Skip to main content

The Carpe Diem Dance


Today:
Only this morning I knew exactly what to write: held it just as clearly as if it had been written down. Somewhere in the day it has slipped from memory, is lying somewhere metaphysical, ink blurring in soft rain.
Yesterday:
'Dance Nam-ma! It's a man-an-a-tar!' Little Granddaughter demands as we walk past the busker at the low end of Plymouth. After this exertion we eat pasties and two buses collide on Royal Parade. The accident had been there all along, a man says; it was waiting to happen. Nam-ma extrapolates that therefore it is a happy accident, being fulfilled: but one should not wait to happen, as a rule.



Comments

Suze said…
My daughter loves that ride in the last pic.

I'm ruminating on your words. I think I have to read them a few more times for the message to sink into my thick skull. :)
Lisa Southard said…
My son is the boy with arms outstretched, he loves it too! The first time he went on such a contraption, he staggered off quite ill. Result of a previous over indulgence on a doughnut stand. Still keen for another go. If an urging stomach doesn't put you off, you must love it :-)
Happy when my words help xx

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