The spirit of this land speaks to me as we drive through Crewkerne, crow after crow wheels in the afternoon sun, above hedgerows giving way to fields. Family in two cars returning from the Jurassic Coast – a walk along the pebble beach collecting stones followed by huge plates of fish in a restaurant with a lazy balcony that gives way directly to the sea.. Conversation relents and weaves like the crows’ wings and the sea, eachothers’ tendencies lovingly picked up on: mumbled speech, over-laboured stories. Food admired and swiftly digested. Relaxed recognition and jostling for attention, we know all the moved that will work.
I suppose that is what responsibility is, living up to what you have acquired or experienced. As a storyteller I’ve become burdened at times with having known and observed things relentlessly. It becomes an all-absorbing passion seeing structure, noting performances. There becomes a permanent book-keeper noting and charting, seeing how form becomes, how things are created, how structure can imprison and empower. How freedom comes with letting all of that go, a sublime unconsciousness which is somehow all-knowing. It takes over and the story becomes part of everyone.