The Explanation
(for those who require one)

And, of course, that is what all of this is -- all of this: the one song, ever changing, ever reincarnated, that speaks somehow from and to and for that which is ineffable within us and without us, that is both prayer and deliverance, folly and wisdom, that inspires us to dance or smile or simply to go on, senselessly, incomprehensibly, beatifically, in the face of mortality and the truth that our lives are more ill-writ, ill-rhymed and fleeting than any song, except perhaps those songs -- that song, endlesly reincarnated -- born of that truth, be it the moon and June of that truth, or the wordless blue moan, or the rotgut or the elegant poetry of it. That nameless black-hulled ship of Ulysses, that long black train, that Terraplane, that mystery train, that Rocket '88', that Buick 6 -- same journey, same miracle, same end and endlessness."
-- Nick Tosches, Where Dead Voices Gather

Through the Lens of Cyril Arapoff #9

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Women from London's East End having a 'holiday with pay!' working in the hop feilds of Kent. The tradition of working-class Londoners going hop-picking goes back at least to the eighteenth century.


mannorak said...

This brings back some memories... I used to go hop-picking with my parents in the early 1950s. Oast houses (for drying the hops) were a common sight in those days - now they've pretty much all all been converted into luxury homes. Great photo...

Richard Gibson said...

Thank you.