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Arthur

@arthurfcarroll

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I spent eight months somewhere I was familiar with as an off ramp to a snake eating its tail in place I was infinitely more familiar with. Mediterranean beauty was a big distraction with a sea like Liquid Glass and the might of mountains that surround a town shot through with a melancholy decrepitude that hits you in the evenings with an undeniable beauty, evening sun tracing out the details of peeling paint and desiccated wood shutters with a mistral wind blasting through the streets and muttering retreats in a winter that made the apartment blocks catacombs, each room in every flat a narrow cell hewn out of cold rock as dark and as quiet as a crypt. I’d come there thinking the place I escape from another was the logical choice and in a sense everyone has they’re own logic which is based on their own very personal experience, the pale yellow and bleached bone rock against the the vaulted blue didn’t make me as a relaxed and I thought it was and if you’re not a chill person the chances are you won’t gel with a chill place, although I don’t think that place is. by @arthurfcarroll
7
2 months ago
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We found ourselves scouring the heavy green crevices with keen focus and obsession looking for the ancient Saxon blade, that lay in a fabled hoard, who’s keepers fled the conquest of William the bastard - said to be flickering like a flame in a mountain cavern, that lays in a stygian pool who’s surface disturbed by a great pillar of white water, ripples like napped obsidian. In the ancient woods that survived the mines and the raucous ascendant pines planted to fill the great lacerations that scar the land from when the coal was ripped from the mountain to fuel the fires of Albion- these ancient woods, that line the streams that cut through the mountains who’s stony feet shape the rivers and churn the water white and black, while the water bows the cresting branches back, we traced the arteries of the hoards resting place to its thronging heart of undisturbed darkness, that lay heavy, in a basin like the loins of a slumbering titan, with a great wet wall of moss that defies the sharp shale and climbs against the forest torrent and crests where the sky light pierces the waters surface, before it hits the eyes of the pools denizens and congregants below. The fallen leaves shone crimson on the basins floor through the stained lifeblood of the mountain, yet the hoard was absent, the real hoard were the good times we had along the way. by @arthurfcarroll
0
2 years ago
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We were commissioned to renovate the charred ceiling of a church, burnt by flying war machines that left the ground 666 miles away, flying at 42,00 feet, and carrying 69 lb lethal parcels of brimstone. We erected the scaffold at dawn like some oversized gallows, and began reciting the 69 necessary incantations as to not incur the spiteful wrath of the Christian god while we maintained its property on earth, we advanced up the scaffold to carry out our toil - we came closer to the ceiling, it seemed as a dried membrane of the hulking cavity of a vaulted rib cage, each beam and buttress a mighty blackened bone, the charred and scarred slats the withered husks of intercostal muscles fused with the mummified pneumothorax of the preserved corpse of this titanic creature. Its glistening obsidian surface once a vast waste of shifting sands pitch black as ancient night, turned to a virtuous broken skin by violent flames, like the deserts of a dead planet turned to glass by the death throes of a dying sun that once gave it life. In the decrepit nooks of this hollow hung long abandoned cobweb constructs, relics of a life long extinguished, hanging on the inky surface like ancient ghost ships on a sunless sea, against a cold sky of endless night. We began our task of saturating the charcoal surface with black pigment, the burnt and scarred skin drinking in the viscous ink, black as cart grease, dark as if it were the Earth’s blood itself that gives the flesh of obsidian life, or the waters that run through the crags the abyssal riverbed of the Styx. At the zenith of of the closed and hollow mountain were two hatches, burnt through, that exposed the partially scathed root of the spire, holes punctured through the hulking chest by leaping flames, like souls escaping by the final breath of their stranded mortal coil. As we peered into the internal anatomy of the spire, the abyss stared right back and said “Hi.” Days later as I took down that scaffold that lead to that damned vaulted pit, I could not get that word that what dwelt within spire said to me, it rattled around my head like a stone in a shoe, but now I’m fine. taken in Clapham Common by @arthurfcarroll
4
5 years ago
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The Thames estuary - once a thriving portal of industry and promise into the fetid capital of these dismal isles is now a grey, watery lifeless wasteland. In its prime, in a single week, up to 420 freighters would pierce the membrane of these shores and enter the vast artery that is the Thames, coursing straight into the cruel, dark haemorrhaging heart of 🅱️rittania - a cursed and decrepit citadel being kept alive in a state of half death, by the incessant adrenaline injections of looted resources. Here we see a dark figure, watching the sea/river/estuary shrinking back like the last lingering days of summer yielding to Autumns cold sodden embrace, to reveal the drear and naked shingles of the river bed, like rose tinted scales falling from ones eyes, so does the receding tide reveal a stark vision of barren emptiness. 69 miles across the grey expanse lies an imposing structure - the last bastion of industry/activity in the area, a vision of new vistas and opportunity?!? Could be! A fortress of activity and discovery?!? Let’s hope so. taken in Cocytus by @arthurfcarroll
1
6 years ago
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Well, here we are - day 69 of the new normal (and about 420 to go). Look at this root in this mouldering bower, do u c wot I c? It appears to be a quater of a human figure, perhaps an individual like you or I, that felt such strong an urge to abandon the singularity of their soul and embrace the lethean bliss of oblivion, casting their essence into the great consumer - the hulking and surging mass that is the sum of all who have traced their life’s journey across its ancient surface. Perhaps they felt as if their spiritual strife would never stop, and as their coil is entwined with their soul, would turn to vitriol and harrow the flesh from their frame as rancour sank into the minute fissures of their mind and etched its way closer to the sacred confines of their heart, and rather than be consumed by fear and grief, would rather yield, and submit their existence to the world, their hopes and fears soaking into the living clay as their countless ancestors before them did and became green. 66.6 years or so later, we are left with their coiled likeness, a testament to their human frailty, and their intimate submission to the inevitable. by @arthurfcarroll
2
6 years ago
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Over a year has passed since I’ve taken this photo and I am only just beginning to come to terms with it. Only now is it that I feel that I must share what happened and what I have come to realise from the existence of this photo. @rachealcrowther and I were shopping for nothing in particular in the suburban living nightmare that is lordship lane market - notice the little white box I’m holding - inside it was the most flavourless millefeuille I have ever had the displeasure of feeling with the inside of my mouth (to call it tasting would be gratuitous) for a cool £4.20. Ambling along the stalls of overpriced whitewashed furniture we came across a mirror stand. None of the merchants claimed to be responsible for this stand but it seemed the only one which had any kind of character, it was however still overpriced, this particular specimen was £69.00 - not exactly what I’d call a bargain - STILL, something about this mirror charmed me... it seemed out of place, there was no particular feature about it that I could really pick out and explain why it gave it such a unique presence compared to the others, other than the ominous sense that it was not supposed to be there.Intrigued by this object but impeded by the lack of a sales person I found myself in a limbo, so I simply took a picture of the mirror in question with the intention of coming back later and purchasing it when the merchant might be present. If i had had the slightest phantom - the shadow of an idea of what I was doing at the time I would have forgotten about this entirely right there and then, for ever since I took the picture I felt as if something had followed me from that place. Images of the mirror haunted me increasingly, after leaving that place, I could not rid it from my mind nor could I rid the concept of seeing that which we do not want to while looking into any mirror. I went back to try and find it, to stop this obsession but when I looked at this photograph I froze, for the third person in this picture was never there when I took this photo. Why was he pointing at me? Does he point at me still? Is it only through this mirror I can tell? Is it where this spirit dwells and must return? by @arthurfcarroll
10
6 years ago
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Scorned heirs look across stoically and ambitiously with a steadfast resolve across the treacherous expanse of steely cobalt brine, surging with and swelling with destructive energy beneath the surface, much like their seemingly calm and collected composure which is the facade of their resolute and merciless will to attain what was taken from them, at their ancestral fortress which sits 420 nautical metres away from the rocky sun bleached shore. For centuries this four hundred and twenty year old castle was the home of a community oyster and mussel farmers (they allegedly don’t have immune systems and clean the sea) and were all but self sufficient, making vast longboats, galleons and clothes out of shells and seaweed ands mermaids purses. This community did nothing to aggravate the mainlanders, they would occasionally communicate through fires lit in alternating shore facing windows or simply just shout across the channel repeatedly. About 69 years ago a nefarious plan was set about to turn the castle into a theme park, so the property development company set up fake shipping lanes around the fortress so that over pollution would poison the water and stop the mussels and oysters from growing forcing its residents to move. This photo was taken moments before the heirs to this fortress released 666 European long eared bats they had been breeding for two generations trained to take up residence in the towers of the castle therefore forcing the theme park company out because of conservation laws. They now live happily on the fortress, habituating themselves to a life that they had only heard about as third hand stories, quite content to ease back into a self sufficient life of self created entertainment, routine and care. by @arthurfcarroll
2
7 years ago
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Late upload from my annual attempt to correctly perform the dark ritual that will re activate this decommissioned portal to hell, located on the site of a fallen monastery that succumbed to hideous ruin and a stygian decrepitude that stained the very land that it’s foundations pierce, like gnarled, pervasive roots starved of moisture, probing and defiling the sleeping earth with a hellish thirst that will only be quenched by the annihilation of the peace that the soil lays in. 420 years ago this portal was up and running, 666 souls could pass freely from our realm into that of the damned every day, tapping into the energy of the nearby prison as a source of collective anguish to power it, equivalent to 69 horse sized coal furnaces running non stop. The evening in question I performed the rites, and made the appropriate offerings, just as the sun slowly sank behind the cruel silhouette of the merciless mountains like a sick and wounded beast, dragging its failing frame into a unseen corner to succumb to its fate, and darkness crept across the dying light on the hills like black ink seeping into the yielding pulp of a blank page. All went as planned - but nothing happened, a bit like that bit in the Ninth gate. This has been the third time I tried this so I guess I’ll just rinse and repeat and get this thing up and running again. Tips welcome x taken in Parc national des Calanques by @arthurfcarroll
0
7 years ago
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Ancyent and cryptic fortification settlement? Or council flats in the distance... did you know that %69 of buildings in the UK were once castles? After the 1666 London fire (London used to be a a giant castle - the crumbled remnants of the battlements served as the hallowed foundations of the M25 blessed with ancestral protective magik) a royal edict was passed to convert as many defunct castles into council flats - (the opposite of what they’re doing now! Loll!!1!1 ) this is one of the buildings that eventually became a success, however most - through corruption and greed - had the development stalled until the new monarch came in, who declared a moratorium on the edict, meaning that the half finished conversions eventually became what are now known as stately homes. This is the last of only 420 successful conversions. Rest In Pieces proud Castels of the past ♟ taken in London, United Kingdom by @arthurfcarroll
4
7 years ago
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@5vsvl4r0ch3 and I after receiving the devastating and humiliating news that we weren’t allowed in this years Nunhead Cemetery 4:20 pm goth photo shoot. A years preparation and a prospective affirmation of our identities scattered into nothing like ashes in the wind. Next year we will be staging our own counter photo shoot in protest of our exclusion of this over hyped event that I never really cared about in the first place because it’s stupid 🖤 by @arthurfcarroll
3
7 years ago
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An old horse in front of a decommissioned military surveillance complex. This Military Observation Unit in Oxfordshire along the chilterns footpath (designation: Dolon 69) was taken out of service a few weeks after my third birthday is now the site of a retirement home for horses. These ragged beasts haunt the grounds like the ghosts of the fear filled motivations of the construction of this hulking and decrepit instrument, vessels of languid torpor, ever waiting to dedicate themselves to an existence of myopic attrition of an unseen enemy, thousands of miles away. This facility could once simultaneously track and monitor 666 targets at once (222 per dish) up to 420,000 kilometres away. Dolon 69 was perpetually staffed by 69 active agents of our government, tasked with the search for hints, whispers and phantoms of a threat through a thick shroud of misinformation and self inflicted fear with a burning steadfast gaze, looking for a clear sign of danger in a sea of smoke. If you dedicate your life to looking for something that could be anyway seen to be malign it would probably make you quite unhappy, and convince you that there is mischief everywhere, the staff at Dolon 69 must be no strangers to this, wherever they are - I’m not advocating ignorance but, seek and ye shall find rings quite true to me ¯\_(ツ)_/¯. Knackering work ;D. These serene and wizened horses made the whole experience a much less abrasive phenomenon to witness, counterweighting these vast husks, monuments to fear and malice with their simple, restful and peaceful existence. The horse retirement centre is home to 69 residents, matching the 69 staff required to operate Dolon 69 (coincidence????!) what if all staff at military facilities were replaced by retired horses? Porton Down and Aldermaston would probably be much nicer places, although accidents would be plentiful and there might be a few horses with radiation and novichok poisoning :( by @arthurfcarroll
8
7 years ago
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What are these things that people build in the woods? I know what you’re thinking - it looks like a house, and I agree, these structures do bare many identifiable features that are consistent with a functioning shelter: a roof that’s shape diverts rainwater, interlocking beams, an entrance, an area where one could feasibly put one’s body, some form of structural integrity (they are still standing when you see them right?) which must of took extra effort during the construction of this object, yet clearly, on a less nuanced level, this is NOT a functioning shelter - kind of like when potters make something that looks like a cup or bowl but u can’t use it⁉️Perhaps amid the dead silence of the woods in the fading light and waining warmth this is where people’s minds go, without knowledge or precise desire to build a functioning shelter they think of it in an abstracted state of mind and compulsively create this representation of a cosy hut where they would curl up for the night, and perhaps this is a reflection of a desire to stay in the woods, rather than shut themselves off from it with a visual and physical barrier of branches and moss, this manipulation of the environment is an attempt to join with it, or formalise some experienced intimacy, and express a desire or commitment born of fondness. This particularly enchanting assemblage was papped in 🅱️ONES WOOD in 🅱️ERKSHIRE in the winter of ‘18, on my 4 hour and 20 minute walk I came across 69 of these strewn across the thick woods as if some terrible insidious event occurred forcing the non functioning woodland shelter population to flee, knowing that the heinous event that occurred had rendered the very land they lived off inhabitable because of the harrowing nature of said event. A nicer way to think about it is that they all just moved to other woods. But given the sinister back story of 🅱️ones Wood, and sinister yet silly name, I’m going to assume something dark went down. * EDIT * if u read this text out like Scully reads her case reports out loud at the end of the episode in a pitch dark room with the screen reflected in her glasses it makes more sense 👽 by @arthurfcarroll
8
7 years ago
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