Writing me Down

Photograph (Activity 22.5)

2006-07-21T16:38:00.000+01:00

It is the summer of 1986. The grass is studded with daisies, and the trees rustle overhead. We pass the gleaming windows of the tech college where I have just finished studying. I step quickly forward, and turn to take a photo of my two art-student friends, Karen and Justina. Karen shrieks and lets her long, red hair fall forward to screen her face. She puts out her left arm in a parody of an automaton-like walk. Justina, her dark hair secured back from her pale face with a black scarf and red rubber band leans forward, mouth open as if to bite Karen’s shoulder. Both girls are wearing long macs. Justina’s does not quite conceal the fact that she is heavily pregnant. Her dark eye makeup and large earrings are all that remains of her goth days. Just off the frame is the flat where we lived together for a year.
This is one of a series of photos that I took just before I left Lincoln to go to University to study Business Studies. Justina soon gave birth to Sam and moved to a house in North Lincoln with Sam’s father, Paul. I later received a photo of Paul and Sam. Karen moved back with her parents in a Lincolnshire village and started her own crafts business selling on stalls. A long time later, I received a phone call from her inviting me to a religious seminar. I declined, and never saw or heard from her again.

Fledgling

2006-06-30T16:37:00.000+01:00

I was picking daffodils when
I noticed the thrush.
A strand of couch grass
showed me her nest
in the hawthorne
by the fence.
Over its rim her white throat
speckled chest
two dark eyes
watching.
I left the gardening ‘till later
so as not to disturb her.

I missed her journeys
to and fro -
went to check,
found the nest
empty.
Glancing down I saw
her baby
on its back
throat stretched
thin, transparent
tiny beak pointing north.

I saw her again
gathering leaves
dropping them
clattering off
into the trees.

A few weeks later
I heard her song
fluting into the evening air
and something in her music
healed me.

Tea with the Queen

2006-06-19T11:09:00.000+01:00

The day my Gran met the Queen for tea
she didn’t shake the royal hand.
It was my Grandad who'd been invited.
There were cucumber sandwiches,
china cups with tea,
small cakes,
icecream and jelly.
Yes, really!

The day my Gran met the Queen for tea
she didn’t see the royal face
but – oh! – the Queen looked lovely
even from so far away.
It was in the gardens, Gran told me,
with everyone in Sunday best
smartly dressed with gloves on,
even though it was sunny.

June morning

2006-06-19T11:06:00.000+01:00

Trousers damp at knees and ankles,
thigh high young green stalks of wheat,
path of cracked clay slick with dew-grass,
swallows chatter on overhead wires,
a squadron of swifts scream overhead,
two bare trees groan with starling-fruit,
poppies gleam vermilion silk,
purple flags the proud iris,
roses ramble round the porch,
the air thickens with mock orange,
on Church Street corner a small brown deer
greyhound-size just standing there,
ponies and donkey lie in buttercups,
a skylark bubbles its song through the air.

Don't count your chickens before they're thatched

2006-05-19T18:17:00.000+01:00

It was perched on the edge of a cliff
when I saw it. Clucking, looking fat.
Nearby a haystack stood, listing sideways
as if sliding off its needle.
From a blackberry bush
dozens more chickens rushed
out like a cloud, and
stood around their stray mother.
Then with a whir the breeze blew down
the hay onto the clucking crowd.

Glimpsed on a bike ride

2006-05-19T18:16:00.000+01:00

ponies like bookends
two foals asleep at their feet
among buttercups

Point of View

2006-04-05T15:57:00.000+01:00

1.1

Ben felt the hedge digging into his back. It stank under there of cat shit and something else that he couldn’t name. He felt Jake’s body tense up beside him.
“What …?”
“Shhh. The old codger’s coming out.”
Ben peered underneath his pulled-down hood and saw a pair of flat grey lace-up shoes stepping down the doorstep. Ben started to sweat. Why had he let Jake talk him into this?
The grey shoes turned down the front garden path away from them. Ben took a deep breath – and then held it, as another pair of shoes stepped down. Brown, flat lace-up shoes on a pair of stout ankles. Ben had a bad feeling about those shoes. They reminded him of Mrs Garrison from juniors. The shoes paused.
“Bernie!”
Oh, God. She even sounded like Mrs Garrison. Ben shivered and hoped Jake hadn’t noticed. The brown shoes started to walk briskly towards them. Ben’s thighs burned with crouching down for too long. He dipped his head even lower, allowing the hood to completely obscure his face. He felt a sudden urge to stand up; pretend he’d just lost a marble or something. What a bloody ridiculous idea that was. Who’d believe a fourteen year old boy was playing with marbles?
The brown shoes stopped on the edge of the grass in front of them.
“I suppose you two think you’re invisible in there, do you?”
Ben peered out – up the stout legs, past the brown coat and into the grey eyes of Mrs Garrison.

1.2

Mrs Garrison – Lavinia to her close friends – checked inside her handbag while Mr Garrison was tying his shoe laces with much puffing and grunting. She rummaged through the contents, trying to locate the brown envelope. It wasn’t there.
“Bernie – did you take the letter out of my bag?”
“What …? Oh, yes. Sorry, dear, I think I did. I left it in the kitchen … somewhere.”
Mrs Garrison tutted and walked into the gleaming kitchen. The envelope was on the side, half tucked underneath the Parish Magazine. She picked it up, slotted it neatly into her hand bag, and turned to follow Mr Garrison out of the door. But something about the garden caught her eye out of the kitchen window. There seemed to be less light somehow, something crowded about the border …?
She followed Mr Garrison out of the door and closed it firmly, hearing the latch click into place. Something troubled her. She stopped and sniffed the air. Stale cigarette smoke – faint, but definite. She could recognise it at 50 paces.
“Bernie!”
Ignoring Mr Garrison’s impatient huffs, she turned and walked towards the hedge. She was sure of it now. There was Someone in the hedge. Two pairs of trainers.
“I suppose you two think you’re invisible in there, do you?”
She knew the face that peered out at her very well. Ben Wilson. She never forgot her previous pupils, even when they grew up and became Doctors and Lawyers. Which Ben was unlikely to do, in her opinion.

1.3

Ben and Jake crouched in the prickling hawthorn amongst the stench of cat mess and fox musk. It was Jake who had suggested that they do this house. Ben hadn’t been in this neighbourhood before, but Jake had spotted an opportunity. It was Jake’s Dad who tipped him off. Jake had overheard his Dad telling his latest girlfriend that the house would be empty that day and she was wanted to go in and clean it that afternoon.
Jake nudged Ben to keep quiet as the door clicked open and Mr Garrison stepped out. Mr Garrison was a grey man – grey, thinning hair, grey shoes, grey zip-up anorak. His face was grey like recycled cardboard from too many years of Mrs Garrison. He turned and walked towards the gleaming green Rover, his pride and joy.
Ben and Jake breathed again. Then Mrs Garrison stepped out and closed the door with a smart click behind her. She paused, her harsh face wrinkling as she sniffed the air.
“Bernie!”
Ben and Jake tensed, feeling sweat trickling down their backs.
Mrs Garrison turned and walked straight towards them, her handbag swinging vigorously at her side. She stopped right in front of them.
“I suppose you two think you’re invisible in there, do you?”
Mrs Garrison recognised Ben’s face peering up at her. She remembered all of her previous pupils.

Exercise 6.3 – A building that has changed its purpose

2006-03-30T19:40:00.000+01:00

Derek looked around at the mass of primary colours – blue and red rope climbing nets, multi-coloured balls, red squashy plastic shapes with children slithering over them, yelling at ear-piercing volume.

Yet he swore he could still smell the disinfectant, and hear the clatter of the dinner trolley.

Parents dodged past him, fielding toddlers, climbing with them into tunnels and hurtling down slides with their little treasure on their knee, shrieking, showing all their teeth. Would that treasure look after them when they were old, he thought. Old, dribbling, and shouting for their tea. He turned another corridor towards the bouncy castle, and stopped. It was down this corridor Emily had been. She had been quite sane really, almost normal. The corridor still had the same blue lino underneath the cheap chord carpet. He could see it at the edges, and remembered how it gleamed wet that evening, with the stench of disinfectant in his nostrils. He stood now, watching children leaping onto the orange and blue bouncy castle, listening to their shrieks above the drone of the air pump.

It was on this corridor that he found her body, her head at an ugly angle. These same walls – then faded beige, now custard-yellow – had been the only witness to what happened.

He felt a small hand tuck itself into his.

“Come on, Granddad!” Little Emma tugged his hand. “Come and see me on the slide!” Derek mentally disinfected the memories, and allowed himself to be pulled back into the joyful present that was his grand-daughter’s 3rd birthday party.

Exercise 6.3 – Trapped

2006-03-30T19:39:00.001+01:00

Eloise glanced around the cabin at the faces – all studiously not looking at her. Diddy was now screaming, his face purple.

“Shh, Darling. Here, do this colouring book with Mummy.”

“Want down NOW!”

“You can’t sweetie, I’m sorry.”

Diddy recommenced screaming, punctuated by the sounds of seat belts being snapped into place. Eloise felt her own seatbelt tight across her hips, restricting her movement.

“… expect to be in Adelaide in 8 hours time …” the voice crackled over the tannoy above Diddy’s screams.

The seats in front of her seemed too close, crushing her legs against the bags stuffed with toys and toddler snacks. The smell of perfume, strong and sweet, made her feel nauseous. She heard the rattling of packets behind her, and the smell of roasted peanuts started to compete with the perfume. Her stomach rumbled loudly. She remembered with regret those snacks she had had to ditch at the check-in desk to reduce the weight of her hand luggage. Diddy’s snacks, of course, continued to press into her legs through the bags. She sighed and looked out of the window. The blue sky and sunshine seemed remote, miles away from the grey cabin interior.

Diddy started to drum the back of the seat in front with his feet. Eloise saw the top of the passenger’s head shift slightly to the side as she whispered something to her companion, who turned and stared at Eloise. She shrugged and smiled weakly. What could she do? The tannoy crackled again:

“ … special offers … scratchcards … win holiday vouchers!” The voice, smart and groomed as its owner, marched on through the onboard commercial shopping entertainment. Someone shoved past on the way to the toilets, knocking her elbow, and she caught a whiff of ammonia as the toilet door opened and closed.

Exercise 6.2 - Setting and Character Mood

2006-03-30T19:39:00.000+01:00

Version A

Jen walked slowly between the neat rows of identical white headstones, stroking her stomach. Suddenly, her hand clenched and she stopped, breathing carefully and steadily. The writing on the stone, marble white as her face, swam in a haze in front of her. Gradually it sharpened into focus. “Harold Winter (25) Much beloved son – always missed.” Tears glistened at the corners of her eyes. Losing a son. She felt her stomach again, cradling it, willing the pain away. It’s only indigestion, she told herself. She walked on, feeling the weight of that stark white row of losses. A crow called three times, mocking her before flapping lazily into the yew tree. The grey clouds pressed down on the graveyard like a pall of smoke and the silence of the dead rang loud in her ears. She felt hot despite the chill wind, and hugged her coat close around the treasure she carried. Hurrying her steps, she clanged the gate behind her, and hastened to the hotel and the comforting presence of Peter.

Version B

The first thing that struck Mary when she opened the gate was the birdsong. A blackbird was singing its heart out, filling the graveyard with liquid song. Against the white stones the flowers stood out in rich colour – scarlet and gold, pink and orange. She took a deep contended breath and smelled the new-mown grass and damp earth – the smells of spring, of new beginnings. She smiled as she strolled between the handsome headstones, gently caressing the smooth marble of each one. “Thank you,” she whispered to each one. “Thank you for giving us peace so we will live in comfort in our gorgeous new home.”

Exercise 6.1 (Guess which character!)

2006-03-30T19:38:00.000+01:00

The polished mahogany writing desk overlooks the rose garden. A sheet of blank white paper sits squarely in the middle, framed by two newly sharpened pencils. A pile of gleaming identical paperbacks sit on the edge of the desk, the author’s name matching the name on the neat pile of business cards in the tray on the windowsill. The cast-iron Victorian fireplace with rose decorative tiles contains a pile of crumpled papers in the grate. The colourful cushions on the sofa are freshly plumped up; the pile of literary magazines on the coffee table lies neatly next to the overflowing ashtray and empty coffee cup. On the red and green painted walls hang mahogany-framed awards for ‘Poet of the Year’.

Exercise 5.5 – The voice of a fitness fanatic.

2006-03-30T19:37:00.001+01:00

This is for anyone who wants a good laugh. :)

Where did I put the mango juice? Oh, it’s there behind that large lettuce. I am so thirsty after the gym tonight. Did all my repetitions. What a pants class that was, though. Didn’t even get my pulse up. I’ll have to do double-class tomorrow or I’ll be falling behind on my targets. Perhaps I’ll go for a jog before bed to work off the carbs from that pasta I had with Jo. I need to get in shape for the 50k race next summer – I’ll need to be running every evening. Might as well start now. I bought a running machine for the spare bedroom but it’s not the same as road running. Fine for doing 30 mins before breakfast. It’s not the same as going to the gym though. What’s the point of having a fit body if no-one sees it?

25 Feb 06 – Hilda (Day School Exercise creating a character from a list of objects)

2006-03-30T19:37:00.000+01:00

Hilda straightened up, eased her aching back, and reached for yet another tissue.

“Damn cold,” she mumbled, plying the tissue with frozen fingers. She blew her nose loudly, then shoved the tissue into her bulging pocket. Her hands were covered in mud, with dirt under her fingernails and around the cuticles. It lined the creases in the flesh of her hands. She rubbed them on her faded green chords. As she did so, she felt something hard bang against her thigh. The creases on her forehead deepened as she pulled out the key fob and looked down at the photo. After a few seconds, she placed it carefully back in her pocket and bent slowly back down to the potatoes.

An hour later, in her kitchen, she stripped off her dripping coat before limping into the bedroom. Painfully she eased her aching body out of the chords and aran jumper, and towelled her frozen skin before dressing in tweed skirt, tank top and blouse. She pulled on her flowery apron and headed for the warmth of the kitchen. Ignoring the dog lead hanging by the door, she opened the cupboard and took down the flour.

“I’ll bake you some Florentine cake,” she said firmly. “You’ve always liked that.” She picked up her glasses from the kitchen table and leafed through a file of shabby handwritten pages. Unwinding the rubber band from the packet of flour, she tipped some into the mixing bowl, then reached for the eggs in the basket on the side. As she did so, her foot brushed against the empty dog basket. She stopped, reached for another tissue, and blew her nose.

The gravel crunched as a car pulled up outside, and Hilda threw the tissue in the bin, wiped her floury hands down her apron and leaned to look out of the window.

The first thing that she saw was the black-and-white terrier puppy in her daughter’s arms.

25 Feb 06 – The Valley (Day School Exercise)

2006-03-30T19:36:00.000+01:00

The first rays of the sun lit the hills with a dim light. Ahead, Clare could glimpse the valley cutting into them. She stopped, dug her flask out of her bag, and unscrewed the cap. The smell of strong, fragrant coffee felt like a hug – warm and friendly. It helped her feel less scared – less like an outsider. The memory of those desks, hundreds of grey desks, started to recede. She took a gulp of the strong coffee, then popped an M&M into her mouth. The hills were absolutely silent, but she had a sense of some hubbub of activity as if muffled by a blanket. The sun popped up over the hill, its bright orange light turning the valley to an electric blue. Somewhere she heard laughter, and then a strange chaotic sound, like an orchestra tuning up. She stood up and walked into the valley, moving towards the sound.

The Place Where I Write

2006-02-15T20:58:00.000Z

(This is a tutorial exercise.)

A woodpigeon hoots on the roof and the cockerel crows repeatedly two doors down. Outside, the sun casts shadows across the ridges and furrows of the top field. A gathering of greenfinches alight on the rosebush outside my window, attracted by the sunflower seed that hangs on the bird table. They go wild for sunflower seed.

I write resting on a mahogany dining table that used to belong to Rick’s Gran. In front of me, an orange box file holds course materials. Beside it sits a white tin with a picture of two grouse that used to contain miniatures of ‘The Finest Scotch Whisky’. It now contains tiny round tins of coloured ink cartridges, and a few stamps. In front of me is my sketchbook, open at the page I painted this afternoon – a watercolour of my mug and a few notebooks. To my right, the same blue mug, a green stain curving around the inside from the peppermint tea. Next to me lies a printout of this exercise in black, magenta and blue ink. On the other side of the table is the vermilion-red and wine of the course textbook, and a jumble of pinks, greens and blues of my journal notebooks. Colourful notebooks inspire me to use them. I write in coloured inks, with a fountain pen crafted out of walnut. At the moment, the writing on the page in front of me is cyclamen-pink.

The dining table is in our lounge at the back of the house where the sun comes in for most of the day. Its warmth is comforting. I look at the back of a large green sofa, with a deep blue fleece blanket draped over the back like a discarded cloak. Beyond the sofa, over the redbrick fireplace, hangs a Kandinsky print with colourful circles in 3x4 boxes.

Freewriting (30 Jan 06)

2006-02-10T11:30:00.000Z

Coffee, toast and three paracetamol did little to alleviate my pounding headache and feeling of nausea. I was struggling to remember the previous evening – had I really had that much to drink? It was only a few glasses of wine with friends – not exactly a night out on the town. I faintly remembered having a chat with Duncan – something about a seaside town. St. Ives – that was it. He was planning to move there, to become an artist.

I was surprised at the way that thought landed in my stomach, cold and hard like a whole tin of cold baked beans. I’d miss Duncan. Thinking over my first term, he’d always been around, his warm humour lightening the homesickness that I still felt. Duncan dropping out? It didn’t seem possible. He was easily the most talented artist among us. But it was a heavy financial commitment to make, studying for a Fine Art Degree. Most of us were struggling, and Duncan more than any of us I suspected.

I poured myself another coffee from the jug still hissing on the percolator, and went to sit in the shabby old armchair by the window. Very little light seemed to find its way into our second floor flat, but this was the lightest spot I could find. I curled up with my coffee and mused over the idea of Duncan moving to St. Ives. He had some wild plan of camping out in a draughty old barn and setting up his studio. How he would make a living, I couldn’t imagine. But he was good, no doubt about that. And he could paint the kind of stuff that sells.

A corner of a piece of paper caught my eye, sticking out of my bag from last night. I reached over and pulled at it. Out came a folded sheet of newspaper – the properties page. An advert was circled. It read ‘Flat to share, St. Ives’. Next to it, in smudgy pencil, was written ‘Helen. Come with me.’

The coffee stain spread unnoticed on the arm of the old chair, as the sounds of the street below receded behind the rushing that filled my ears.

Cold

2006-02-03T14:10:00.000Z

cold nose and fingers
sky grey as the woodpigeon
huddles in stillness

Thirsty Sparrow

2006-02-02T16:46:00.000Z

Sparrow, pecking at the disc of ice in the bird bath. Flys away, thirsty. Guilt tugs at me. I take the kettle outside and pour water on the ice. It makes a hole in the middle that I can slip my fingers underneath, and pull the disc of ice out. I drop it onto the paving stones.

frozen mist drifts
white specks resting on the ice
of barren birdbath

small brown bird, hopeful
dips to drink from disc of ice
flys away thirsty

Haiku - from the bird table

2006-01-31T17:06:00.000Z

Blackbird grabs bread chunk -
places it beneath her feet -
Gone! Cheeky sparrow.

--

flash of gold and green
a feathered whirling combat
over sunflower seeds

Compost

2006-01-30T17:18:00.000Z

Wrenching the flimsy recycled plastic lid from the compost bin, I emptied out the plastic tub of vegetable waste. It smelled of orange peel, banana skins and onions. A cloud of little black flies circled around the opening. The grass was soggy underfoot, small pools of water in the clay. I squelched back across the lawn with the empty tub. In the front border, the bulbs were showing some two or three inches of foliage above the soil. The red plastic sunflower seed birdfeeder had fallen down again, rocked off its peg by the exuberance of the greenfinches. I picked it up and hooked the wire back over the peg, tightening it to prevent a recurrence. The paving stones were strewn with sunflower seed casings. I made a mental note to sweep them up and put them in the compost - one day.

Warwick Parkway Station

2006-01-30T17:13:00.000Z

All around me are lines, converging. Floor tiles; paving stones; railings; the brickwork design of the protective grid pulled down around the coffee bar; the girders supporting the glass roof.

A rattle of coins; beep beep, clatter of change. The whirr of a drink spouting into a paper cup. Food clunks into the vending machine tray. Footsteps pace by, and a draught of cold air strokes my arm as the doors hush open. Quiet; broken by a throat clearing and the roar of a car engine; machine-gun rattle of tickets being printed.

Salute

2006-01-06T16:56:00.000Z

A boy stands, the light glinting
on a trumpet
clutched in his hands.
Behind, Father holds
his son’s small shoulders.

A voice sounds their names, one by one
each age pondered over
a sad reminder
of the hopes of a village
gone.

The voice stops
and boy raises trumpet.
We wait.
Two notes tremble out, followed
thoughtfully by two more.

The notes hold us still in the frosty air,
and leave an echo
to bow our heads to.
We stand
in silence.

Broken only by rustling leaves
and the bustle of engines, and shouts -
Move back there!
We can’t go anywhere!
We stand firm and shut them out

While our memories tremble
on the trumpet’s echo
and drift around
like the leaves that fall
and lie on the ground.

November 2005

Pixilated

2005-07-30T19:19:00.000+01:00

Dandelions grow wonky in the grass, tripping up the pigeons. Do foxes eat pigeons – or bubblegum? Sitting in the hedge, singing, blowing bubbles. Foxed. Out of their wits. Twit, twoo, the owl watches overhead, looking for mice.

The mice are looking forward to their annual holiday – in Greece. They climb into Agatha’s suitcase when she is not looking, too intent on her slice of battenburg to notice. Pink and yellow, yellow and pink. And jam, best of all, the raspberry jam.

Mouse blows raspberries at Owl, who hoots, making Fox look up. Up and up and over he falls, down and down. Hedge shouts “Oi! You all right down there?” No reply. Hedge shrugs and wanders off across the field.

“Mind where you’re putting your feet!” shouts Mouse, nipping smartly out of the way of a long, scrawny root.

“Sorry,” mumbles Hedge.

“A talking hedge!” Mouse shrieks and runs straight into the claws of Owl, who topples into the waiting jaws of Fox. The pigeons laugh - and then scowl as they try to pull their claws out of the large pats of oozing pink bubblegum.

The Pink Moon speaks

2005-07-19T11:24:00.000+01:00

All my life I’ve guarded that planet. Hugged it close. Feeling him, stirring and growing in the depths, knowing that one day he would rise and join me, make me complete. Finally, that day came. I felt the waters stirring in the deep and they lifted him up to me, delivered him onto the rocks within my grasp. I started to call him, pulling, tugging, impatient for him. But then the stones started to sing. What words they used I do not know, but I felt him grow stronger, resisting me. All my life I had nurtured him, waited for him and now … he was not going to come to me. He fought me. I could not persuade him, with all my pulling he would not come. I dreamed of him, how he would fight me and then, despite himself, merge into my roundedness. But he stayed away. He did worse than that; he became my nemesis. He brought the poisonous glare of that yellow orb that chased me high into the heavens. But he still dreams of me. He still wonders what would have happened if he had let me pull him into me, keep him safe forever. Safe in the darkness.

Thumbs

2005-07-18T12:10:00.000+01:00

Twin thumbs, narrow, long and brown. One is slightly darker than the other. Thin lines run from the corners of the nail beds. The cuticles creep forward, splitting slightly in the corners. The nails are unevenly shaped, about 3mm long, and unvarnished. Very slight ridges travel down them.

These thumbs suggest their owner does not spend time on self-pampering. The dryness suggests that no hand cream has been used recently. There is no trace of varnish. The nails have been cut, but not filed into a smooth shape. The skin suggests their owner is neither young nor old. The smoothness and the clean, unbroken nails suggest that these thumbs don’t see much rough work.

Waiting Room

2005-07-18T12:09:00.000+01:00

His thumbs jogged around each other as he watched his toes shuffling across the patterned carpet. It was as if his soles were attempting to read a map there that his eyes had failed to clasp hold of. Reaching up to his dripping face, his nails limped over his nose, which was kneading itself. Below, an uneven line of teeth winked. His mouth tried to creep across them, as if to hide their glare. When he felt his palms starting to walk through his hair, he snatched his hands away and sat on them. His heels were now chewing the carpet, ten toes blinking up at him. Ignoring them, his eyes started to walk across the carpet, as if scratching around for clues.

Er ...

2005-07-14T09:21:00.000+01:00

The agency believes very strongly
that the cultural world should have a say.
It also reveals the stubborn streak of parochialism,
but it is very difficult to meet its demands.

Layers of neglect had to be dusted
and chiselled different cities
around this most famous of seas.

Ideas
for the planet's most unusual
gallery space station
which orbits Earth

400 kilometres into space,
these women solo performers
had been swept into oblivion,
trying to look funky and aloof.

Home

2005-07-13T14:18:00.000+01:00

This is an exercise that Helen suggested from a trAce project.

What does the word ‘home’ mean to you?
Home. Where my bed is. Where I prepare my own food. Where I live with Rick. Home is wherever my family are – but it is not the actual places, none of which are home without the people who live there. Home is somewhere I feel safe to return to, somewhere I know well. Where I can come back to and go ‘ah, I’m home’. Somewhere known, comfortable, with people I love and feel safe with.

Please describe the home of your childhood
Which childhood? Which home? The main one that I can remember, and which seems most formative, I was aged 5-9. It was a bungalow on a new housing estate in Forres, Morayshire. We went to see it when it was being built. I remember the plasterboard lying around the building site. It was fabulous – you could just tear the cardboard layers off the outside and you had as much chalk as you could ever wish for to scratch upon the shiny new black tarmac pavements. These had pristine white concrete curb stones with tiny dot textures in the surface along the top edges.

I used to roam around the estate to the building site at the top end, and help myself to chalk and dried brown dock seeds that became ‘coffee’. The place smelled of new tarmac and creosote, such that these smells on a hot day take me right back. I used to break thorns off next door’s roses, lick the cut side and stick the thorn on my nose like a rhinoceros horn.

Where was I? The bungalow had white pebbledash on the walls which often grazed my elbows as I ran or roller skated up and down the side path. There was a smallish garden with a lawn and flower borders at the back, and a rotary washing line with pebbles all around the area below it. We had collected these a few at a time from the beach at Findhorn where a long ridge of pebbles separated the sand dunes from the sandy beach. Getting to the sea with bare feet was a painful process.

Round the side was a vegetable garden. I can’t remember what exactly grew there, but by the door I had my own tiny bit of garden, and I grew anemones. I remember them as being bright colours – reds and purples – with black at the centre. Recently I bought some from Wilkos and was disappointed to find they were nothing like I remembered.

Please describe the scent, taste or feel of home.
A waft of washing drifts from next door, and I realise that is one of the smells that is home – washing that has been dried outdoors and then the fresh-air smell that comes when you iron it. Freshly laundered sheets. Fresh air blowing in through open windows. The smell of onions cooking. The smell of the bathroom after someone has had a shower – lingering smells of soap, toothpaste, deodorant. The taste of coffee – café direct or home made stove top espresso. The taste lingering in my mouth now of salad – tomato, cucumber, olive oil.

From my childhood, it would the smell and taste of home baked brown bread, and flapjack made with molasses. The feel of home – my own pillows, just the right thickness. The softness of the fleece blanket that I curl under on the sofa. The pitted worn mahogany surface of the dining table under my fingers.

Which object most evokes home?
Probably an old chest of drawers. Nothing fancy, just a plain chest of four drawers, painted with several layers of gloss paint. The first I remember was blue, when they used to be in my childhood bedroom. Then I painted them black and white when I was a teenager, and I painted my room white and put black and white Robert Doisneau photo prints on the walls. Now they are painted fawn, which Mum did when I left home. She painted them to match the pine furniture. When I moved here, she gave them back to me. I’ve meant to paint them again – lilac and blue – but never got around to it.

Where do you feel you ‘properly belong’ now?
Yorkshire. I don’t know why. All my family come from the North East, and I used to visit a Great Aunt in Glaisdale. She died earlier this year. The house where she used to live was my favourite place as a child, with a huge tree in the garden. There was a swing hanging from it, made out of rope and a length of tree-branch. From that swing, you could see right across the dale, across the row of terrace cottages at the bottom and then up the hills on the other side. I remember the smells of the woods, and of heather and gorse from the moors, and the pervading smell of sheep. The sounds of the stream tumbling down to join the river rushing along below. The sheep bleating and crows clack-clacking. It has never left me and it is always the place that I want to be. But do I belong there? I don’t know. I just feel my heart belongs there.

The Epic of Bollabus - continuing the story

2005-07-09T12:00:00.000+01:00

All around, the stones did ring, their voices raised in song
Bollabus heard their music and the words they came out strong:
“Bollabus, great Bollabus. We know you hear her call.
She will have you for the wanting and we don’t want that at all.
You’re our only hope of ever standing still and growing strong
and letting any life grow on this planet ever long.

Bollabus tried to edge away; he didn’t like the sound
He wasn’t sure he belonged here upon the stony ground.
“Bollabus, please don’t leave us, if you do we’ll all be lost,
Forever rolling onwards just to satisfy her lust
for power she has plenty and she thinks of you as hers
you’re her only scent of danger and her unconquered curse.”

Bollabus, crouching low and spread out like a continent
Opened wide a cave-like mouth and issued this lament
“What can I do in this dry place? I should be in the sea
This land is hard and worrisome; the rolling troubles me
I cannot get a hold against the pink moon’s bold desire
But I’ll fight her face to face if I can just reach a bit higher”

But the stones, they held his tentacles in fierce rocky hold
“No, Bollabus, you can’t fight her. She will swallow you up whole.
We will help you pull against her and you must, as much depends
On your making her retreat so that this dreadful pulling ends.”
Bollabus knew inside him that the stones were speaking true
With their solidness supporting him, his felt his strength it grew.

So digging deep his tentacles, he felt the stones take hold
And with a surge of muscles pushed against the pink moon bold
And staying low he slowly surged his bulk across the land
The moon she tugged and swore at him but couldn’t force his hand
The stones they cheered and helped him on, “Bollabus, you’re our King
Go forth and find the Sun for He will light and comfort bring.”

Bollabus didn’t know exactly who the Sun might be
But he ventured onwards anyway, and slowly left the sea
And as the sounds of crashing waves had finally died away
The pebbles seemed to end, and massive rocks stood in his way.
He persevered, and clambered up to find a bouldered plain
Where great cracks ground together and the rock seemed to complain.

He wedged himself into the cracks, and listened to the groans
That echoed in the stillness and he felt he was alone.
The moon sank down and hid from him, her pull it seemed to wane
But darkness came upon him and he shivered all the same
The clammy rock froze under him. The sea seemed far away
But still he fell into a sleep and dreamed of the waves sway.

Before he’d been asleep too long, the moon she rose to say
“Bollabus, I will have you. Just give in and come this way.”
“I shan’t,” he cried and waking up, he tensed his frozen limbs
And crawled across the shifting rocks, his bulbous face set grim.
Then suddenly in front of him a cavern opened wide
Bollabus knew that somehow he must cross the other side

But stop, he thought, perhaps this is the place I’ll find the Sun
And he took a massive breath and from his mouth came forth this song
“Oh, Sun, whoever you may be, I’ve come to seek your aid
Will you come out and help us for we’re very much afraid.
The moon is going to pull us all into her greedy hold
And no life grow to follow us when we have become old.”

The cavern rang with echoes of Bollabus’ desperate song
But from those ringing echoes different voices seemed to form
“The Sun cannot be reached here, you must cross the other side
And the great-sea-in-the-rocks is the place that you must find.”
Bollabus gazed across the darkness of that great divide
And wondered how he’d ever cross to reach the other side.

He heard a fearful howling and one great eye turned around
To see that right behind him were the moon’s faithful hounds
With jagged teeth and slobbering jowls they went to grab his flesh
And it seemed they would consume him and at once end his quest.
But suddenly the rocks around exploded with a crack!
Bollabus grabbed eight pieces and he hurled them at the pack.

With yelps they fled the painful blows, retreated from the flack
“Bollabus don’t just stand there, get a move on, they’ll be back!”
A mighty groan of rock rang out and slowly there did slide
A set of mighty stepping stones across the great divide.
Bollabus slipped and slid across, ignoring blackness deep
That easily could swallow him and its belly keep.

For days Bollabus surged across the barren shifting rock
And always hoping that he’d find the great-sea-in-the-rock.
Then one day he became aware of sounds above the grind
A splattering and splashing and he raced towards the sound.
A mighty spout of water shot towards the pinking sky
Pulled in a curving arc obedient to the great moon’s cry.

Bollabus felt the cool drops and he wallowed in the fresh
Of the water on his tentacles and aching bruised flesh.
His stomach felt much lighter, he’d not eaten for so long
Much of his bulk had disappeared; the Moon’s pull was less strong.
He drank and drank to slake his thirst and lay beneath the shower
And he dreamed about the sea and of the creatures in its power.

And in his dream the sea it called, “Bollabus, come and eat!
And he saw delicious jelly fish and seaweed round his feet
Just waiting to be scooped into his salivating jaws
“Come on!” the sea was gurgling, “give it up, this can be yours!”
When he woke the gurgle carried on and from his guts it came
For a moment he was tempted to give up this weary game.

But the rocks they ground and growled “Bollabus! Do not let us down”
And Bollabus rubbed his stomach and he cursed the barren ground
“But tell me where I go then, where I find this hiding Sun?”
Then he heard that in the water’s gush a song had just begun.
“Bollabus, that great yellow orb you’re seeking is below
And as far as the moon is wide, that deep you now must go.”

Below his feet another chasm opened with a crash
He couldn’t see across its width, just blackness in his path
But leading from its edge he saw a series of eight steps
Diagonally crossing the rock face of the abyss
So feeling with the tips of each long tentacle he went
Down and down, around each step his tentacles bent.

The weightlessness grew ever more with each descending step
The moon she could not reach that far into the rocky depth
The darkness loomed upon him as the water sounds receded
And as he edged still deeper, poor Bollabus comfort needed.
All he felt was the vibration of the ever moving rock
Which started to get warmer and his tentacles got hot.

Poor Bollabus, tired and thirsty, couldn’t hold on for much more
And with a slip of tentacle, he crashed down to the floor.
It was later he was woken by a dazzling golden light
Of a colour he’d not seen before, a colour that shone bright.
Before him there were passages that stretched out all around
And all were filled with light. And all were filled with sound.

And then a voice boomed out as warm and rich as freshly made honey
“Who’s there? Who comes to wake me?” And Bollabus croaked “It’s me!
I’ve been sent here to find you and to ask you to come out
To help us stop the moon from pulling everything about.”
The voice rang out, “Bollabus, do you know what that would mean?
I would take up all the waters, and I’d fill the land with green.”

Bollabus felt his rumbling guts and desperate raking thirst
“Do you think I would I be able, though, to have a meal first?”
“I cannot guarantee this,” boomed the warning of the Sun.
“I don’t know that the seas will stay in place once I have come.”
Bollabus thought about his life, how lonely it had been
And of the life that wouldn’t be if he gave up this dream.

“Please come,” he said, yet trembling. “There’s always hope there’ll be
Enough left of the waters that it just might sustain me.”
“Bollabus, you are brave. So I will do just as you wish
And we will hope that there will still be plenty food to fish.”
And with a mighty whoosh the light shot up and filled the caves
Bollabus hurtled upwards, whirled like helicopter blades.

Whoof! He landed breathless on the rocky ground outside
And saw the sky explode before once more his vision died.
He was woken by the water softly splashing on his skin,
The grinding noise had gone and no more cracks lay beneath him.
Up in the sky a yellow orb was gleaming warm and bright
And best of all the pink moon vanished with the endless night.

The great-sea-in-the-rock it had become a gushing stream
Then a river and it scooped Bollabus up and bore him clean
Off the rock, it took him gently on until he reached the shore
Where the pebbles chuckled happily, when they Bollabus saw.
Once he got back to the waters, he felt so much more at home
But he still heeded the warning of the mighty golden Sun.

And he went to tell the creatures that dwelled there within the deep
That they must swim up to find the land and new food they must reap
From the greening shores. He led the way, and showed them how to find
The freshly running waters and the weeds that grew on land.
And over time the sea creatures swam up the river roads
And clambered out and breathed the air and some turned into toads.

Bollabus he had lost his greed, and so small he remained
That thinking of the Sun’s last words, he was no more afraid.

Bollabus

2005-07-05T11:57:00.000+01:00

Across the barren purpled landscape, the rounded pebbles and rocks clatter continuously as they tumble about the surface, drawn by the pull of the full pink moon. The stones are warm to the touch, and vibrate against each other. There is no plant life, as nothing can root in the constantly shifting rock. However, the warm soupy waters are thick with life. Waving seaweed, gelatinous creatures of all sizes, their dried carcases thrown to the rocks by the tidal waves that routinely sweep the surface.

Underwater, the creatures hear bubbling and surging, sucking and ringing of stone on stone. The gloopy thick water tastes sulphurous, metallic, warm. Colours deepen from magenta to deepest violet-blue.

In the depths lurks a writhing shadow. Octopus-like, its tentacles stretch across a circumference of at least 8 miles. A size that, to the sea creatures, rivals the pink moon that throws its light onto the water’s surface. Moving freely and fast through the waters, Bollabus (as the creature is known) feeds hungrily from the rich waters. And Bollabus continues to grow.

One day, the moon sucks in her cheeks and a wave starts to form deep beneath the surface of the purple planet. The rocks shiver in anticipation. Gaining speed, the wave hurtles through the sea. Bollabus hears the warning rumble, sinks as low as he can – but not low enough, not this time. The wave gathers the huge form effortlessly in its grasp and with a final gasp, hurls Bollabus several miles onto the rocks.

Bollabus gazes up at his rival, that huge pink sphere that dominates the surface of his watery domain. The moon gazes back, dispassionate. But then he feels it, becomes aware of the pull of her presence. The stones roll underneath him, massaging his tentacles, pulling his gigantic form across their surface. He starts to roll out of control, tentacles waving. Digging in the tips, he manages to arrest his progress but still feels the pull in his heart. The sea sounds retreat, and all he can hear is the steady rolling, rumbling, rattling of that mobile rocky surface.

A terza rima

2005-07-04T14:40:00.000+01:00

This is a draft, but an interesting experiment with quite a closed form.

Look up!

A path begins beneath the bracken’s grasp
Where clutching bramble fingers lurk unseen
And catch our clothing in their prickling clasp.

The path is cracked and overhung with green:
Sweet chamomile that soothes the humid air
And proud young stalks of corn together lean.

Although we cannot see them under there
Our feet rest firm upon the sun baked clay.
Heads down, we place our steps with focused care.

While by our side, vermilion poppies dance
Where sprays of buzzing biplanes couldn’t reach
Reminding us that all things have a chance.

A sea of dancing corn sweeps from its beach
And stretches to the gnarled oaks beyond
Who, in their timeless standing, patience teach.

Look up! A church spire points towards the sun
Around its feet the village hugs the hill
Half hidden by that sea of whispering corn

That rustles, whispers, beckons us, “Be still!
Lift up your eyes, enjoy the passing view
And trust that path will lead you from the hill.”

Look up! And trust the path will lead you true.

Haiku walk

2005-07-02T14:40:00.000+01:00

Proud young stalks of corn
March into a waving sea
At the wind’s mercy.

Waist hugging bracken
Hides lurking bramble fingers
Clawing at clothing.

An alien landscape

2005-06-30T14:38:00.000+01:00

The rattle and tumble of stones is continuous as they answer the call of the pink moon that hangs low in the sky. Her width stretches to almost half of the visible horizon. Tidal waves sweep the surface of this planet, crashing chaotically in the grip of the moon’s pull. The constantly shifting, rolling, waving surface glows dimly in shades of magenta, mauve and violet.

Purple pebbles ring
In constant tumbling answer
To pull of pink moon.

Storm

2005-06-30T12:18:00.000+01:00

The storm started when we were eating baked spuds in the Burnt Stump. Flashes of lightning and then heavy rain slashing out of a silver-grey sky. As we got in the car and started to drive onto the M69, the motorway turned into a river obscuring the white lines. The wiper blades were racing busily across the screen and still we couldn’t see. Jagged lightning struck the ground in every direction. I folded my arms tightly across my midriff as if they could provide protection.

We finally reached the edge of the huge storm cloud, but it seemed to lurk on our left shoulder as we continued our journey. By the time we reached home, we found ourselves driving back into it.

It still took an hour or so to break. When it did, it was spectacular. The forks of lightning, like the roots of an uprooted seedling, were outlined in magenta and turned the sky a bubble-gum pink. Jagged flashes struck the ground at regular intervals, but also forked across the sky, meeting each other in cat’s cradle patterns. Sheet lightning lit the whole sky with a strangely cold light.

The rain arrived, bouncing off roads and rooftops, hurtling from gutters, pounding the leaves. Then just as suddenly, it stopped. The sky was tinged with a yellow-orange luminosity. The silence was absolute, and pregnant with tension. Lightning crackled around 360 degrees, and the thunder followed immediately, grumbling and hurling furniture to the floor as it circled around us. We were right in the eye of a storm that was several miles wide and heaven only knows how high. The silence, that held breath of a silence, provided the stage for the most incredible electrical activity I’ve seen for a long time. I gave myself up to that energy. Lying on my back, I relaxed and felt it fill me, making every limb tingle. It was strangely like meditation.

Bruised yellow storm cloud
Held breath of seething silence
Pink roots slash earthwards.

The Stones

2005-06-24T14:35:00.000+01:00

Jennifer felt the stone, rough and warm against her back. Her heart still pounded, fast and loud like the flint-knapper’s hammer. Each stone in the circle seemed to lean towards her, like curious observers. Around them, the trees were still and hardly a rustle could be heard, only the occasional ‘hoo hoo’ of a wood pigeon. Her back felt damp and sticky against the stone.

Don’t look back.

Jennifer pressed her head hard back against the stone, her eyes tight shut. She heard a snap, as if something had trodden on one of the dry twigs that littered the edge of the wood. In her mind’s eye, she saw a shadowy form blocking out the sunlight that filtered through the leaves.

Don’t. Look. Back.

Jennifer’s throat felt dry, and her shoulders ached with tension. Her hands were pressed onto the dry ground beside her, small stones grinding into the flesh. In her mind, the shadow grew, forming itself into a figure that beckoned, demanding. She started to shake against the stone. Where was it? The silence was absolute. Maybe she was mistaken. Maybe they had been lying to her. Just a tale to stop her wandering into the woods on her own. She opened her eyes. The stones looked on, harmless, safe. Slowly she turned and looked behind her.

--

“Mum, look at that stone!” The little boy in blue striped t-shirt and matching baseball cap tugged on his mother’s arm. “It looks like someone sitting down – look, there’s the head, and there’s the knees, and that looks like an arm …”

“Yes, dear,” murmured his mother, looking around nervously. “Come on, let’s go. It’s kind of creepy here.”

Batophobia

2005-06-23T14:38:00.000+01:00

Batophobic gleaming teeth
Fill the city's yawning mouth
Leaning in as if they're watching
Ant-like suited workers pouring
Daily from their orrifices
Money-making sacrifices.

Three Little Pigs

2005-06-23T14:34:00.000+01:00

Once upon a time, there were three little pigs who were given a large plot of land to share. They split the plot into three equal portions, and each set about building their own house.

The first little pig saw that the farmer had left some of the straw bales out in the field, and she used these to build a small cosy house just big enough for her needs.

“Nice one, May,” said her sister, June. “You put me to shame – time I finished my place.”

June had decided to build her house from fallen pieces of wood that she collected from the nearby trees. She gathered up all the branches and twigs, and expertly wove them into a tidy hut.

“Nice technique,” admired May, inspecting the closely woven layers. “Let’s go and see how Julie’s doing.”

The two sisters trotted across the fields, well pleased with their new homes.

They found Julie sweating and heaving a hod of red bricks to where a small wall stood in a square shape. Julie started to slap cement onto the bricks, whistling tunelessly.

“Hey, Julie, is that all you’ve done? It’s going to take ages using those ugly bricks. Where did you get them from anyway?”

“I got them from the builder’s yard, where do you think?” Julie replied without looking at her sister.

“Well, where did they get them from?”

“Who cares?” Julie slapped more cement onto the bricks.

For the next few days, May and June sat in their new homes, enjoying the familiar sweet smells of straw and wood, listening to the distant scrape and ring of brick-on-brick as Julie laboured on her new home. Finally, it was done and May and June went to have a look.

“Well, I dunno. It looks kind of weird,” said June doubtfully.

“Give me simple straw any day,” said May.

“But this is built to last,” said Julie proudly. “You’ll see.”

Then one day a prowling presence was felt in the woods. The leaves stirred uneasily, and the grasses swayed and whispered with nerves. Suddenly, the shaggy form of a wolf erupted from the trees, its long body flattened almost to the floor as it loped towards the pig’s houses.

May squealed in terror as she heard him snarling outside her house of straw. She felt his hot stinking breath as with a mighty bellow he blew the straw house away. May fled terrified to June’s house, hotly pursued by the wolf.

The two sisters huddled together listening to the sounds of the wolf snarling outside, and the wood creaking and cracking.

“He won’t get in here will he?” whispered May. “Oh, no!” With another mighty snarl, the wolf knocked down the woven wood walls and the two sisters fled in terror to Julie’s house. Julie let them in and smugly bolted the door behind them.

“I told you this was built to last,” she said.

The wolf tried without success to break into the brick house. Finally, with bleeding nose and paws, he limped home hungry.
--
Ten years on, there are many more brick houses. The green woods and yellow fields of corn have long since vanished beneath a vast expanse of little red brick boxes stretching out as far as you can see. No-one sees the wolf any more. They say that he and his wife and children died of starvation. The pigs hardly ever talk to each other now, because they feel safer when they stay in their houses. There’s not much left to go out for anyway. But they do feel safe. And it’s a good job that the wolf didn’t eat the little pigs. Isn’t it?

Drifting

2005-06-20T14:20:00.000+01:00

Drifting from the shore
In darkness, wield the oar
A changing wind’s blowing
But where’s the current flowing?

Where are we going
Drifting, not knowing?

Caught up in a tide
Of our own deciding
The cast-off rope dangling
Inches from its mooring.

But where are we going
Drifting, not knowing?

Displacement

2005-06-16T14:31:00.000+01:00

A bore of ironing
Slobs in its basket.
I yawn at it.

A duty of dishes
Lurks by the sink.
I ignore it.

A potential of pages
Lures my pen.
I reach for it.

A hassle of housework
Fails to get done
While I write about it.

Where am I?

2005-06-16T14:29:00.000+01:00

In a town that begins with a 'B'
And ends with a stone, you can see
A bee-keeper sat
Holding onto his hat
Made of stone. As is he. And his bees.

Fledging?

2005-06-15T14:27:00.000+01:00

I glanced up at the silver birch, and realised that the dark patch where the nesting box should be is no longer there. A quick poke around in the bushes underneath revealed nothing. I know the blue tits fledged a few days ago, but how did they manage to take their house with them? If only I could do the same. My eyes are tired from trawling the internet for the prefect house-to-rent. A neat pile of papers lies downstairs waiting to go to the solicitor. Our sale is moving. We are moving. Uprooting.

'Fledging'

Last week there were squeaks
And blue-tits busy
Bearing bugs to tiny beaks.

Today a bare space
Confronts my gaze
Where their box used to be.

If only we
Could leave our home
So freely.

If only flying the nest was easy.