The bog is the only quiet place left.

In an in-between hour, I go wandering.

It is not essential, providing neither exercise nor any specific creative goal. And yet.

I seem to be regressing. Circling the same things that preoccupied me fifteen years ago.

Bog

Heather

Plastic

Bone

Silence, no, peace

It is not silent.

Wind, birds. Listen

Fifteen years ago, I loved the bog, but feared it. A young woman, a teenager, aware of the dangers of being alone.

Older now, seasoned with caution, I can be here without fear.

There are new ideas percolating.

I fill a bucket with branches, petals, bones, turf.

Something new is coming.

And yet. It won't be new. Not to me.

Sideways, backwards, forwards.

Do all artists remake the same piece of work indefinitely? Hoping to finally perfect with craft and graft the ideas they had during the passion of new adulthood?

Layers, I suppose.

In 2020, confined to 2K of my home home, I began my revisiting. Ideas, images, trains of thought that truly began decades earlier that have led to everything I'm working on now, sitting in my car, with wet wellies and a boot full of bones.

VR collaboration and text below.