Magpie #104 Maggots

Photo Manipulations by Christophe Gilbert

copyright Christophe Gilbert

Look at this in negative and see squirming, desperate maggots seeking to consume the fresh young flesh of a dead woman but yet she looks enraptured so this may not be so.  Switch perspective and see spermatozoa, swimming to the ova, each hoping, if they had such ability to feel and aspire, to fertilise and procreate. Look again, are these not the wrinkles of the brain surrounding the pearl that is the hypothalamus, the reason for our waking and walking and thinking and feeling?

When the image is enlarged some force beyond renders it dark, forbidding, the hair like Medusa’s locks, so many snakes to poison man. In death she brought forth Pegasus, the winged horse of poetic inspiration and Chrysaor, the giant with a golden sword, so is this image one of hope for mankind?

Disturbing, so white, so black, a puzzle obscene and beautiful, a perfect tessellation of form and shape.

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A tangle of hangers

I think there's a hanger thief in our neighbourhood. We never have enough of them even though our clothes are purchased complete with hangers. I case Barry's car every now and then as he tends to accumulate them but even allowing for that – and I make lots of allowances for him – there is always a dearth of decent hangers in our house. I emphasise 'decent' for we do have some horrible hangers.

I rarely take clothes to the cleaner's as most of our clothes are washable even if sometimes they don't claim to be. Nevertheless we seem to have accumulated a number of those unpleasant wire hangers so freely provided by dry-cleaners. My suspicion is that the wretched things are reproducing – hangers that is, not dry-cleaners. What the dry-cleaners get up to is their own business and I wouldn't dream of commenting.

Picture the scene – I am having a tidying-up session, interesting in itself for its rarity value. Clothes are being sorted, folded, put carefully away. Barry's socks are folded back on themselves ready for ease of donning. Sorting washing actually goes on all the time, but sometimes it tips over into 'clearing up.' Many and various trainers, boots, shoes, slippers are tidily paired and set side by side in a cupboard. Now that I can see the floor again and move about the room with relative ease and safety I can begin the task of 'hanging up'. Jackets and coats worn by Barry in the course of several weeks and heaped on his chest of drawers are removed and placed on hangers in his wardrobe – or at least they would be but all the wooden hangers have been used and all that's left are the hideous wire contraptions that look like a giant's retainers. Sigh!! Muttering that they'll have to do I attempt to release one from its mates. It won't let go. Now, I've had long experience of unknotting knitting wool, embroidery silks, skipping ropes, hair, but wire hangers have the better of me. They clatter and cling together like malevolent fairies, laughing at my efforts. Eventually I lose all patience – and the will to live – and fling the knotted mass to the floor where it glares up at me, Medusa reincarnated.

So that is how we always know where to find our jackets – not in the wardrobe, hanging rigidly to attention, but piled comfortably on a horizontal surface in our bedroom.

One of these days I'll design a house with no horizontals . . . promise!