Steve Bucknell's photos

June 1st, another month and we're still here!

These were flying above the De La Warr pavilion in Bexhill on Sea. I have no idea what they represent. I didn't ask, I can't find anything now I search online for it. It's a mystery.

From the Museum of Our Lord in the Attic in Amsterdam, a very smart way to stop visitors sitting on the antique chairs!

House of Mirth, House of Wax, House of Merz, House of Laths, House of Silver, House of Coal, House of Crystal, House of Glass, House of Embers, House of Ash, House of Purple, House of Masks, House of Moths, House of Dust, House of Doubts, House of Doors , House of Quilca, House of the Stare, House of Mark, House of Blur, House of Endings, House of Leaves. Steve Bucknell. 02.11.15. “I can’t see a fucking thing,” Reston whispers. Which is true: neither one of their flashlights can effectively penetrate that far into the black. Navidson grabs his backpack and pulls out his Nikon with the Metz strobe with its parabolic mirror. Thanks to this powerful flash, the Hi 8 can now capture a shadow in the distance. The stills, however, are even more clear, revealing that the shadow is really the blur of a man.” Danielewski. House of Leaves. a Rorschach space cellar-head walls close in abandoned misplaced stuff damaged stuff above my head the distant door shuts the cell shifts and pulses I lie on the floor to listen and breathe soft bodies exude through walls under the skull visceral cravings cellar full of weeping lick the damp walls taste the sweet cuts tongue the flesh the blank eyes tapetum lucidum meniscus event horizon ritual words premature burial under the floor of the so-called soul. Steve Bucknell 02.11.15. TO QUILCA Let me thy Properties explain, A rotten Cabin, dropping Rain; Chimnies with Scorn rejecting Smoak; Stools, Tables, Chairs, and Bed-steds broke: Here Elements have lost their Uses, Air ripens not, nor Earth produces: In vain we make poor Sheelah toil, Fire will not roast, nor Water boil. Thro' all the Vallies, Hills, and Plains, The Goddess Want in Triumph reigns; And her chief Officers of State, Sloth, Dirt, and Theft around her wait. Quilca The empty Bottles all uncleanable. The Vessels for Drink few and leaky. The new House all going to Ruin before it is finished. One Hinge of the Street-Door broke off, and the People forced to go out and come in at the Back-Door. The Door of the Dean's Bed-Chamber full of large Chinks. The Beauset letting in so much Wind that if almost blows out the Candles. The Dean's Bed threatn'ning every Night to fall under him. The little Table loose and broken in the Joints. The Passages open over Head, by which the Cats pass continually into the Cellar and eat the Victuals, for which one was try'd, condemn'd, and executed by the Sword. The large Table in a very tottering Condition. But one Chair in the House fit for fitting on, and that in a very ill State of Health. The Kitchen perpetually crouded with Savages. Not a Bit of Mutton to be had in the Country. Johnathan Swift

C'est une revolution!

From The Diary of a Snail 26.08.14 Window today: easy climbing, smooth , wet with rain, good traction, but felt...high up... Glad to get to other side. 27.08.14 Quiet day in shell, reading, thinking and writing a little, stopped in late. 28.08.14. I made delicious lettuce soup, I read a little Spurgeon: “Around the Wicket Gate.” I have to agree when he says: “Sometimes silence is better than speech.” 29.08.14. Aching ganglia, dry radula, sore foot , contracted. No appetite for anything. I felt a singular darkness grow within me. 30.08.14 Translated Hadrian’s “Animula, Vagula, Blandula” just now. Used my own helical verse-form. Pleased with the result: “My sole, my wandering foot, Pale companion of my shell... To what unknown garden Will we go today To sup sweet dew And pass the time away?” 01.09.14. Last night, under a hedge, found a skull, went inside . Thought it like a large shell. Chewed a little of it for calcium, very useful and tasty. 02.09.14. Noticed new snail nearby. Lovely neat spiral and pretty mantle showing. Really wanted to go over... But too shy, too worried about getting pregnant. 03.09.14 Rumination, lucubration, involutional melancholy, recursive, solipsistic. Sometimes the path is not the way. Sometimes the examined life isn’t worth living. 04.09.14. A real joy tonight: looking back behind my shell as I painted, with my lubrication, an abstract in the moonlight. Called it “Fulgence”, signed it and left it there. 05.09.14. Reading Grass today: “From the Diary of a Snail”. Disappointing, mostly German politics. No interesting snail facts; but “resolute as a snail” an excellent phrase! 06.09.14. At the corner, a sexual encounter: sudden, quite anonymous, we interlocked for hours, gripped by pleasures: wave after wave. Afterwards, sated, I felt depraved... but happy! 07.09.14. Some call me erudite, sesquipedalian, dilatory, living on a spiral stair in a haunted cupola, prey to fits, déjà vu, and passing blackbirds. Well, they’re right: that’s me. 08.09.14. Wrote out my list of favourite sayings: “Learn to live in a spiral of uncertainty.” “Contraction is a virtue.” “Best foot forward, only foot.” “Chew everything over.” “Slow down.” 09.09.14. Sudden dark: stepped on, I think. Shell broken, excruciating pain. Dragged myself home under pot. Last entry. For God’s sake, please be careful where you tread. I feel ...afraid. Steve Bucknell. 10.09.14.

the breeze that carries traffic sounds across a tractor- scarred farmland... pylons above the bypass reiterate the vantage point of a hawk .....houses with grey blue slates ... nearly rhythmical murmur of the pines and far-heard traffic ... that’s how it always starts ... the enigma of the reservoir, the soft light bathes the red brick mantles of estates... the woman has her left arm raised to shoulder level and bent at the elbow ... that gesture of benediction... this, together with the smile that implies a kind of enigma... someone has written the word austerity on her body ... the stranger carefully underlines the... uh ... noises from the steelworks across her shoulder... the bus crawls on all four wheels wheezing in the sun...... heads sink under blocked grates...we journey to the end of the street...a cul de sac ...