Markers

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It was still dark when I woke up. I think Héloïse may have had a nightmare but she was obviously sound asleep again. I went through cycles from this point on, in and out of dream sequences, each one stranger and more intangible. Then I heard the birds. Not one or two but dozens, all clamouring
mad and intricate
the spring furies
a signal.

They’ve returned, finally.

We talked about this when I was on Valerie Jardin’s show a few weeks ago: how we get to rediscover the songs of birds each year. The way they mark time, subtle sonic markers altering our reality. I’ve never known anything else, never lived where birds keep on singing day after day; I wonder how it would affect my perception of the world...to never know the depths of silence winter brings. To never know the lightness of renewal.

Yesterday evening the sun came out from behind clouds. I grabbed the X100F and stepped out, longing for a simple act of acknowledgement. Then again this morning. I’m working on a new conference these days and realizing I may have strayed from what matters most. I’ve decided to go back to the X100, day to day, as much as possible—in fact it’s all I’ll be bringing to the UK next month.

IEYE again.
Full circle.


Shot with the X100F


Repeating Space

Every day I must remember   simplicity and distance    the life and light we inhabit.
The same rooms   same objects   repeating
a hall of mirrors.


Shot with the X100F


Cocoon

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We wake up to cancelled flights and school closures. To kids sleeping in, unaware for now. But we’ve averted the promised snow—instead we’re locked under a thin layer of ice.

Like so many translucent shells.
Like so many cocoons.


Shot with the X100F


Five Unrelated Images from the Weekend


Shot with the X100F


Of Ink and Paper

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I opened the notebook, picked up a Uni-Ball pen and wrote a couple of words: “This is a test to begin anew. Wow...my handwriting really IS terrible. 25/02/18

It’s crazy how little I’ve written as opposed to typed these past 10-15 years. My entire life has been digital for so long that I’d forgotten the feeling of paper, of letting thoughts flow on a physical surface. It’s slow—incredibly slow—but it also allows ideas to breathe differently. And despite all the “searchability” of our devices, the ubiquity of all our content through the ether...it’s still surprisingly clearer to browse through physical pages. I really had forgotten that.

That said, I was busy writing on my iPad when I noticed the light on the table, the shadows being cast by the paraphernalia I’d left there after my morning brainstorm. I grabbed the X100F and took a few shots.

Sent those off to the cloud.
Such irony.