Little hiding thing.

The last morning of a multi-day stay on the Cornish coast, I spent about 45 minutes taking pictures at the water's edge. The tide was rattling out, clattering down the rocks and pebbles. Eventually, it was far enough down that I was able to crouch near this bit of brilliance without fear for my camera and lens.

I do fully intend to put in front of you more pictures from those two weeks. But first, another voyage out of town--this time, back to London (where I spent the first half of last week, as well), for a talk by Christo, a tapas lunch, an Italian dinner with someone who has been a blogfriend for a half-decade but whom I've never met, bookstore prowling, art store prowling, a day-long conference, a play, some more lunching of some sort or another, some more museum-going of some sort or another. And through it all, more and more reading of and about plays and theatre: what they are, how it works, what one should ask, what one must know.

And some spells of total stillness, because I'm not allowing for that enough: even my solitude has gotten packed and busy, a reminder of why they tell us, when we go into silence at the monastery, that that doesn't just mean outer silence--the cessation of speaking--but inner silence, as well. I've got a chattery head these days.