with words, wonder

I'm a writer, art history student, and Taylor Swift fan.

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with words, wonder
Inspiration from physical artefacts

Published on August 16, 2026 under the Art category.

This evening I was on a wonderful call about websites where, at two points, I reached for books that were around me as a visual reference. One of the books was “Mini Louvre”, a gift given to me that contains images and information about various artworks in the Louvre. We ended up talking about how there should be more picture books for adults, something I raised after sharing my excitement about the Mini Louvre book. This led me further to think about my use of Mini Louvre in the last week.
I was looking for inspiration for a blog post and I decided to flick through the Mini Louvre book. I didn’t go in with any aim in particular, rather I wanted to skim the pages and see what I could find. I do this sometimes with poetry books too. The way I decided on the poem “Repeat that, repeat” for the collaborative challenge I did with Ruben was that I opened some of my poetry books, flicked through, and chose one that was short and seemed approachable in terms of analysis. I loved the practice of flicking through the book and seeing what stood out, almost as if I was wandering aimlessly through a world of poetry – and, in the case of Mini Louvre, of imagery and art history.
This has me thinking about what a “reference” book means. I have thought for the longest time of reference books as being more text-heavy, and more technical. Dictionaries, style guides, compilations of quotations, domain-specific references, and more all fit into this. But for me, poetry anthologies have been useful for reference, and, further, inspiration. So too was Mini Louvre; my perusing didn’t lead to any particular work, but it did give me a moment with art where I noticed something that was relevant to an idea I had. In a way, I was doing research without really realising it. Today I realised that visual books can be reference books too.
I am wondering whether I should add a few more art books to my shelf for when I want to flick through and see different images. I find the web a bit overwhelming for this purpose, both in terms of imagery and poetry; there are so many things to look through, and it is so easy to scroll. Whereas in a book I can open the work at a random page, look at what I see, and sit with it without feeling the pressure of having to keep going as I do when I am perusing an online image gallery.
I have three books about art that aren’t textbooks: a book of Monet’s work, Mini Louvre, and a book made for the Art of Manga exhibition that the de Young Museum in San Francisco held. For the latter book, I didn’t go to the exhibition but it looked so cool that I knew I wanted to have a physical artefact I could read. The print quality is delightful, and I have greatly enjoyed looking through and reading it. The book hasn't inspired me in a specific way, but it did satisfy my curiosity, and I love that it is there on my shelf whenever I want to learn a bit more about manga design.
Earlier this week, I was looking through an art magazine I had lying around, and a particular work of art in a photograph in an advert stood out to me. My interest in the piece took me down a rabbit hole that led to me learning about an art collection I didn’t know about, and was quite a fun adventure. I loved how flicking through a magazine led to something of an adventure.
I have been thinking too how it would be nice to have more zines also for creative reference. I would love to make zines and think it would be helpful to see how more people do them, just as I surf the web and explore websites to see how other people are using the medium of the web. I have a few handwritten zines in my collection which I love but I am also curious if there are zines of typewriters, or zines that are all images, or zines that are collages.
I am curious: do you collect any physical artefacts – books, zines, maps, exhibition guides, or whatever is relevant to you – for future creative reference? If so, I would love to hear your stories! Feel free to email me with your thoughts.
with words, wonder
Surf by Stanley Cursiter

Published on August 15, 2026 under the Art category.

The National Gallery of Scotland has a temporary exhibition of Stanley Cursiter’s artwork going on at the moment. Cursiter was both an artist and keeper (which I understand to be like a curator), later director, of the National Gallery of Scotland. The exhibition, in one of the side rooms to the main hall, is filled with a selection of works throughout his career.
Walking through the room, I was surprised and delighted by the range of his works. I liked his “Synthesis of the Supper Room at an Arts Club Reception”, a Futurist piece that caught my attention the moment I saw it. A collage of different faces and expressions and drinkware, the piece makes my imagination go wild; I feel like I am in the world of painting.
Another work that caught my eye was “Surf”. The work shows a brown coastline where, at the intersection of the coast and the sea, there is a wave of white water pushing forward. The way the water is painted, and from the perspective used in the work, it looks like the water is coming directly towards you, ready to push you back. There is something of a contradiction in the water: the colours are beautiful and peaceful, yet the wave at the front appears forceful.
My favourite part of this painting is the use of colour. The white stands out and brings back memories of the times when I have seen white water on the coast. The light blue behind the white, too, catches my eye.
When I got back from the gallery, I shared this painting with a few friends. Joe pointed out the sense of movement in the painting. I didn’t catch this at first, but when I thought about it the water reminds me of the way that wind was used by the Impressionists, like how Monet, through his brushstrokes, made the trees in Poplars on the Epte seem almost as if the wind was blowing onto the trees. Cursiter’s piece feels alive in this way, as if the sea is moving even though the painting is still. As a viewer I can sit in endless anticipation of the wave coming in, enjoying the colours of the water before I am soaked by the water.
Surf makes me feel relaxed, as if I am with and by the sea. While I am unfamiliar with the exact place the painting depicts, while looking at the work I feel like I am at the sea side, waiting for the water, enjoying the breeze, the fresh air – making memories.
with words, wonder
Morning; walking; music

Published on August 15, 2026 under the Stories category.

My first feelings outside this morning were of the chilly, refreshing autumn air; one for which I have been yearning for many days. I feel at home in cooler climates. In the grass, a rabbit hops slowly; other rabbits gather, too. A bird flies in front of me as I walk; many kinds of birds sing, heard by each other and the trees and me. In the song, I wonder. Do birds have their own community? Their own rhythm? A robin – or maybe a chaffinch – perches on a low branch at the bottom of the hedge. I stand still to admire its colours for a moment.
As I walk I take in deep breaths to embrace the morning air. In, out. I take in the comfort of the cold after an unseasonably warm summer. The breeze feels like home. I look around and see a faint love heart shape made by the leaves on a tree nearby; another tree is starting to turn auburn; a mint green tree catches my eye. The sun peeks through the grey clouds and starts to shine through the fields; the light is welcoming. The day is beginning.
Later, I arrive at a coffee shop, taking a seat by the window that lets me watch the world go by // the flow of people and cars and suitcases and stories is fascinating. I lift my coffee cup of the first time today and see the ways of sun shine through the window onto the drink. Sun-kissed coffee. Passing by, people are dressed up for shows and wearing festival t-shirts – the Edinburgh Fringe is in full swing. Some people walk fast, with a spring in their steps, others saunter.
With breakfast and coffee, I was ready to start my day.
⁂ ⁂ ⁂
There is a long walk through the city that I have wanted to do for the longest while, up Blackford Hill. I used to walk there every weekend, revelling in the panoramic views of the city – views extending from the countryside to the sea, overlooking houses and church spires and more. It is a far walk – a few miles – and I have always convinced myself to do something else; to go to a bookshop, to go to the art gallery. But this morning, something made me think I should do the walk today.
I did the walk today, trying my best to remember the path I used to take – one that weaved throughout quiet neighbourhoods; one on which there was always a particular album to which I would listen. I wanted to follow the familiar, but also the new: to do a walk I have done, but to walk today; my memories of the walk are at least a year old.
Passing purple flowers and moments of humanity and bakeries and trees, and taking a few wrong turns here and there – there is one part of the walk where, even when I was well practiced, I was occasionally prone to reaching a dead end – I made my way up to the hill, the hill on which the last stretch is all grass, malleable grass, malleable in a way that makes me think how hard stone is; how much more grass there should be. What if our pavements were grass?
I looked up to what was the periphery of the sky when observed from the distance and was now beautiful grass, underfoot. There is one particular part of the walk, however, reaching the top, where there is a dip, and it looks like you might walk into the sky. But when you reach that point, the stone marker of the hill becomes visible. Down a bit, then up a steeper stretch, and you have made it. Reaching the top of the hill, I had to lean forward to stay balanced against the wind; a wind more intense now there was no protection from the buildings that surrounded me for most of my walk.
Atop the hill, a family speaking German take photos of themselves and the city. I think about how quiet it is up here, only the faint hum of cars and construction equipment and the occasional conversation audible. I look around at the landscape that first brought me here and made me want to keep coming back every weekend, and realise that it is just as awe-inspiring as ever: the views of Arthur’s Seat and all the rows of stone houses and the Castle and all the other buildings that make up the place we call Edinburgh are breathtaking.
I sit down on a bench and look out for miles: at the stadium and the sea and the hills and the churches and the castle, and imagine all the hopes and dreams there are around me.
⁂ ⁂ ⁂
Walking slowly, except for the steep points where I feel like I need to speed up such was the gradient of the decline, I admired the landscape from many angles before descending the hill, and making my way back into the city. Two miles or so later, I was back on the concrete streets, now filled with music. The Fringe was in full swing.
A pianist played on the Royal Mile, one of the many hearts of the city – cities are too big to have only one heart. His piano did not have a front cover, so we – the large crowd assembled – could see every hammer pressed. I could feel the emotion in every note as the hammers touched the strings. The music the piano made was bright, and beautiful.
“If you enjoyed this music, it’s all my own.”
⁂ ⁂ ⁂
Shortly thereafter, in the park, a guitarist plays faintly in the distance. The sound is mostly inaudible, but a few notes carry across the multi-tiered park that is Princes Street Gardens. I had to get closer, to hear what songs were being played – to hear the lyrics and to feel the rhythm of the music. Approaching, I heard the tail end of Year 3000, sung in the artist’s own, melodious voice.
“One outfit, one guitar – that’s all you need, right.” “You can’t [inaudible] your mistakes, you’ve just got to write songs about them.” The artist’s interstitial messages between songs were full of wisdom, whether or not she realised it.
I was entranced, as I was with the pianist earlier, and another guitarist earlier in the week. The transition to the chorus was joyful – at first, a moment of anticipation, then I close my eyes and start trying to identify the strumming pattern, and then, here comes the chorus. I listen and keep listening, tapping along to the rhythm. Here comes the bridge. People around me are smiling. I am too. One person lightly sways to and fro to the music.
Her voice reminds me a little bit of Maisie Peters.
The backdrop of the guitarist was Princes Street Gardens, the National Gallery of Scotland, and Edinburgh Castle and yet, in the moments when I listened to her music, staying for several songs, all the architecture fell into the background as I held on to lyrics, watched how she played, and enjoyed the moment. The music made me lose track of the world, and yet also, as music does, made me feel more connected than ever. We grow with words, with melody.
with words, wonder
questions, ii

Published on August 14, 2026 under the Poetry category.

(what if) home pages (were, are) ever-changing poems(?)
with words, wonder
paper

Published on August 14, 2026 under the Poetry category.

to feel the boundaries of the paper loneliness hopes blankness fullness peripheries texture colour;
within its edges:
frames of beginnings.
with words, wonder
memories

Published on August 14, 2026 under the Poetry category.

the forever flutters
like a lantern,
warming, present.
with words, wonder
Edgar

Published on August 14, 2026 under the Stories category.

Wearing a distinguished red scarf, the fluffy librarian sits atop a shelf of books.
Of the stacks and stacks of stories and tales resting beneath, he knows all.
Edgar is a quiet, soft fellow — content contemplating closer to the clouds.
He could recite any poem from Dickinson —
or paint a portrait of the quietest, fullest Japanese coffee shop.
Instead, he sits patiently, waiting for the moment when you reach out, asking “what should I read today?”
With a smile always on his face, and without a spoken word, you realise he has a book all ready for you, under his two big, small paws.
with words, wonder
Autumn

Published on August 14, 2026 under the Life category.

While walking earlier today, I noticed a few tall trees in the distance were starting to turn yellow. One tree in particular stands out to me; one changing faster than others, adding a new hue to the once all-green canopy of trees. I look around and start to notice the first signs of yellowing on other trees, too – the ends of branches tinted with the colour of the next season; leaf-shaped reminders that, with time, summer becomes autumn; green becomes yellow and red and brown as we cycle through the seasons. My imagination anticipates autumn while most trees are green. We live in days of colour, living musically in the breeze like the dancing leaves.
I went to my website to check when the trees changed colour last year. I noticed in the last year that writing about the seasons means I have a record of change. “Autumn” takes me back to last year. On 20 August, I observed the yellowing of the trees. Today, too, I feel the changes in temperature, and hope that we are experiencing the tail end of this summer’s heat. Although it is still warm, and the following weeks are forecasted to reach peaks in the high-teens.
This has me thinking about blog posts as bookmarks – of seasons, of change, of observations; as records: barometer readings, written through the lens of poetry and prose, just as Turner’s landscapes depicted the hues of the sky through the lens of paint.
Noticing the changing colours of the trees today, I had a small feeling of fear: is it too early for the trees to be changing? Another part of me remembers that we are only three weeks away from September, and reflects on how this time last year, too, I saw the changes in the seasons. I feel concern for Nature as I do for everything I love.
The wind rushes through the gaps between the leaves, trees swishing side-to-side as if they were a paint brush adding colour to the sky. Imagine if trees did paint the colour of the sky – if every swish was practice for the ever-changing hues of day. In that world, perhaps the growth and change in the leaves would be like an artist finding and re-finding their voice, one that fits the season of life they are in.
with words, wonder
Sunset

Published on August 13, 2026 under the Stories category.

I was just in time to catch the moment when the sun started to recede behind the hills in the distance, a moment in which two birds flew together and danced into the night, in which there were the last flickers of the golden glow of Evening thinking through the window, in which I looked to see the colours of the rest of the sky and, when looking back, realise the sun has now set; its brilliant yellow glow becoming cooler with every passing minute.
I looked to the clouds and saw the shape of a giraffe with its neck craned down, two reindeer, a lady in a dress standing looking toward the sky. I notice the hills farther away are now a deep blue, like the hills in paintings from the 1500s, their colour changed by aerial perspective. I look out to the sky with wonder, and think about how no matter how much I watch the sunset, the colours of the sky in late evening are forever beautiful, leaving a lingering, awesome impression.
with words, wonder
Questions

Published on August 13, 2026 under the Life category.
Ever since I published “Blogs, websites, and identity”, I have been thinking about and discussing some of the questions I raised in the blog post: why do we take photos, what does it mean to write on the web. The essay feels like a starting point: a framing from which to work, a point of reference, a repository of questions.
In the essay, I wrote:
But I can’t shake my question: what does it mean to write on the web?
I am still thinking about this question. I am no closer to having a written answer but, while out on a walk earlier today, I realised that I am content sitting with the question – letting it exist in the back of my mind for a while. The question feels significant, but I don’t know where to begin.
How does writing on the web contrast with other types of writing? This may be the question I need to think about first, and I already have some openings now that I think about it: I approach writing letters and private drafts differently to pieces I write on the web, while all continue to be expressions of my voice.
The aforementioned question – “what does it mean to write on the web” – is, I think, a “big question”, an idea I learned about from Tracy’s website – a question that can guide my thinking. I have a few more “big questions” that came to mind as I started thinking about what to write today, which sum up some of the concepts that have been on my mind of late:
- What does change feel like? (My ideal framing here, however, is not necessarily a question so much as an invocation for me to think more about change, apt at present as I have recently redesigned my website home page, a reflection of change.)
- How do the visual and the textual relate?
- Why do some things stand out more than others?
- What cultural artefacts engage with or are inspired by art history (like Paris Paloma’s excellent single “Pre-Raphaelite”)?
- To what extent are my interests in writing and how my design sense manifests related?
- Why do some paintings stick in my mind more than others (i.e. Turner’s “Rain, Steam, and Speed”)?
I am not sure when I will write about these topics, but I am curious about all of them. If you have thoughts on these topics, or know of any materials that might be interesting, please feel free to send me an email.
Just before I wrote this blog post, I listened to part of Maisie Peters' "Questions" song, which, while not related to the content of this post, shares a title with this post. As soon as I wrote the title for this post, I knew I had to listen to the song. Her latest album, Florescence, is a no-skip album for me.
with words, wonder
breath

Published on August 13, 2026 under the Poetry category.

first breaths,
outdoors:
in, out.
calm.
with words, wonder
Afterglow

Published on August 13, 2026 under the Stories category.

Is this what “afterglow” means? The question came to me as I looked up at the sky twenty minutes or so after sunset. There is a faint orange colour on the horizon where the sun was. The colour grows paler away from the hills; the sky is now mostly blue, the top of the sky darkening while the horizon is slightly white, painted with lines of light and lightdark grey clouds; two dark clouds appear to the right of the horizon, surrounded by the red of the afterglow.
I knew the word “afterglow,” but I didn’t know what it meant until this evening: the colours that come after a moment. Merriam-Webster defines the term as “a glow remaining where a light has disappeared”, or “a pleasant effect or feeling that lingers after something is done, experienced, or achieved”.
I think I felt both this evening: the warm colours cast by the sun even after it had receded behind the hills brought me joy, as it always does – to see more colours, to see the changes in colours, to think about how the colours change between months of the year. The golden sunsets of summer are as vivid as the pink sunsets of winter, every sunset leaving an impression that builds with time.
I thought about and felt other afterglows: the moments that come after good conversations, and when I know there are more to come; the magical moments after a concert has finished when you walk with all the people who you have been sang with; the feeling that comes after I have written something I love; the moments when I walk away from a painting that I have been studying for minutes and turn back again because I know there is more to see; the moments when I smile after someone says “thank you”; the long memories of sunsets so vivid that I can still picture them with full clarity today.
I now know what afterglow means.
with words, wonder
Impressions; museums

Published on August 12, 2026 under the Art category.

On my desk there is a painting of Monet’s “Bridge over a Pond of Water Lilies” ¹ that I purchased when I was on holiday last year. I wanted to bring something back that I could put in my living space, something that would both be a memory of the trip but also a work of art in itself to be enjoyed. Every time I go to my desk, the painting is there: a reminder of one of my favourite artists.
I brought back a fridge magnet from the same trip, too, which brings art to the kitchen. And when I go to museums I like to collect pin badges. I keep them with all the other mementos I collect: gallery tickets, maps, and other artefacts from a trip. I don’t look at my badges often, but I love having a little collection of things that grows only when I happen to be in a museum gift shop and see a badge I like.
This week, I have been thinking about how these artefacts are only the beginning of what I “bring back” from museums. After I visit a museum, I bring home memories of art, maps of the space I walked through, memories of specific places, of the people with whom I visited a museum, of all the moments I had before, during, and after my visit. I remember the discussions about works of art, of being intrigued by what stood out to people I know.
I bring back questions and perspectives. Why do some paintings stand out more than others? What if we had mini galleries all across the country to show artefacts that national galleries do not have space to put on display? What would an artist’s workshop in 1500s Italy be like? Why are art museums so magnetic?
I bring back the feeling of moving between rooms – of noticing that the narrow entranceway with two small doors is an opportunity to be kind to others by holding the door open, of feeling the textures change beneath my feet as I go from the stone floor of the entrance to the carpeted area of the museum, and of feeling textures of the carpet change as I move between rooms and floors and spaces. I bring back my memories of the architecture: the tall ceilings, the pillars, the walls, the rooms, how rooms connect.
These solidify with time; every visit an opportunity to reinforce a memory, while also being at the whims of the serendipity that art galleries create.
I was recently talking with a friend about the room of Rembrandt paintings in the National Gallery in London. I last visited several months ago. I don’t know how long I spent in the room; it was quite a while. I was fascinated by every painting: all of the varying expressions, all of the people, all of the stories; and, the conversations I had in the gallery with other visitors. When I was talking with my friend, I could see the arrangement of the room. I didn’t know what paintings were where, but I knew roughly how many there were. I guessed 18. There were 19. ²
I have similarly vivid memories of different rooms: of the corner of the room in The Met where Monet’s Ice Floes painting is on display, of the wall of Romantic paintings in the National Gallery of Scotland, of the part of the Courtauld Institute in London where Manet’s A Bar at the Folies-Bergère ³ is on display, and where there are so many other paintings I love.
I bring back snippets of knowledge I learn from information plaques. I don’t remember most of the details I read, but what I do read helps me understand a work in the moment, and influences the impression that I will take away. There are some details I will remember; paintings with vivid stories, paintings that use a technique I have never seen before, information plaques where the author has included a detail that sticks in my mind.
Museums leave a lingering impression on my mind, each one a home both of art and of memories.

¹
https://www.metmuseum.org/art/collection/search/437127
[↩]

²
https://courtauld.ac.uk/highlights/a-bar-at-the-folies-bergere/
[↩]

³
https://www.nationalgallery.org.uk/visiting/floorplans/level-2/room-22
[↩]
with words, wonder
Eclipse

Published on August 12, 2026 under the Life category.

Is it possible to be in awe and have no idea to what extent until you look back? I think this is what I feel now, looking back on the solar eclipse that happened an hour and a half ago or so.
“Isn’t it amazing that this happens?”, I said to everyone who joined this evening’s Homebrew Website Club Europe meetup online, whose start coincided with the solar eclipse. I didn't have solar eclipse glasses, but I decided to do the next best thing to experience the eclipse: watch the stream from the Royal Observatory in Greenwich, and share the feed with everyone as we started the call. For the first ten minutes, we chatted and watched as the moon started to eclipse the sun.
I worked on an "eclipse" theme for my website quickly during the call: I turned the background colour of my home page to #000000. In a way, my site felt the solar eclipse with me.
I am not sure the extent to which the solar eclipse was visible here given the cloud cover, but the room definitely did get darker. I didn’t get up to check if the effect was caused by a cloud, but I like to think it was the eclipse – the shadow of a beautiful celestial event that we got to experience today.
Before the meetup, I had been watching the BBC coverage from Iceland and watched as the solar eclipse reached totality. The photography was amazing. I saw red protrusions from the edges of the sun. Were those solar flares? I have never seen the sun in the way I did this evening, even though it was through a news feed. The BBC cut to applause as the solar eclipse reached its peak.
I know intuitively that the sun and Earth and moon moves, but I am still full of delight that the moon can appear in front of the sun and call it a solar eclipse. The BBC newsperson said that the eclipse is one of the best celestial events we get to witness. I agree. I may not have seen it directly, but knowing I was sharing an experience with others was what made the moment.
As the solar eclipse reached its peak here in the UK, I asked my usual question to open the meeting: “What have you been making on your website lately?” It felt special to be able to ask that question while we used the web to watch the solar eclipse. The web truly is wonderful. Space, too. I wonder what I will be doing during the next solar eclipse.
with words, wonder
Wonders of Web Weaving, Episode 14

Published on August 11, 2026 under the Post category.

The fourteenth episode of Wonders of Web Weaving is out:
In Episode 14, I chat with Robb, the author of rknight.me about, among other things, metaphors for websites, the importance of sharing things you like on the web, running an indie service (Echo Feed), and more.
I hope you enjoy the episode!
Wonders of Web Weaving also has an RSS feed you can use to follow along from wherever you get your podcasts.
with words, wonder
Perspectives

Published on August 11, 2026 under the Art category.

“What would this painting by Titian have looked like four hundred years ago?” I always find myself asking myself new questions – and noticing details I have never appreciated before – when I visit galleries. Some of this comes with my studies. I saw a portrait in the entrance of the National Gallery of Scotland today that I started to study using some of the symbols I learned to look out for earlier this year in school. Other times, questions come because I start to wonder.
“If I were standing in the scene of this painting, what would I see around me?” This question came to mind as I looked at Tintoretto’s painting of Christ Carried to the Tomb. At the top of the painting there is a foot of an angel visible, with no body. This is because the whole painting was not taken out when removed from its frame. ¹ I had to imagine what might be at the top of the painting – the details I couldn’t see. Then I thought “What would be around and behind me?”
The more time I spent in the gallery, the more questions that came to mind. What if I were a person in a painting: sitting for a portrait, or an allegory sitting on the ground, or one of the people in a vast landscape?
I went to a room I don’t often visit. It is off to the side but the artworks inside are magnificent. I admired the light and shadow and grandeur and humanity in Bril’s “Fantastic Landscape”. Looking back, there is something delightful about that title. Indeed, the landscape was special: the way the light shone on the ground, and the blue of the hills, left an impression.
I thought about my next steps. What art should I go to see next? I decided to go to the landscapes room. I love all of the paintings in the landscapes room, but there are two that stick in my mind. I didn’t know the names of the works or the artists, so I went back to once again experience the sense of wonder from standing in front of them.
Making my way into the room, another painting caught my eye, one of a singular, tall tree behind which there is a denser forest grove. I admire the painting and hear behind me “Look at how intricate and all perfectly even that is.” I was not looking in their direction, but I think they were admiring one of the Canaletto paintings – the geometric approach he takes to painting is impressive. When they left, I turned around to verify the Canaletto paintings were there, and then I went on to what I came to see.
“Bertin’s Classical Landscape” ², “Fabre’s View from Florence” ³. I jotted down the names of the paintings, and then I feel in love with them again. Looking at Bertin’s Classical Landscape, I noticed the parallels between two broken branches — one prominent, in the foreground; the other, more subtle, yet illuminated by the sun that is peeking through the canopy of trees. Despite the grandeur of the landscape the bright blue and faint red flowers being collected (woven?) by two women in the foreground always catch my attention.
While I admire “Fabre’s View from Florence”, two women speak of their travels in Italy – to Venice and Rome and Florence and Siena. I think about how paintings bring out the stories we have; places we have been, places we desire to go. And then Crome’s “The Beaters” ⁴ catches my eye, showing tall trees along a country path that was made from sketches of Norfolk. There is so much to see.
What would it be like to be one of the women holding flowers in Bertin’s Classical Landscape? Or if I were in Crome’s The Beaters, standing in front of the pathway through what the information plaque called “ancient oaks”. How would I feel?
On my way out, I realised that there is so much to see that I often end up forgetting about the bottom floor, and, in particular, the Romantic-era paintings I love. Walking into a room and reading “Romance & Reality: Scotland”, I am in awe, at the rainbows and the landscapes and the bridges and the stories.
Did artists ever step back after finishing a piece of work and say “wow”?

¹
https://www.nationalgalleries.org/art-and-artists/5674/christ-carried-tomb
[↩]

²
https://www.nationalgalleries.org/art-and-artists/5719
[↩]

³
https://www.nationalgalleries.org/art-and-artists/48579
[↩]

⁴
https://www.nationalgalleries.org/art-and-artists/4795
[↩]
with words, wonder
Music; electricity

Published on August 11, 2026 under the Stories category.

As I approached the top of one of the many long staircases from Cockburn Street to the Royal Mile, I felt an electricity in the air. The street was full; shows happening everywhere as part of the Edinburgh Fringe festival. People were handing out fliers to fill crowds. I always love seeing how people invite you to a show. Some hand out fliers kindly. Others stand on street corners. The person I saw first was what we’d call a “chancer” here in Scotland. To a passing tourist, he said “If you can’t make it, it [the show] is on every other day”. This is the “you’ve got to risk it for a biscuit” strategy, an old family saying.
As I acclimatised from the relatively quieter streets on which I was walking to one where there were people everywhere, I heard music. At first I thought it was someone singing, but then I realised it was being played through a loudspeaker. Myles’ Smith’s “Stargazing.” I recognised the song but I didn’t know the name, so I had to look it up now, as I sit at home, reflecting my day into this essay. When I heard the music, I wrote down some lyrics to look up: “right there all along.” I at first misheard them, however, hearing “right there all alone.”
The music on the loudspeaker called me in. The leader of the act invited us all to stay. The air in the city was electrified by applause, both from the act I was drawn to and others around. The person standing in the centre of the crowd was juggling blocks. I couldn’t take my eyes off his skilled movements: how he was able to be so co-ordinated. When he dropped a blocked everyone applauded in support and he continued, taking on ever more complicated tasks. “Viva La Vida” came on. People applauded to the rhythm. The person leading the act tried to hold an increasing number of blocks between his hands, seemingly suspending them all in the air as he picked up another one. I couldn’t believe it – his talent, the way he held the crowd.
Walking into a show without knowing what’s on feels like part of the experience of the Fringe. Edinburgh becomes a city of serendipity, with the potential for awe and music and surprise around every corner. Life is in the air.
I started walking around more and another act caught my ear: not from a loudspeaker this time, but from a guitarist, wearing a red shirt and holding an acoustic guitar that was mahogany brown from the back. I was drawn to the music. His guitar was well tuned. His voice was amazing. I was suspended in joy and awe and delight. The emotion of his words shone through in every note. I think about how lucky I am to be here, to have caught this moment.
I stand for I don’t know how long, listening with joy. I am standing at the back of the crowd, and the most of the production I could see was the singer’s guitar. But later I realised his music was developing layers. He was mixing his own music on the spot, like I saw in a documentary Ed Sheeran recorded. There were layers and layers to the music. You could hear the music coming together. In front of me, I saw a young woman tapping her feet to the rhythm. There were high notes he hit that seemed almost impossible to hit.
Half-way through the song, he stops playing his guitar and the backing music he had recorded with help of the pedals starts to play. The bridge begins. The audience claps to the rhythm. He starts playing again. I can hear the layers: of audience, of sound, of energy, of confidence, of moments. A staff member in the background bounces their head to the music lightly and smiles. “I don’t want this moment to end, but I know the beauty is in the limits,” I wrote. Then, no more than thirty seconds later, the song finished and the performer was done for the day. “Thank you for listening, thank you for your energy.”
I carried with me a smile that beamed unlike any other that day. My body was excited from the music, but my breath was calmed. I needed a moment to stop and stare into nothing as I processed the performance. “I want to hold onto this moment.” I stopped, paying attention to how calm my breath was – the acoustic sounds of the guitar were so wonderful. I let the music continue on in my heart for a moment longer, as good music does.
with words, wonder
how the poem

Published on August 11, 2026 under the Poetry category.

how the poem slows
time — of day and night.
how the poem flows
words — all in sight.
how the poem shows
mirrors — reflections of light.
how the poem knows
conditions — ours alike.
with words, wonder
Poems as wayfinding

Published on August 10, 2026 under the Web category.
When I look at a painting, or read a poem, or a story, I feel like I am entering a new world, one created by the artist, the writer, to evoke a particular feeling, to highlight something meaningful, to document a moment, and for many other reasons too.
I love the feeling of building a world in my mind when I engage with a work of art: the scenery in a novel or a poem, for example, or of the images in a painting that come together to help me understand a moment in time. I love when one work opens my mind to something else; when I read one novel and realise I want to explore the genre more, or when I realise I love the style of an artist and I feel motivated to learn about the time in which they were painting.
As web weavers, we can build worlds, too.
Stories, poems, paintings, songs, photographs – all of the arts – can help us find our way, to discover something, to navigate and explore moments in time. This is the essence that I have carried forward into the new design of my home page. Structured as a story in poetic form, my new home page both carries its own message in words and links out to places on my website to explore.
The poem now on my home page was first drafted while listening to folklore, while going through the countryside — looking on to castles and hills, passing through villages, as I daydream about my website — and refined at home, in my armchair, late into the evening: a blend of the energies of day and night. All inspired by one thought that came to mind: “Navigation bar as a poem. Home page as a poem?”
There are five kinds of links throughout the poem:
- Links to category pages, to explore a topic.
- Links to articles, that focus on a specific topic (i.e. website ideas).
- Links to my most recent blog posts.
- Links to things you can do (say hello, wander, search, make your mark).
- Links to meta pages (my category list, about me).
Presented as a story in the form of a poem, with hyperlinks, the text becomes both a story and an explicit way of finding information: a navigation tool in itself. The page then ends with my short bio, a welcome message, that ends on the note that I have kept through the last two designs of my home page:
I hope this website can bring a little bit of joy into your day.
with words, wonder
Morning, sunrise

Published on August 10, 2026 under the Stories category.

The horizon is painted with a cool, warm glow. The sun has not yet risen; the hills are its blanket. The sky is a clear blue.
I woke up earlier than normal this morning. I find myself writing while gazing out the window, watching the sun rise, its light filling the room, illuminating the ideas of past days on my whiteboard, the titles of books I love, and the glass of water I poured earlier to help me ease into the morning.
When I woke up, I heard the song of a bird whose music I did not recognise. Birds continue to sing. The fresh morning air breezes through the window. Today the temperature is again lower. The world is wakening up. I am too.
Since I am not usually up at this time, I knew I wanted to watch the sun rise; to see the colours of morning. As I write, the yellow glow of the sun is intensifying, starting to shine on more of the places around me. The middle distance looks like it is tinged with a faint gold. Seemingly every time I look outside, there is something new to see; the world ever more full of colour, of light, of day.

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