We panted our way up the slippery sand-and-heather coated slope and surveyed the surrounding countryside. I expected a cluster of housing estates and pylons but I misread Andrew's triumphant expression. The view from the top was exactly the view the Diggers would have seen from the top of St. George's Hill. A panorama of virgin countryside; a windblown heath bisected by rough paths, a lake and rough woods extending to the horizon. You could hear cars and an occasional aircraft, but shut your ears and the scene was hallucinatory. Here we were, a mere hour and a quarter from London, confronted by one of the last sizeable stretches of unspoiled and unenclosed common land in England.--Kevin Brownlow, Winstanley, Warts and All, UKA Press, 2009, p. 22-23.
There's always a pool of blood somewhere that we're walking in without knowing it... It's your blood that feeds the earth. It's you who fatten the servants of lies.
Winstanley - Kevin Brownlow & Andrew Mollo, 1975, 35mm
2 comments:
it hurts so good
The seasons of love and death.
The seasons always are signs of radical alienation.
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