Some things I realised I was never going to behold clearly. A wild light begins to gleam in our eyes, our hair grows long, our language begins to shift, and in some inexplicable way, as humans long ago understood we could, we begin to become old growth ourselves. He is now as much and as good a teller as there probably is among those of us adorned and afflicted by the English tongue, and he has lingered a while in the old caves, as he says. Listen to them, hear the call to remember, to come home, back to the soil, back to soul. I wish him protection from the saints and something like a pardon from the Lucid Gods. Would that this this plea for a better day and its maker be granted not the cliff face but the long road, and peace for his earned, learned days. The interior was everywhere!
It will rekindle hope and an infinite trust in our being and becoming. And what came what praise. Shaw is a one-off, his work is urgent and necessary, and Scatterlings is his testament. But, grindingly slowly, some beings made themselves known to me, became a lintel overhead, a den in which I could claim a degree of kinship. An Elemental Journey and Kith: So my first move towards story was to give one up. A home that scared me, rattled me, soothed me, shaped me. The slow move from a society of take to a culture of giving. I went looking for stories in dark places. The tale that emerged was like a living thing, bounding around, throwing itself at all of us there listening. Would that this this plea for a better day and its maker be granted not the cliff face but the long road, and peace for his earned, learned days. The worst aspect of storytelling is when you hear the words spoke but you know the teller never took the journey to get them. The pastoral murmur of the wood pigeon, the thrilling blue call of the tawny owl in their midnight kingdoms. I would laugh and gesture out towards the valley. And the extraordinary day, where for an hour or so, you realise that you too are being witnessed. That was where I was. Without the investment of time and focus, the words I longed to speak would simply be phony on my tongue. There it is, they remained indistinct. Words flushed deep with water and boulder-vast. The Riddle of the Childscape. The endless lyrical emerging of the earths tremendous thinking, and the humbling required to simply bear witness to it. We see again with luminous eyes, hear again the shimmer of Earth in language; a portal opens and the power of out there begins moving through the in here. Scatterlings is told in a way that makes it unlike any other book I have read. Of people, and estuary maps, and animals, of beings we rarely have the names for anymore. Sounds that whittled a new and fragrant shape to my jaw.
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