Notes on A Neolitic cup marked rock on the hills above Shandon, in clear sight
of the Faslane nuclear base, Argyll & Bute, Scotland.
—
The rain pooled in the small depressions, the sheep shit too. Some pebbles of excrement in a depression made by a rock and a hand generation upon generation ago. Was that ok? The sheep maybe didn’t exist then so a dwelling for excrement probably can’t have been on the persons mind when they gouged and gouged and gouged away to make the dips and the bumps, probably much finer then, sharper, more new (more real). Now the stone sits almost hidden in the orange grass but the GPS can see it and so can I. What does it feel about the bombs beneath, can it pull through the soil to the water on top of the bottom of the mountain side and feel the atoms, the energy, ready to become a catastrophe. Though a quick one, relatively; its surface having lived the mute catastrophe of weathering for the last four thousand years. It’s still there though, it’s a thing of itself, it has a force over the other rocks, it’s the wet eyes maybe? Or is it my consciousness looking at it and knowing that rather than it just (just?!) being a thing dumped there by pure cold, wet process and movement, a brain made it in to a thing to carry meaning and it carries it to me, though I don’t know what the meaning is. All that matters maybe is time, the time is took, the time it still takes, the time its been there, the time the time the time.
