Skip to main content

Soup By Volume




This is a sales pitch, of a sort. Not something I was born for, maybe I will think of it more as a performance: stage fright is the right sort of uncomfortable.

This morning: traded a sixty pence parking fee and a jar of diesel for an hour at Widemouth Bay. Parked south, walked north, where the salt spray spumed from every jag of rock. Body tucked in a winter coat, trousers rolled up, flip-flops dumped in the car. Messy waves wash in warm, spread a brief mirror on the sand. The sun is floored, but still untouchable, no matter how much I give chase. The cold wind is what I breathe in, is what sticks to my wet legs as we tread sand back to the car. Put the choky old heater on. Sand is what I wear on my feet to drive home.

This morning's journey is the pause I take before pressing the publish button. I'm not sure if it makes any sense, but it feels like a good adventure to have- this is what I've put together-
'Soup By Volume:
A collection of eccentric, pragmatic, imaginative encounters with everyday life, from the Wishbone Soup Cures Everything blog. Wishbone Soup is a real dish and the epitome of finding happiness in a variety of circumstances. Not the blank happiness of owning stuff: the deep real kind that people need if their lives are going to mean anything. Through the medium of everything, from a bright red kettle to the discovery of a vomiting tree, moments of brilliance are revealed. This is a diary, a bunch of opinions, a description of many kinds of weather, a writing journey, an enchanting, eclectic jumble, a strong, flexible body of work.'
It is eccentric of me to put a price on it too, when the original stuff is here, all free, but if anyone wants the free version, here it is, and if anyone wants a personal, carry it around on an ereader version, there it is. No harm done, other than one mild concentration headache.

That felt like a rehearsal. Good to start now, then, to get these cold sandy feet warmed up…





Comments

Lisa Southard said…
First sale today- an email came through on my phone, Boy and Mr gave me a whoop- and I surprised myself by how surprised I was! So whoever it was, I am sending you an imaginary bunch of flowers, they are your favourites of course (if you don't like flowers they are made of chocolate/gin/you choose)
THANK YOU :-)

Popular posts from this blog

Contact Pants Conundrum

There is weather today, I do note it: take a few moments to reckon the size of a cloud (big) and the frequency of rain (sporadic.) Centre of my interest though is a stack of magazines. Not the fashion kind. This is martial arts research. I'm not even sure what it is I'm looking for, but intuition calls loud. A range of old adverts skew some amusement. Contact pants, for example. Pants are not trousers where I come from. They are underwear. Professional contact pants: improved smirk value. But why would a person be likely to purchase a grappling hook and a lock pick set? For specialists and hobbyists only, the blurb assures. Guidance on the pheromone spray that attracts women against their better judgement? I doubt it works any more proficiently than the mysterious potion that defines your muscles while you sleep. But, then: I wonder is some sprayed on this paper? What was my intuition thinking, making this ghastly shout… Tea break time. There's a lot of words...

Back From The Future Blog Party

Another joint blog adventure- if you want to see who else said what the list of participants is here . The premise is this: 'You're up before dawn on a Saturday when the doorbell rings. You haven't brewed your coffee so you wonder if you imagined the sound. Plonking the half-filled carafe in the sink, you go to the front door and cautiously swing it open. No one there. As you cast your eyes to the ground, you see a parcel addressed to you ... from you. You scoop it up and haul it inside, sensing something legitimate despite the extreme oddness of the situation. Carefully, you pry it open. Inside is a shoebox -- sent from ten years in the future -- and it's filled with items you have sent yourself. What's in it?' Here's how I imagined it: Before dawn? Shadows outside, first forming. Sleep has gone, I don't know where. Coffee I can find. All the way from Machu Pichu, this fair-traded pack. Scissors are in the drawer, which ...

A Glitch Or Two

My Chromebook has been crumbling. It seems a little like dementia, this inability to upgrade its powers of communication, it makes me sad, even for an object. It's one of the reasons my posts here have been put aside, that and generally being tumbled by tiredness. I have saved up money for a replacement, also I have spent that money on trees and shrubs. I have two novels to sort out however, and this will be the reason I save up again. I don't stop writing, even if I don't tell anyone. In the meantime should you need a calm place to go, I have begun a substack account. Please do drop by. If the kettle crumbles we can make tea (or soup) on the firepit. Me on substack:  Lisa Southard