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Siren Song In Spring

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Flat scales of ice on shaded roads. Plaintive, the wind sings; catches in the slung wires, in the spokes of the old aeriel, a natural and an alien sound. Out of the blue, mist veils the river, blows across rooftops. Washing is clamped to lines: see it strain to fly, the arms of shirts waving like drunks at a wake: danse macabre. Spring pushes up in pointed buds: sallow, amethyst, velvet-white. On the stems of wild strawberries, petalled eyes open.

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Ice laces the edge of Roadford Lake, it breaks like sugar glass as Dog pads through. Little Granddaughter sparks giggles. 'SPLASH!' This is how she shares the joke with us. Boy is trying to photograph still water but no one can be cross. 'SPLASH!' Boy has the smile of the gracefully defeated. There's a tail wagging, a child laughing, a warm sun in a clear sky. Girl has sunglasses big enough to reflect the lake. Everyone tries on my hat, my candid heavenly-blue hat.

D.I.Y.

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  Monday evening. Boy is on the sofa, hustling friends for a midweek half term party. Dog sleeps off her wood walk exertions. Cat is in a box, also sleeping. Mr has removed his trousers for the purpose of stretching. I love my home. Beyond this remarkable family scene two things I have done today deserve a note. Thing One: Black Belt promotion application form filled out and handed in. Officially training for 2nd Dan grading in April. Thing Two: ISBN application form filled out. To bring my Tae Kwon-Do stories to the world, I am becoming a publisher. Black Belt Books: that's me, with the design guidance of my brother. He lives in Taipei so we are quite the international concern. First edition of The Time Travelling Tae Kwon-Do Tour Bus due out as soon as the final proofs are set and the printing price agreed. Soon will be wondering how to store one thousand copies of a niche market book. Fear and pride mix up like stage fright. Misfortune is an option. My misfo

Dust

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The house is swept from top to toe, cobwebs flicked and dark corners scrubbed. Original colours restored: the bath suite white as it would have been last time it saw a serious cleaning cloth. Grumbling spiders withdraw. Every window is open to the lively wind till the cold gets dark and the riddled fire is lit. The oven smells of bread, the hob of soup and strong coffee. A critical eye would find plenty more to do. Tired eyes, satisfied, rest under eyelids while the espresso brews: dream of chaos and order: a typhoon moving in gridlines. Wakes in a wave of character notes ~ The construct of the isolated self longs to escape. It seeks the Other. Caffeine, alcohol, love, all kinds of drugs are the things that compress and unfold the self, that flex to break, that break to open, that open to hope to fill that emptiness within. That's how it begins. Fear of this abyss can push a person to anything. This deconstructed self has broken boundaries, has lost control, is bound

Newquay Late Winter

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A lone writer sits on a town bench, swipes wet sand from a foot with a stripy sock. Other foot, other sock. Further up the street on a similar seat, a man in a purple t-shirt is sleeping off a liquid lunch. Seagulls outside food outlets watch for opportunity. In the air: onions frying, sea-salt, a urine-dampness. The gulls pace. In shops hang t-shirts, rainbows of t-shirts, shining t-shirts, print-your-name-here t-shirts and hooded tops with hand pockets and holes for wires for headphones for your life sound track. Two boys stand outside a coffee shop, un-ironically play air guitar, sing to some music they love: it communicates something to them to provoke this signed response: a generational marker. One lone writer laces up boots and walks on to join friends. In the amusement arcade they post rapid coins into a cascade game, laughing and laughing till the campervan toy prize tips, on a tide of pushed pennies, down into the tray.

Adventure Brings A Return To Form

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We woke up under the river mist. Fingers of sunlight wrung the damp air, squeezed the water back into the fat flow of the Tamar. Dog's tail was a fur propeller. We walked under our own steam in the bewildering bright day, down to the woods and up through the top path where we prepare to hack through fallen trees with Spiderman (Godson's alter ego) and his Mum. 'I'm not really Spiderman,' he says, eyeing the slain trunks that lie askance across the path, green with scales of moss and pine-spiked. 'I can't really climb that.' 'Have you tried, though? See here, how you can stand on this low branch?' I hold his weight until Mr leans over to take him. Mr says, 'Do you think you will fit under the next one?' Godson ponders. 'I don't know.' He ducks his head. He thinks again. He strikes the pose of a superhero edging on a high ledge and goes sideways through the arch of dank wood. 'Are you all right, lad?'

Kooky Valentine

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A relocated False Start Friday project: here a group of dedicated bloggers share either previously unrevealed or rejected writings; and there are few subjects that cause us as much trouble as LOVE or the frequently icky Romance . Here's how romance works in our house~ Mr: I bought you roses! From a petrol station (giggles.) Me: You know you can't eat the shop bought ones- they put spray on them! Mr: Perhaps you could put them in a vase? (Both laugh hilariously.) It has a sort of Theatre Of The Absurd vibe to it. Here is a poem, untitled, written once upon a time before Mr. I like it a great deal but it only existed before now as biro lines in an old notebook. It deserves better. As a love poem, it's unorthodox. It's more about freedom from the tyranny of love. This is not the girl Whose song you sing Not the one you think of Not the one you love She's the one who walks alone Who sings where no one ever hears And

Time And Toast

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A disappointment with the cornflakes is soon forgot. Godson loves marmite and butter toast. He also loves Dog, who benefits from a slyly dropped crust. We make plans to view some cows (not many of those wander through his city life) and go off the path adventuring in the woods. He has a sonic screwdriver and I have some pruning shears. For now though I drive my houseguests into the wet slap of a small February town, leave them to continue the rounds of visits and I'll get them back all dizzy and in need of a rest tomorrow. All the spare bedding is persuaded back into the airing cupboard, a tangled solid mess that makes me feel like I've just hidden a body. There's a suitcase in my front room, a gauzy cerise bow wrapped at the handle to make it easy to locate from a train's luggage stackpoints. Several times this morning I look up from typing and smile at it. And then work time appears on the clock: the day has been swallowed up as crafty and swift as Dog

The Distracted Host

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Out come the frying pans. Dog must have her lead on to go next door for eggs, lest she succumb to cat chasing. A telephone call is made to fetch milk. There are two kinds of flour in the cupboard. I have vinegar smeared books propped in sun traps. A sense of responsibility has prompted a salvage attempt. Maybe the picture books could be scanned. Here's Cinderella and her rescue complex. It's not the story that enamours, after all: it is the pictures. The first dress is pale pink silk: prettier than anything I had ever seen (circa 1975.) The second dress is pale blue satin: the most sophisticated thing: a girl, looking beautiful and feminine: gathered net in a masculine colour. The third dress is silver and gold lace. There could be nothing more glamorous. Or there could: all ready I had seen such wonder and it had drawn out the idea that the world stretches further than you know. Meanwhile, distilled white vinegar diminishes mould spores and my houseguests need

Shine

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At the foot of the fat-trunked ash one starling lies, open-chested dead. Emerald edges of the wing feathers catch the sun. In the branches above, the life of chatter persists. One starling barely expects to be missed, and it need not be a gloomy thought. A raw bravery it takes, for a person to be content with such; starlings are born to the mass, unquestionably, expendably part of something. I turn the still bird over, gently, into the grass where the ice twinkles: commend it to the earth. Ice under sun throws uncountable gems: Dog and I crunch through a fortune. I seek distraction. Back at the cottage, a combination of mould and bad housekeeping has made an unfortunate impression on my bookshelf in the little office room. The shelf of comfort books: some held since infancy. Up through the brook, over the wide curved field. The ice is melted here, except in the shadow of the old barn. Ice in shade has no light to refract. When the sun moves to find them, each crystal h

Always Awake To The Smell Of The Coffee

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In the dark the stars Find no cover and must shine Between their light and my eyes, this Car window, smudged with old rain Here I sit Settled in the passenger seat Tipping espresso from the worn pink flask In the dark the trick is To stick your thumb just inside the cup: When the thumb is hot, stop pouring. Drink up, think of Rain smudge: what it could Represent.

The Flip-Flop Mountaineer

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To both satisfy and provoke curiosity, contained herein are the illustrations from my newest foray into print. Always I will tell people that I cannot draw or paint, only illustrate within a fairly limited scope. They look at my pictures- the pen and inks are the better examples of this- and curl lips. There's no hook for compliment cast intentionally. The bit missing from the statement is that I could: if I could be bothered to pursue and practice: sketch convincingly whatever is set before me. Why don't I practice? Because writing is the deep obsession. So, why not just write? While I draw, a wordless refreshment happens, a buoyancy, a reaffirmation. Each picture is a push past the comfort zone due to this lack of technical skill. It tests the nerve, the verve, the whole composure. If you find the right path, climb the mountain in flip-flops. At the summit, out the brilliant words fly.

Vapours

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Sketch of Mrs White: from 'Why Do We Have To Move.' (Today the pen etches secret prettiness: a wedding commission. Can't divulge yet!) The fire is lit. Piping, strong and pitch-black I drink up coffee: slap mustard and garlic all over my food. I am feeding a cold. I think it's dying. If needed, there are offers of sympathetic soup, to drown it. I am well enough, after yesterday's rest, to go out to work: encased in vest, shirt, over top, leggings, trousers, scarf, ski socks and baseball style boots. To my reflection I say, 'It's a look.' I get a look back, unconvinced, but warm. To my students I say, 'I smell of garlic, mustard and Vick's Vapour Rub. Any of you have difficulty breathing, it's either because of me, or you need to stand next to me, and I'll clear those airways.'

Duvet Day

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Rain bounces on the lean-to roof. Dog barks. One eye opens. Eventually I realise that it's my eye. Watch the tall fronded trees sigh in pale grey daylight. Tea is fetched to my bedside. Hours, somewhere, are ticking by. I can't hear them. I sleep. Hunger puts my feet on the stairs. Feed a cold, that's the old wisdom. Starve a fever. What does a cold like to eat? Fruit and yoghurt is what it gets. In the post today: my copy of the book I illustrated. Sense of achievement prompts further action. Pour coffee into brain. Write. Stories for papers about our students getting new belt levels- done. One essay required for request to take Second Dan grading- done. One chunk of novel- done. Three ticks earns a rest. Trees wave, eyes drop, dog woofs, rain drums.

Waiting To Leap

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A swift time spent outside, today. One chicken must be flurried from under the car, before the short drive to school. Boy takes his folder of photographs, goes to wave the usual laconic 'bye: one odd insect nestled in the passenger window frowns at the cold air, interrupts. We peer at it. It has that waiting to leap feel about it, as crickets do: is a bland khaki colour; sits still as a carving, big eyes boggle either side of its big head. 'It's going to be one be of those days,' I say. I forgot the banks open late, so after placing my car at a vaguely parked angle; the insect staring balefully after me; around the tiny cold town I walk. Too cold. Hot coffee will help. One window seat, one Americano. An extravagance, really. Civilised and privileged. I have money: it needs to be paid to the bank when the doors open. When the coffee cup is empty, I walk to the bank. When my purse is emptied, I walk back to the car. The insect is elsewhere. It could be

Blue Lights

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A fistful of storm in the sky tonight: splinters clouds into pieces. Such an air of drama: slams at my car: an exhilaration, a fright: I am caught up. And there, on the other side of the road, blue lights, flashing. Cars pulled to, hazard lights busy. A glimpse of torchlight, of shone cones in the far ditch. Let the news be good , I am thinking. A bruise and a lesson learnt. (How long now has my crashed friend been in hospital? He is bored, and grumpy, sat brooding over AutoTrader pictures of cars he isn't driving. Sometimes the second chance at life has a long painful labour.) Let the news be good , I repeat, while the wind frets. I tuck my car into the very top of the driveway. Indoors, Dog is sprawling on the sofa; Cat, happy in her basket.

Song Of A White Sky

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Two types of snowdrops shiver in the slippery breeze: the shy droplets and the belled petals, striped with green. Icy, the breeze slides. Nipped fingers pull the wool of the warm scarf, cosy up fragile flesh. Cold mud, under the tread of the boots, plasticized: tracks that draw the eye to the gate of the field where the old barn squats. To the gate, and pull the squealing bolt and find here, white as winter flora, open sky: wide open sky.

Earthed

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Hedgetrees exude an energy of moving, even frozen in their dance: it goads a passerby to wander further. I've come this far, I could take a stroll in the woods. The top path is shining, licked by rain. All the fallen leaves make soft compost. Trees grip the abrupt edges with roots like dinosaur toes. Where the path is smothered by fallen timbers, there is a new path being worn beneath. Above is rotted limbs and some low badger tracks. I've never trod there, and it's so close. I've come this far. The bracken is black, frost smitten; the prone wood-flesh uncomfortably soft. Only the brambles are green and fresh and drag blood from unwary skin. Where the track runs out is too steep for standing, descent happens as a seated slide. Sometimes the moss here grows bigger than the trees. Three hours pass. Dog and I, mud flecked, drowsy, find the house again. We both seem surprised, to unearth this life outside the woods.

Suddenly Flluuurrrgh

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He came in looking pale: he had forgotten his belt: he wouldn't be able to grade without his belt. 'Wait here,' I tell his parents. I walk back into the hall and bow; an observation of courtesy that, at some point, we all perform inadvertently: at a supermarket, a school, a public toilet. 'Excuse me, Mr Paine…' I know. It's a good name. And the right person to ask. Instructor Paine points to a bag of spare belts, and there's the very colour I'm looking for. After a hug of much gratitude, after a courteous bow at the door, I return to the nervous scene, hand over the borrowed item. The drama is quickly resolved and there's nothing unusual about stricken faces just before a grading. I forgot about it. The hall looked brighter than usual, because of the new expensive floor. The new floor didn't have any marks on it to show students where to stand: we set them out in neat rows so our grading examiner can exercise proper scrutiny. T

Unmufflement

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Mild rain, the sort that barely damps. Muffled by a coat hood, walk the rough path to the woods. Wide pools of floodwater in the low fields, reflecting sky. Lively birds, fresh storm felled branches and an old shoulder bone is what we meet on the path. January is gone, like a bottle on a tide, holding a rolled up list of wishes. Have more fun, I asked of myself, be open to riches, and don't talk about, do it. Little decisions, they add up. Slide back the coat hood, under the trees, listen to the rain, symphonic, in the open-palm reach of the evergreens.