Whimsical Musings of a Loon

Peaked arms of comfort, beckon yet mock, The luscious siren of greens & rock; Nature's vast canvas, over it shrouds, Charcoal sunk bleak, nefarious clouds. Majestic beauty so persuasive, Yet icy insults so abrasive.  Drenched relentless, to the beat; Yet un-abating, suffocating heat. Through pain,  Through pleasure, The mountains call. Despite the weary battle fight, Unseen demons of hidden fright; Suddenly I thrive. Suddenly: I become alive.

yellow leaf Originally uploaded by sian_quincy Autumn. It sneaks upon us, arrives quietly and unassuming, bringing the soft browns mingling gently amongst the dregs of luscious greens and brightness of warmer months. Autumnus. Blue turns darker. The greys gradually descend upon us, trickling down like water-colours across the canvas, before the harsh, thick oil paints of winter black submerge them into the landscape. Fall; as the leaves drop, so does the temperature, so does our temperament. Woebegone drops start to seep onto the skin. A lament of summer gone, the sun and promise gets lost amongst a polaroid of saturated faded memory. Autompne. Nature begins to age. Once blooming foliage crumbles into wrinkled maturity. Like dying bud heads, our brittle selves start to buckle. Things are changing. It turns. The true New, despite the fraud of January. Autumn is the reflection in the gentle water of the ancient small stream that flows through a country field; so endless in its journey, s...

It is always a peculiar feeling going back to somewhere you spent time at as a child. It's like visiting a parallel universe, where things often look similar, but don't seem quite the same. Possibly because you are twice the size and your viewpoint has a few extra years of baggage and cynicism clouding your view. Or maybe just because things change. Last weekend I returned to Shropshire, with my family, unusual in itself for us all to be away together, but even more unorthodox in that this was a weekend of manual labour. No strolling across Ironbridge back and forth marvelling at the divets, pointing at the severn river and commenting whimsically on the currents, slurping on an ice cream whilst perusing over novelty keyrings in the shape of the Ironbridge with the words "oh the irony (bridge)". No this was manual labour. Helping out the family. We had to put fences up, and get scrammed by thick brambles. Holes are often dug on family get-togethers, but usually by insu...

Twenty four years ago this month, I was sat in the back living room of my childhood home watching the TV. It was early tea-time, just having got back from school. I was filling my ruddy pouches with ribena and crumpets. This scene wasn't a rarity, given how many hours I used to spend with my eyes attached to the screen by visual telebox adhesive, watching Australian soap operas, learning and mimicking the accents to annoy my siblings with. But what was about to happen in front of my eyes was one of my earliest and most vivid childhood memories, and one that has haunted me ever since. There came a sudden change in tone by the presenter, and the BBC kids' show Newsround - one of the main staples of my early televisual diet - appeared with breaking news. I can still hear the tinny, 1980s retro dot-dash-theme tune that sounded like it was created on a fisherprice keyboard accompanied with bongo drums. The Space Shuttle appeared on the screen. It was a familiar sight of sorts. For ...

Yuletide gaping void of lack, Causes recollecting back. Imagination, rampage wild, Transformed into, wretched child. Tis season jolly, bright and gay, But rotten, forgery, and cliche. Seeking Ghosts, threads entwined, Hidden in corners, of the mind. Intense stillness hangs around, Suspending body, quiet sound, Stinging cold, yet inside warm, Want tomorrow, yet feeling torn, For arrival fast, is such a boon, Yet means all is dead, far too soon. Bombarded with, seasonal finesse, Overwhelm draining, to excess. Suffocating spend, gorging glee, Leaves me polar, numb, empty. Cheer tarnished, excitement dent, Expectation greater, than event. Sudden dawning, sharp like knife, Innocence lost: lachrymose life. Despite all efforts, to re-create. Gasping for air, reluctant, too late, Like a drowning soul, struggling for breath, We cling to memories & fade to death.

I remember the day I became interested in Photography. I had always been engrossed by art and film, always finding them rather magical in a way that almost seemed sordid. As if receiving such pleasure from a film screen or canvas was somehow naughty in its frivolity. But it was not until I was visiting MOMA in New York during my year out before University, that a fascination in photography ignited instantly. There was a Cindy Sherman exhibition, her untitled film stills, and it captured my imagination so strongly, that I left New York that snowy January in 2001, dreamily determined to purchase an SLR manual 35mm film camera as soon as I got home. It was like someone had switched on a light in my brain, or rather, pressed a shutter release and captured the split second my life had been opened up to a whole new world of expression. Only this image of myself did not upset me at how fat my brain had gotten around the intrigue zone. Despite Cindy being one of my early main influences, I bec...

It's a little like when you've drunk too much of the fizzy pop and extras, the dregs of night have long turned into the early roots of morning, and you suddenly have an epiphany that you absolutely love to pieces your best mate/s who stand over the toilet of a Cardiff drinking establishment yacking their guts up. "I loves you y'know...you're bloody great you are...". Suddenly everything you hate about the world (which is really everything), that you've been copiously moaning about all evening, is a distant memory faded into oblivion. And isn't life wonderful. Until the hangover. Then it's full-steam ahead back to Shitsville.

The other day, I took a photograph. On reflection of it, I have come to the conclusion that I am a little odd. Well, I've known that for a while, but was in denial. (And people who know me will wonder why it's taken me this long to realise...) When out and about, I often seem to find things that amuse me. These could be odd objects left behind or abandoned, silly graffiti that just makes me laugh, or just something bizarre and random. I like to photograph them. I was out walking and spotted this discarded shopping list...as soon as I saw it, I realised there was something about it that really tickled me. I wasn't exactly sure why, but I just knew it did. So I had to photograph it, even just on my camera phone, to preserve it's quirkiness before it disappeared off into the wind, or disintegrated by rain and other elements, never to be seen by human eyes again. The idea of that almost upsets me. Which is why I realise I am rather odd. What is it about an unwanted shopping...

With the Six Nations rugby well under way, and with Wales beating England at the weekend (sorry had to mention that), I am often left to ponder the strange hold this sport has over so many people. I can't quite define what it is about rugby, that seems to route itself into the Welsh psyche so forcefully; an intricate web of randomness, that seems to signify so much to our identity. No, I can't really fathom it out. But I can explore what it means to me. Last week a video appeared doing the rounds on rugby message boards and emails, someone had compiled footage of great Welsh rugby tries and moments through the ages and put it to music. Some of the tries I had only ever seen once before, or possibly never. Others I remembered only too well indeed. Watching this internet video made me feel incredibly emotional. Yes, I was being a big girls' blouse, and began blubbering into my keyboard. Rugby can be a beautiful game - flowing moves, darting runs, amidst hard knocks and bloody...