23 October 2014
15 October 2014
7 October 2014
Recently, I found myself digging into this blog's archive, picking a month and seeing what I might find in there. This proved to be an uncomfortable experience. Much of it is not good. Some of it, it seems to me now, is bewilderingly terrible. Most of my life, I shredded, burned, or just threw away everything I wrote; I have always tended to erase myself as I go along. And so, as on a number a previous occasions, it took willpower not to press Delete on this blog, for ever.
The blog Beachcombing For The Landlocked, though, as I must keep telling myself, is not a showcase. It's not a glass-fronted, velvet-lined display cabinet. It is just a cardboard box. It's a place to put stuff for the time being - the shells, pebbles, sea glass, bits of driftwood and blue nylon rope, picked up from my walk along the shoreline of everyday life with the intention, maybe, of one day making something out of them.
And so, if I do delve into the archive from time to time, it is just to fetch that box in from the shed, or down from the attic, and sift through it to let those bits and bobs remind me of particular moments and perhaps spark a new idea or two. Sometimes, when the sea's salt sheen has dried, you can't imagine what made you pick up that moment in the first place; but, on this occasion, I was able to use the fragments here to fashion several new ornamental tiny haibun.
The phrase Beachcombing For The Landlocked, however, sums up what has become a kind of personal philosophy. I really should get it put on a T-shirt.