|Weird snow sculptures or one large snowdrift - that was a|
road past our orchard once
|Outside our other apartment|
|Ian on snow clearing duties|
|The windy day tore the protective blue tarpaulin off the side|
of the accommodation block for the local school which is
undergoing renovation. I think they were trying to protect
it from the severe cold.
|Disappearing objects, well they would|
be if the snow hadn't whorled around them
|I cleared down there!|
|And there! Not so clear but it was a lot of work you know!|
|A lot of snow! Could be worse. Heard in Sweden it was|
5m high in places.
|I think the seeds sprouted inside the squash! Whoops|
they were meant for next years plants and it is a bit early
to pot them up.
|Arrrhh! Some sunshine|
How perverse, therefore, that the contemporary news media keeps to an entirely different beat, an ever-accelerating tempo. The news cycle has been 24-hour since the early 1980s, but the number of updates within each of those hours has steadily grown. Now the letters of the threads that run continuously beneath the live reporting look to me like the cogs of a virtual flywheel, one that spins ever faster as it tries to provide our inertial present with motive force. More events, more comments on those events, still more events provoked by those comments, and in turn, comments on those comment-induced events. The actual is sliced, diced and winched forward, only to tumble off time's assembly-line into the great slag-heap of now.Ian once had a picture where he saw a giant flywheel where God just put his finger on a switch to stop the frantic turning round. It didn't stop immediately but like a fly wheel when you flip the switch it gradually started to slow down, perhaps God will do that soon for life itself. Wonder what that would look like? All life in the slow lane, time to breathe again.
|Disappearing under a blanket of white|