Friday 16th December § 1 Comment
Daw eira bach, diniwed, i llyfnu crychau’r hydref
Ynddo gwelir bwriad y tymor i anwybyddu eu’n hiriaith am yr haf
Dyma’r tir yn ildio i deirnasiad y dyddiau llym
Tuesday 15th November § Leave a comment
At the time that I started this blog I was reading from Daniel Libeskinds polemic ‘Breaking Ground’. In one offshoot he describes the criticisms of Herbert Muschamp, the don of New York architectural critics, towards his own plans for Ground Zero:
“He derided my attempt as a ‘predictably kitsch result.’ Whoa. That’s as low a blow as you can deliver in architecture criticism-to call something kitsch. You can say a design is ugly. That it’s impractical. You can even say it’s a rip-off of another design. But don’t ever call it kitsch”
Wednesday 13th July § Leave a comment
I find I’m failing again
This old familiar feeling
I’m falling away from the world
Tuesday 12th July § Leave a comment
Gydai’n pennau’n drwm ar ôl nôswaith braf o ddathlu
Aethom i ben y cwm, rhwng brynoedd o gwyrdd aflafar
Yr haul ar ein hysgwyddau
Cyddiwyd ein feiciau yn y cloddiau
Cyn dringo lawr i’r cysgodion dan y coed
Ble sibrydwyd y ddŵr rhewllyd, ddi-hid
Yno wnaethom gwario sbel
Yn nofio am eliadau llym
Yr oer yn cydio at ei’n anadl
Gorweddwyd yng ngwasg cynnes yr haul
Gydai’n sgwrs yn ddiglymu’n ddigyfeiriad
Yng nghwmni syml frodur
Thursday 18th September § Leave a comment
I never really stopped. It’s just that for the last few years, the things that I wanted too write about weren’t things that I felt I could to share here. Instead I took to writing in the old fashioned pen and ink fashion (which is just as messy as I remembered from primary school), in two black squarish books, now scuffed with misuse, that recount the periods surrounding my grandfathers death and that of my first true love. But now, with both safely in the past I feel an urge not to stop writing. I am all too aware that I have nothing ‘real’ to say and full expect this to be one of those blogs that serves no external purpose. But even if all this is is just an erratic diary, then that’s enough for me. Like a pet monster that nags to be fed.
On the street running along the rear of the Guggenheim Museum, Bilbao
Thursday 15th March § 3 Comments
(written on the return train journey, a few weeks ago)
First, I should explain that (when I go home) I live in the attic, well out of the path of drunken wanderers. At some point during last nights partying, between the hours of 7 in the evening and midnight, someone came in to my room and scrawled this message on my desk in permanent marker.
Which is rather sweet. Certainly better than a crummy Valentines card. If only I had any idea about who could have written this. So far the identity of the mystery scribbler seems to be remaining stubbornly secretive. The only possible course of head is to locate the culprit through a process of elimination. So far I have 4 out of the 39 people at the party, who probably definitely didn’t do it; if they’re telling the truth.
Investigations will continue.