Echoing Green and the Incredible Shrinking Man

Clear Red Water: Welsh Devolution and Socialist PoliticsFirefighters in Art and Media: A Pictorial HistoryThe Tin Violin: The Adventures of Joseph Emidy - A Cornish TaleThe Wheel: An Anthology of Modern Poetry in Cornish 1850-1980 (Modern Cornish Poets) (English and Cornish Edition)Bryan Pearce: A Private View

Echoing Green is formed from Woolen Yarns(various), Jute Threads, Cotton Brocade and Gesso Paint on Hardwood Panel. Echoing Green is a poem by Blake whose fearless amateurism I admire, reminding me of Johnsons slightly more opinionated guile, also.... The television documentaries by Bryan Cox about the universe and the Earths connection to each planet in the solar system has given rise to some astonishingly lucid dreams, if a hell exists apart from existing in "other people" it must surely exist on the surface of those barren - beautifully scary places. On the subject of Landscape & Consciousness, Spatial Alchemy - I don't go out of my way to sound pretentious but since it is to the Romantic Poets that I've turned, I'm lingering on poem The Echoing Green for its reference to cyclic chronological consciousness, The Village green where countless generations seemed to gravitate - obviously such lines were conceived before the time of the CCTV camera or for that matter, television. I do find it a bit odd that the inhabitants, particularly the children living in tenemented communities are considered anti-social for assembling on the street corners and sitting along walls etc. Contrary to our dangerous"Street Life" the Echoing Green was the amen corner of its day, hopefully the Echoing Green possesses a wider context rather than the "centered" contemplary detail, matters linked with the wider interests of human consciousness of the landscape, how the landscape may fulfill certain ambitions, how such ambitions impact upon the land and the influence that the very stuff of Landscape brings to bear upon the inhabitants of that land.
In particular the notion that we people named things, either gradually or perhaps occasionally or immedietly, we named them with our consciousness, our forefingers, our eyes and our voices and these facilities were in part informed by the very landscape we were "naming" at that time and now.

That is why the loss of any language is the loss of a whole dimension, there is - in my present opinion - no clear evidence that one language is accurately translated from another, general translation is obviously attainable but if you were to suggest a meaning of a word in a language that is "not your own" you can only describe the meaning in a shallow dimension, "it looks like". "it sounds like" etc in some languages, for example the name of a colour is the same for a particular term of endearment, you could argue that such minutae is nonsensical hair splitting although I believe the reverse effects can be sampled when, for example particular Irish writers write in English because they might imbue the language with a playful spirit, as a child might play with ryhmes and repetition, Beckett seemed to savour words so ultra sensitively in their radiating impact upon the receptivity of a narratives montage; the effect upon the reader comprehension . It would be interesting and improbable to know if the success of the English Language is because it has no "core" to the words, no shadow or twin and if the abandonment of our Brythonic Languages, the P-Celtic and Gallic languages which stem from the majority of Britain's landmass was given up relatively passively for the attractive qualities of "shallow speech", a language with which one could excel in insincerity. English at its best required a broad vocabulary or the sort of treatment previously alluded to in Beckett.
I point at a hill and say the word for hill in the language that came through that hill.
The film The Incredible Shrinking Man ends with the protaganist reassuring himself as he stares up into the starry heavens after surviving a mauling from the domestic cat and then a battle royale with a spider, he stares up from the deep grass blades of his jungle lawn and muses....I still exist.....just as I looked down onto the Thistle as it caught my full attention, the microcosm.