Till the wreck of body by Nathan Jones

Now shall I make my soul,
Compelling it to study
In a learned school
Till the wreck of body,
Slow decay of blood,
Testy delirium
Or dull decrepitude,
Or what worse evil come—
The death of friends, or death
Of every brilliant eye
That made a catch in the breath—
Seem but the clouds of the sky
When the horizon fades;
Or a bird’s sleepy cry
Among the deepening shades.
— W. B. Yeats in The Tower (1926)

51 Years by Nathan Jones

And 245 days, counting up (which is so much harder than counting down.)

This series of photographs was captured with the Minolta XE-1, a camera that is exactly the same age as I am. It has idiosyncracies, just like I do.

À la recherche du temps perdu//Sein und Zeit by Nathan Jones

But though I have fasted, wept, and prayed,
Though I have a seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet—and here is no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.
— T. S. Eliot in The Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock (1917)
The glacier knocks in the cupboard,
The desert sighs in the bed,
And the crack in the teacup opens
A lane to the land of the dead.
— W. H. Auden in As I walked out one evening (1937)
O sages standing in God’s holy fire
As in the gold mosaic of a wall,
Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre,
And be the singing masters of my soul.
Consume my heart away; sick with desire
And fastened to a dying animal
It knows not what it is; and gather me
Into the artifice of eternity.
— W. B. Yeats in Sailing to Byzantium (1928)

#ultramundane by Nathan Jones

Nikon FA, 50 mm f/1.8 Series E, Fomapan 100, Kodak D76 1+1.

Photographs taken during a couple of walks around the nieighbourhood under mostly overcast skies in January.