I went out to take a photograph of the little corpse so that I could see the beauty of it, see the dust in myself swept up against a corner with no right or wrong in it. But an urgency of clearage had beaten me to it and the little bird had gone, swept away. Where do all the lights go?