tree in parents neighbors garden that only comes alive at night  when i smoke on the steps and converses in the rustle of silky leaves as wind passes by and taps at soul. never noticed in day time because free trees sway is muffled by the babble of people and drone of machines. at night she becomes alive and I do with her. summer nights are rolling in magical. moss witch is all “you can thrive anywhere, immediate landscape golden as any canyon or lake or mountain: you/I just need open space and nightly stars and trees to listen to, even planted trees and co-ordinated  stuffy rose gardens of bigots, my moss grows on everything wherever whatever not fussed just give me the conditions and common law and I’ll grow DESPITE radical radical uprise change, heal and love and my art is laid down where I see the need for love and compassion and my emerald kush-oning is also my life source, we’re all entwined I live to live not work to live, don’t you see, don’t you see how you may learn and grow, grow grow from nature, from me?”

first summer with soul eyes.  such sights and sounds make soul drum. jezebel awaken.

soul awakens and drums to nature as she hears herself chime in the chime of leaves. she knows the language of the leaves. can hear the elements stories and jokes and ancient messages stream through the sky. can read trees before they have been turned into books. i think trees don’t mind dying to spread knowledge until we, humanity have learned the old language of life, have learned to love and respect nature again. Soul knows the ancient language of timelessness where we were all one, drops together, lulling in dark and light loopy limbo, kissing and knowing only embracing all softness. fluent in wildness. all from the same divine tribe. soul recognises and gets excited like a happy dog seeing another happy dog in the park when we see other soul we used to be one with, when we are wearing our kaleidoscopic jezebel glasses. that let us see sparkling particles spiralling in all and shows us we’re all made of the same earthy fabric (and why jezebel loves glitter)

and that’s why jezebel/souls eyes flutter awake at the sound of her own song. the sound of friends passing by, ancestor spirits floating by and souls throw parties and laugh and somersault in celebration of life and love. 


now more than ever working for a shit company disillusioned with exterior society i wanna live in the woods in a hemp tunic and plant carrots. thinking of running away to go wwoof for somebody if i can find somewhere last min. 

the only way i see society being better is for scottish people to VOTE YES and then VOTE GREEN. this whole ukip situation scares me.  

  • We are organic products of nature

We are wild and wily moon children curving spiralled moving homes not bound to roots with fingers to touch the sky, free, dancing universes, with notebooks of ideas, heads full of magic. Soft as the sea, oceans happening, cycles turning, lonesome wheels rolling, light drinking, mountains of our own. 

sometimes i am glittering in undiluted rippling happiness

(some time last summer i looked up and my life was a splendid uncertain mess like lives so often are and i smiled and leaned back into the bus seat, shoulders dropping, bones loosening, anxiety melting. on a bus rolling through the countryside, squinting my eyes at the naked sun when the trees ran sparse and i smiled some more, feeling so happy the smile spread all the way across my face from ear to ear, and then past my ears and seat and the aisle and the windows, across the narrow road and seeped well into the green fields on either side, for it all felt delirious and fine. and i knew that if i was okay now in this situation in the midst of mess then i’d really be okay in any situation)

and sometimes i am not


Aberdour Castle. With the risk of sounding like my mother, I love ruins. 

There’s something enchanting and mystical about them. Ruins make us aware of the passage of time. I stood in what was once an earls medieval bed chamber and looked through the window he would have looked through. I wondered how the view had changed. Whether the sea always looked liked that. I thought of  the the infinite cycles of birth and death, the lives lived, the thousands of seasons to have happened all around as the castle sat, slowly crumbling in the weather  

I wondered how many people had looked through this same frame and thought the same thing, and whether whoever slept in this room ever considered it. Did they watch the seas ebb and flow, see crashing waves and sparkling ripples, watch the sun move in and out of the water and too, think about this flowing time, and how they’d once day cease to be, whilst the surround would carry on regardless?

We don’t tend to think too much about non being. Too much contemplation on the fact the world goes on after you stop breathing throws questionable meaningless over every inch of accepted life, and doesn’t always bring forth the liberation it should. I had an existential breakdown when I first started working with themes about time and the river. Ruins remind us that we’re fleeting, delicate impermanence. That we’re a globe fulla fluttery crazy, dancing delicate beings. 

Our buildings and tools stand life longer than we do, and  they’re most often the only things that give hint to ever having existed  in this world. Now, it’s strange to think that the world keeps on going without us, and that in a hundred years, we might be completely forgotten. I think today’s technology gives people hope for some kind of immortality; in the sense so much of us is preserved online. This blog might exist longer than I do. 

There’s this great pressure on us to do something, to do something to be remembered for, to do something great, as if simply merging back into the soil after a lifetime of experience means you’ve lived less, as if you need to always be striving to reach some blazing pinnacle in the distance. I think this way of thinking is the source of much dissatisfaction for ourselves and much disrespect to others. 

 I find comfort to think of things that are more solid than I am. It’s comforting to think of trees that hark back to great great grandparents, the moon who’s seen it all, and who all have seen, and ruins that have withstood centuries of battering storms, but knowing that none of it will last, that all of it, too shall pass. I think crumbling castles are like medicine for those who feel stagnant and stale. This magical, strange sense of the world moving despite is evoked when you wander through them, and reminds you that you’re too, just passing through. 

Ruins can be symbols of this, of this time passing.

This is why everyone should go vegan. Milks good for nothing. Cows are tortured getting it, the world is littered with it’s plastic cartons and it’s not even that good for you. (watch Forks Over Knives  -which focuses on the nutritional side of veganism, and  which apparently made Russell Brand go vegan, so) Soya,hemp and nut milks come in paper cartons. You won’t see those washed up on the beach, less cows will be tortured, and you’ll be healthier. It’s win win all over the joint. but i’m not turning my art blog into a pushy vegan page. that is all. 


hanging alone in stormy fields watching baby deer bounce through the barley because you can see across fife and edinburgh at that spot.

 grey clouds rolled in and i watched the summer morph into autumn with gales. to the east famous bridges loom, engineering successes, one’s seen war and fallen workers and endless coats of paint, another carries jumpers to death in it’s reserve of the sea.  to the south the pentland hills lie in a strip as long as a ruler, to the west the ochils , and sandwiched somewhere in-between, the little hub of civilisation where i have lived most of my life, anxious about all that lies in-between. 

 i’ve gotten in the habit of when i’m out, determining where i am facing, and thinking what  deliciousness lies ahead in each direction. in trying to become bodily aware, spaciously aware, of the self as a blip in the scheme of it, yet connected to it all, meditating on what sizzly life lies southwards and what kind of streams and birds are northwards. it will be romantic for when i write a gritty/petal printed coming of age novel. 

but the woods are scary when the wind sounds like men humming sinister tunes and birch trees creak like floorboards creak in scary films because of their flimsy silvery waif bodies. if i was a tree i’d never be a birch. but a short, bottom heavy oak. it’s a fact i have to accept with confident grace as a woman in a world where birch trees stride down catwalks and date musicians, just like i have to accept that i’ll never be a ravenclaw but a hufflepuff/gryffindor and that i’ll never be an elf but a hobbit. 

observation of nature is full of life lessons.