Ailz and I set off for the Meeting House. At a certain point our ways diverge. She chugs of down the road in her motorized scooter and I take the short cut across the rec, After a few steps I find I've forgotten my keys to the Meeting House so I change direction and charge after her- and the dog-walkers are treated to the spectacle of a silly old greybeard running across the greensward waving his stick.
Night Cafe, where I create AI images- has a list of prohibited words- but it isn't posted anywhere- and you only find out you've strayed when you use one in a prompt. Then you get a message, more in sorrow than in anger and calculated to make you feel small, letting you know you've been bad. One of the prohibited words I found out this morning is "Stalin". So what if I want to fake up a photo of the Yalta Conference?
We're having a lot of rain. I like to hear it beating against the windows. And when it does I think of a line from an early Ted Hughes poem- written I guess when he and Sylvia Plath were living In Mytholmroyd on the edge of moors- which goes "This house has been far out at sea all night." I quote from memory because I won't have a Hughes in the house- though I concede he was a true poet....
Mytholmroyd. Aren't north country names wonderful! I've been there. And it's as wuthering as it sounds. Just up the road is the larger village of Heptonstall where the old church- now a blackened shell- was described by John Wesley as the ugliest church he'd ever preached in. Sylvia Plath is buried in Heptonstall. The headstone memorialises her as Sylvia Plath Hughes- and her fans and admirers, back then, which must be 40 years ago at least, kept scratching off the Hughes and Ted and his sister kept putting it back. I don't know the current state of play....
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