ECHO 14/11/05

In the dawn mist; cold, frost heavy spaces out here – each being is outlined, and the big oaks are a vague presence – discovering waypoints of the soul alone in the clarity of the morning, some connectivity to my past and my present resides here in solitude. Listening and watching, nothing more.

Radio discussion – blog as weapon of protest, voice and expression of dissent. For some around the world, it is there only means of freedom of expression. And governments want to censor them. Filter them because they are indeed immediate. Winston, watch out!

On the other side of the village I catch sight of the cattle burial mounds, where the foot and mouth cadavers were placed after burning; weird spine-like mounds undulate at the crest of the man made hill watched over by a pair of yellow mechanical diggers, articulated arms up and bent at their piston elbow halfway, sentinels waiting to unearth the bodies again, churning them over and removing the poisoned sludge, to be sucked up by huge tubes into tankers and dumped elsewhere. Possible project in spare time: photograph the disused airfield used for the cattle burial – at night it is eerie place enough without this added dimension – twisted and lonely metal artifacts out there in the open, a light on in the solitary control tower, a huge mesh radar system at the far end of the field, box like outhouses and hangars – it is marked as disused on the map but it appears to be very much alive at night. Does it only get used after dusk?

Eric Morecombe died on stage in The Roses Theatre, Tewkesbury. I'm moved, touched by this and the fact I will be performing on the same stage for 6 weeks.