Take a small black kettle, a china tea pot, some fire wood, a jar of Oolong Tea and two small porcelain cups down to the riverside.
Far from the heart of the Rococon Empire, and at the edge of the southern sea, there lies a scattering of tropical islands, where the ships of traders pause to take on water and the intrigues of diplomacy lurk under an idyllic cloak On one these islands can be found the Wyverns’ Roost – a Tavern, a trading place, and the office of the islands Rococon Governor. He doesn’t do much governing – but he does run an excellent tavern -and employs an unusual bard …
These were thoughts I made note of three years ago – but they feel entirely timely given current discussions around the ‘erasure’ of history. It’s not about the monuments. it’s about the stories they tell – and don’t tell – the myths that grow up around them, and the associated histories that the myths sometimes de-story (and sometimes don’t, despite determined efforts to do so).
Today is Mother’s day in the UK. It’s also my Mother’s birthday.
A treasury of carefully horded ambition and inspiration. A fragile accumulation of flimsy paper, so thin as to need handling with a held back breath. Soft blue or yellow lines impressed on tissue, meant to be transferred with the gentle application of heat. Images of flowers and swirls of design, intended for interpretation – held and preserved for decades. All tucked away in paper shells, layered up and stored as ideas and opportunities – most unrealised, but some revealed in equally fragile card, pierced with pins and dusted with pounce or chalk.
From early darkness, back to early darkness, there are but short moments touched by the sun.
This is the day the Earth pauses
And yearns for sleep and rest after a long year.
The House had layers.
Do you see them passing, do you hear the ringing of quiet bells?