Monday, 23 January 2012

Bodmin Moor

There were twelve rocks in all. They had been used before and were fairly round. The smallest was hurled first,  and Uther pitched it one hundred feet. St Tue's knees shook. What if his faith should fail now? He cast his eyes upwards. Then, oh, blessed miracle the rock became a feather in his hands, and he hurled it with such precision that it capped number one as if it had grown there.

(The legend of the Cheesewring. J Henry Harris)

With Jackson there was quite solitude. Just to sit and look at the landscape. An inner quietness. After dinner to sit on the back porch and look at the light. No need for talking, for any kind of communication.

( Lee Krasner)