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7 November 2012 | Category: Stories | Author: Clare

Sometimes you are fortunate enough to bump into somebody that calls out to something in the deepest recesses, of a long forgotten part of your soul.

Like the stirring of something long since sleeping; like the opening of your eyes after an extended hibernation. Like the surprise as the forest and the landscape return to life, broad brushstrokes of colour emanating from the heart of a retreating winter.

Meeting someone who awakens you that way, is like the warmth of the sun on your face after a cold night, somewhere with no real name.

It is exquisite.

...[Read More]


6 November 2012 | Category: Stories | Author: Clare

I find that sometimes I surround myself with noise.

Like a companion for the frenzied activity we find ourselves wrapped up in.

Obviously that seems a little difficult to imagine for someone without TV, power or for the most part, any kind of non-canine company.

But there it is.

It was a beautiful day today, the first without rain beating on the tin in what feels like a lifetime. An incessant dull thud, like an annoying neighbour whose music is just loud enough to be irritating; an unwelcome backdrop to the theatre of your life.

The blue sky, and beautiful peaks gave a general sense of ease and cautious optimism to everyone I interacted with.

For some reason, the absence of rain on the roof, and the beauty and comparative silence of the world around us, made me consider this.

I shut off the music and turned off my phone.

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Flapping Machines

2 November 2012 | Category: Stories | Author: Clare

'A bird does not fly by flapping it's wings...the real principles of flight are to be found in the shape of the bird's wings, and the resulting differences in the pressure of the air flowing over the upper and lower surfaces of those wings. But in our early attempts to fly, we overlooked what is most important in favour of what is most obvious; we built flapping machines.

Our understanding of memory is similar. We think of memory as conscious experiences whereby we recall past events or episodes....but this is just the flapping of wings.

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1 November 2012 | Category: Stories | Author: Clare

A friend took me fishing recently.

The last time is such a faded memory, it belongs to the pages of history.

Definitely around the era that fishing was conducted with bamboo sticks and unwitting worms, tied wriggling to the end of a string, lashed around a crude rod.

Do I just remember catching trout with this contraption, in the somewhat endearing way our minds thoughtfully construct full stories in place of part experiences, or did my sister and I actually pull that off?

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