With mud and imagination

There stood a fooball pitch in north Oxford, not very far from the inner ring road and Summertown where if you were to go back some 30 odd years you would find a lone young boy. The goal posts played no part and the mud and misrable weather were no obstacle to that boys sense of freedom and escape from the binds of this world. For many an hour he embraced and in the same moment denied the elements of our world and let nature conjure the infinite in the finite. On many a wet weekend you would find that boy flying his kite. I have never forgotten that feeling.




tomorrow you will be different. type c nr.2 and 3 / first phase