Withering

Withering

Loves me
Loves me not

Loves me
Loves me not

I crush the fragile petals in my fingers

Loves me
Loves me not

First I pluck the almost dead ones

Defenceless

Loves me
Loves me not

I disturb the symmetry

Loves me
Loves me not

I change

Loves me
Loves me not

I strip away the beauty

Loves me
Loves me not

What’s left?

Does by meaning to something we actually are changing reality or just our perception of it?

Cut flowers. Dead Flowers.

My manager at work got flowers on Friday from one of our regular customers.

- I've been thinking about you guys a lot lately, this is for Gary, I hope he's feeling a bit better.

I heard this as she handed the flowers to my manager. Gary has leukaemia, he's been ill for years. No, he's not better.

-Oh, I saw those dead plants and thought of Gary.

I should teach my head to follow a slightly different train of thought at this stage. But I really don't like cut flowers. The moment the root is cut off - they die. We hand ourselves bouquets of dead plants. We compare the smells of dead petals. We arrange colourful bouquets of death in vases.

I like plants in their natural habitat. I am saddened by seeing trees standing alone by the streets, single roses in tiny transparent vases on restaurant tables. Where does this love of inanimate beauty come from? Is it about its transience? Its fragility? It’s poetic?

So... the pictures

I took these photos at the end of last summer in a park near our house. Every year flowers are planted in the same place for the bees to enjoy. I like this place because it's unusual for Northern Ireland - the flowers are left alone, from seed until all the flowers perish and the place turns from a colourful meadow into a wild bush. Almost no one here ever allows urban nature to grow unchecked - the lawns are always evenly trimmed, the trees planted by the roadside are enclosed with paving slabs, and the shrubs look as if there is some general rule as to how they must present themselves. You can be fined for not trimming your lawn. Yes, seriously.

Such extreme attention to aesthetics strikes me as quite amusing in a place where moss will overgrow absolutely anything that is left outside for more than a few days at a standstill. From stones to forgotten scooters on roadsides. Even the pavements are turning green. I find bits of moss growing over the seals in the car windows when I don't move my car anywhere for longer period of time.

Sometimes I think it is the moss that holds everything together - walls, houses and roads:) I think it could easily be called the fifth element of this place:)

Find time to stare

Do you like to stare? Mindlessly, unintentionally, brazenly. Staring.

I like to stare. The lack of time for staring bothers me on a daily basis. I drive to work by car(because honestly getting around Northern Ireland by any other mode of transport can only lead to mental ill health) so - I can't stare. I have to look out for traffic lights, for other road users, for the condition of the road, for speed, for engine revs. The worst is when I see something really beautiful - the sky reflected in the windows of high-rise buildings, the greening hills adorning the horizon, a pedestrian in a crazy coloured coat...

When the music from the loudspeaker relates to the passing landscapes and people. When, while waiting for the traffic lights to change, you catch someone's curious eye in the car next to you.

Small and big coincidences. Small beauties and big uglies.

I want to stare longer. To enjoy the view for minutes not seconds.

Hours not minutes.