Echeveria Elegans, Emotional Evocations, Earworms, Etcetera. Could you fathom of how utterly impossible it is to populate a blog, which hitherto has been hewn from heartache and homesickness, when one is unassailably, utterly, unequivocally and uniformly content? No.  And do not pretend you could ever.  This is my anti-wallow. I am egomaniacal enough to imagine that somewhere, some soul is missing the regular emotion laden missives of 2013 which so succoured me through that annum.  As such, I frequently feel responsibility to tackle my Tumblr and tap out a tale for posting.  I wonder perchance that irksome irritation invoked by eschewing my espousing is only of my own creation? Yes.  Almost certainly.  This is my neglect-regret. Yet, there is a glimmer of respite! I was given a camera yesterday: I will blog its first film. I spent a lazy afternoon falling back in-love with sauntering on one’s bicycle.  I am buoyed by innocent pleasure given from spectating strangers. I miss the month long twee crescendo of yuletide glee celebrated in the hemisphere antipode to my own: ‘This-time-last-year’ indulgences give reason for writer’s-anguish to arise.  Is there material to suffice a post in these generous gifts of object, emotion and activity? Maybe.  I may just tie a tenuous tome together. This is my schism-stitching. So on this sun-baked Christmas Eve afternoon I sit in her quintych bay window observing the art of a zephyr in the trees and sparrows.  I scroll through nested folders photo files, pausing for a moment on spring morning dew dressing the echeveria elegans I love: yes, it is this image that will head up this post.  I command a playlist from a favourite dirge - as ever I need music to write to.  I beseech friends for taxonomy; verbs, nouns, adjectives; declensions; and motivation.  And as I type, I find the prime form of the architecture of this epistle pleasing.  So with the joy I take in reckless loquacious wordiness and blathering verbosity whilst touting such tactless tautology, I force a reflection on first the annus horribilis, then my annus hecticus, and our (soon) annus mirabilis. Succulent, emotional, musical… as ever.

Echeveria Elegans, Emotional Evocations, Earworms, Etcetera.

Could you fathom of how utterly impossible it is to populate a blog, which hitherto has been hewn from heartache and homesickness, when one is unassailably, utterly, unequivocally and uniformly content?

No.  And do not pretend you could ever.  This is my anti-wallow.

I am egomaniacal enough to imagine that somewhere, some soul is missing the regular emotion laden missives of 2013 which so succoured me through that annum.  As such, I frequently feel responsibility to tackle my Tumblr and tap out a tale for posting.  I wonder perchance that irksome irritation invoked by eschewing my espousing is only of my own creation?

Yes.  Almost certainly.  This is my neglect-regret.

Yet, there is a glimmer of respite! I was given a camera yesterday: I will blog its first film. I spent a lazy afternoon falling back in-love with sauntering on one’s bicycle.  I am buoyed by innocent pleasure given from spectating strangers. I miss the month long twee crescendo of yuletide glee celebrated in the hemisphere antipode to my own: ‘This-time-last-year’ indulgences give reason for writer’s-anguish to arise.  Is there material to suffice a post in these generous gifts of object, emotion and activity?

Maybe.  I may just tie a tenuous tome together. This is my schism-stitching.

So on this sun-baked Christmas Eve afternoon I sit in her quintych bay window observing the art of a zephyr in the trees and sparrows.  I scroll through nested folders photo files, pausing for a moment on spring morning dew dressing the echeveria elegans I love: yes, it is this image that will head up this post.  I command a playlist from a favourite dirge - as ever I need music to write to.  I beseech friends for taxonomy; verbs, nouns, adjectives; declensions; and motivation.  And as I type, I find the prime form of the architecture of this epistle pleasing.  So with the joy I take in reckless loquacious wordiness and blathering verbosity whilst touting such tactless tautology, I force a reflection on first the annus horribilis, then my annus hecticus, and our (soon) annus mirabilis.

Succulent, emotional, musical… as ever.

Clive SomervilleComment