Ella Rose Muse: the story: Fires and Falls

Monday 10 June 2013

Fires and Falls

Hi everyone. I'm back from a hugely productive trip to the incredibly visually eye-mazing country that is Switzerland (images and video to come!), and raring to update this little portion of the internet.

As part of my trip to Scotland last month, I worked with GDelargy Photography. The plan was that he would pick me up at a point in the Highlands where I'd just finished shooting and drop me off at my accommodation in Glasgow that evening, shooting along the way! What a clever idea, making the best possible use of travel time between locations by shooting at all the beauty hotspots along the way! Scotland, of course, has more than its fair share of picturesque scenes...

...Unfortunately, the amazing weather I'd experienced at the beginning of the trip took a little turn for the worse, and we were quite limited in what we could do, even with my newly-bought pink polka dot wellies from a Highland cornershop.

Still, it was a wonderful drive. G was great company. Glen Coe was beautiful despite pouring rain. We stopped at one location for a possible shoot but the wind was so severe it just wasn't going to happen. Fortunately, G had a couple more places up his sleeve. One was an area of the most exquisite, fiery orange-coloured heather. (I'm calling it heather; it might have been something else.) I squelched my way across the boggy ground, found the most colourful part and lay down in it.

Later, we politely ignored the 'danger, slippery rocks!' signs to get these shots at the Falls of Orchy. I love the strong levels of contrast in these images (I've got such a thing for rich blacks), and my pale skin really pings out of them. Several quick poses here, but I think the first is my favourite. We got to Glasgow late after a quick stop for pizza at Dominoes. I suppose I don't eat there often as I apparently broke normal pizza-buying ettiquette by enquiring about the herbs (i.e. do they count as one of the toppings, since they are listed? What are they?). I started requesting basil and oregano, and was met with a baffled look. Apparently, herbs are just herbs. All the herbs in the world ever go on the pizza, maybe. Fine. It tasted good.

I'd like to get on with arranging a second trip to Scotland for this year as there were a few people whose dates I couldn't match up with, and am considering another (briefer) visit, but am left pondering my diary heavily, wishing I could insert a month or two between August and September. Wouldn't that be amazing?

Happy Monday!

Walter De La Mare, 'The Listeners'

‘Is there anybody there?’ said the Traveller,

Knocking on the moonlit door;

And his horse in the silence champed the grasses

Of the forest’s ferny floor:

And a bird flew up out of the turret,

Above the Traveller’s head:

And he smote upon the door again a second time;

‘Is there anybody there?’ he said.

But no one descended to the Traveller;

No head from the leaf-fringed sill

Leaned over and looked into his grey eyes,

Where he stood perplexed and still.

But only a host of phantom listeners

That dwelt in the lone house then

Stood listening in the quiet of the moonlight

To that voice from the world of men:

Stood thronging the faint moonbeams on the dark stair,

That goes down to the empty hall,

Hearkening in an air stirred and shaken

By the lonely Traveller’s call.

And he felt in his heart their strangeness,

Their stillness answering his cry,

While his horse moved, cropping the dark turf,

’Neath the starred and leafy sky;

For he suddenly smote on the door, even

Louder, and lifted his head:—

‘Tell them I came, and no one answered,

That I kept my word,’ he said.

Never the least stir made the listeners,

Though every word he spake

Fell echoing through the shadowiness of the still house

From the one man left awake:

Ay, they heard his foot upon the stirrup,

And the sound of iron on stone,

And how the silence surged softly backward,

When the plunging hoofs were gone.

Natasha Khan/Bat for Lashes, 'Horse and I'

Got woken in the night,
by a mystic golden light.
My head soaked in river water.
I had been dressed in a coat of armor. They called
a horse out of the woodland.
"Take her there, through the desert shores."
They sang to me, "This is yours to wear.
You're the chosen one, there's no turning back now."

The smell of redwood giants.
The banquet for the shadows.
Horse and I, we're dancers in the dark.
Came upon the headdress.
It was gilded, dark and golden.
The children sang.
I was so afraid I took it to my head and prayed.
They sang to me, "This is yours to wear. You're the chosen one, there's no turning back."
They sang to me, "This is yours to wear. You're the chosen one, there's no turning back."

Mark Doty, 'A Display of Mackerel'

They lie in parallel rows,

on ice, head to tail,

each a foot of luminosity

barred with black bands,

which divide the scales’

radiant sections

like seams of lead

in a Tiffany window.

Iridescent, watery

prismatics: think abalone,

the wildly rainbowed

mirror of a soapbubble sphere,

think sun on gasoline.

Splendor, and splendor,

and not a one in any way

distinguished from the other

—nothing about them

of individuality. Instead

they’re all exact expressions

of the one soul,

each a perfect fulfilment

of heaven’s template,

mackerel essence. As if,

after a lifetime arriving

at this enameling, the jeweler’s

made uncountable examples,

each as intricate

in its oily fabulation

as the one before

Suppose we could iridesce,

like these, and lose ourselves

entirely in the universe

of shimmer—would you want

to be yourself only,

unduplicatable, doomed

to be lost? They’d prefer,

plainly, to be flashing participants,

multitudinous. Even now

they seem to be bolting

forward, heedless of stasis.

They don’t care they’re dead

and nearly frozen,

just as, presumably,

they didn’t care that they were living:

all, all for all,

the rainbowed school

and its acres of brilliant classrooms,

in which no verb is singular,

or every one is. How happy they seem,

even on ice, to be together, selfless,

which is the price of gleaming.

Kate Clanchy, 'Poem for a Man with No Sense of Smell'

This is simply to inform you:

that the thickest line in the kink of my hand
smells like the feel of an old school desk,
the deep carved names worn sleek with sweat;

that beneath the spray of my expensive scent
my armpits sound a bass note strong
as the boom of a palm on a kettle drum;

that the wet flush of my fear is sharp
as the taste of an iron pipe, midwinter,
on a child's hot tongue; and that sometimes,

in a breeze, the delicate hairs on the nape
of my neck, just where you might bend
your head, might hesitate and brush your lips,

hold a scent frail and precise as a fleet
of tiny origami ships, just setting out to sea.

Pages

Monday 10 June 2013

Fires and Falls