Top Tweets for #DAKilroy
We like to tell ourselves that time flows evenly, but we all have a history of convenient lies. Time has its slow eddies. It runs across some places so tardily a year might become a decade. Places where the walk of a hundred yards might take two hours to complete. – #DAKilroy
Let us walk the woods as feral possibility space. Let us walk the woods in hope of strange sights, fantastical encounters. Stories we can tell to those we love as an intimate folklore of hope that wonder is still abroad. That we still have places of constant magic. – #DAKilroy
There are moments when time becomes uncertainty. It could be now, it could be two centuries back or more. Moments when we walk a landscape that feels more constant and reliable than the chaos of our own lives. How can I not feel this as an enfolding of ghosts? – #DAKilroy
We ride the rural roads of Hookland unable to dismiss them as Zones of Anomalous Possibility (ZAP). Ghost-patined. Marked not just with white lines to guide our driving, but stories of UFO interruptions, darting Woodwoses. Tarmacked green tunnels into lost hours. – #DAKilroy
The concrete cicatrix of war distorts time, explode it so that we no longer have a linear experience. We know in our hearts that the English haven't stopping fighting World War II, but being out among the abandoned gun placements on Hookland's coast makes it manifest. – #DAKilroy
The withering of the year has come early. The land tells its distress in brittle grass bleached as bone, tells it in paths made of furious dust. It screams to us through drought cicatrix of cracked earth. We walk a territory of trauma. We should expect ghosts. – #DAKilroy
Those feral churches – beyond diocesan office, enjoying green communion – call the imagination. Even before visiting, we've a knowing their ivy-blinded windows, their ghost-congregation cooled interiors, refuse this barbarous heat. Offer spirit-shaded sanctuary. – #DAKilroy
Some ride the twilight roads chasing after the last solar alchemy of the day. A last fix of gilding light. Some rush along them trying to outrun the coming dark, full of need to be behind their doors before it settles upon the land. Before the Pale Folk walk. – #DAKilroy, 1982
For stories have always begun at the point where the fire's light fails. It is the cave-old way. Monsters and all the untamed strange of the world begin in the feral dark. Stories as magic circle. Stories as ritual glue of a community collectively shivering. – #DAKilroy
Where does the wild begin? At the last light in the village? First few feet beyond its illumination where the grass whispers stories of those that have trod it? Ruffled Foxes, Children-Made-of-Thorns, the Spider-legged woman come to collect her offerings. – #DAKilroy
Soft tears of rain come to field. Ghost soil answers their call. Voices of buried dead drift towards its edge, whispering harsh prophecies. For this is strange England and its conversation of constant augury. This is the now bullied spirits of then and tomorrow. – #DAKilroy, 1982
Raindrops race the glass. Pylons march the land. The Hum throbs. Minute by minute, the world beyond the pane feels stranger. An enfolding sense of the future echoing back into the now. Some great, unknowable transformation is happening, All we can do is wait upon it. – #DAKilroy
The rural is propagandised in chocolate box aesthetics, cosy cottages sold in Sunday supplements. A thousand hollow lies to commodify the countryside. Yet the truth is feral. The garden path is ghosted. Enfolding woods watch with malevolence. Everywhere curse-trapped. – #DAKilroy
The land is blossom blur. Spring wears its bridal white despite a belly already swollen with coming summer. The feral churches of the county hold marriages for spectral couples. Even myths are mating, creating stories waiting to be born. Our blood chases hope. – #DAKilroy, 1982
We wander winter afternoons where the light is too weak to keep the ghosts at bay. Stumble onto paths that can only be haunted. Each footstep scuffs up stories, scuffs up spirits. We walk and leave a wake of whispers. – #DAKilroy, 1982
The run over dead haunt the county through roadside manifestations, spectral accident replays. They haunt by memorial murals in villages – simultaneously a sign to slow down and a demand to acknowledge the persistence of grief. The ghost as telling of absence. – #DAKilroy
There's an old Hookland maxim: 'Some roads are walked by ghosts/Some roads are makers of ghosts'. Of course the wisdom is not only knowing which is which, but when one road is simultaneously both. The way to Greydown Bight is a prime example. – #DAKilroy
You can walk and after two miles of tangled lane that's untroubled with being on the Ordinance Survey, find a feral church. These are the chapels beyond bishops, untethered from parishes. Existing in green communion, their gathered ghosts sing wild hymns. – #DAKilroy, 1982
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