Description Is The Narrative

To have a day undriven by plot, how gentle that is on mind and body. I will get things done, yes, at an unforced pace - I will be moved like water by gravity, by tide; these natural magics will be my energy today.

Stirred to waking by birdsong.

Resting awhile listening to the hedgebirds, to the whisper of soft rain before rolling up the window blind to see tree tips swaying and a sky of such pale grey it seems invisible.

I want coffee so I make some. Fresh, strong. Chilled fingers wrapping a warm mug. More song and chatter from the city of birdlife. Somewhere a tractor rumbles. I review a list of chores.

All the way from my toes, tucked in wool socks, a smile rises. It goes up and up into the invisible sky, I don’t care that it’s raining.

When the description is the narrative, it is enough, it is everything.

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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...

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Hometime Foam Time

It was hot outside, cold indoors. When we were freed from the hall I opened my car thinking oven gloves might be required for driving. I was weary. I was lined up for a row of shifts- but the evenings are lighter now, and the beach was calling. I drove a wiggly route to Veryan (the road I chose was closed) and down to Carne Beach. Since I had checked the weather the wind had turned easterly, and the tide was in. There were waves smacking over a disappearing line of fine sand. Undeterred I wriggled my swimsuit on and went to play in the foam. Neither air nor sea was particularly cold. Blue and cloud patterned sky, blue and turquoise patterned sea, flowers blooming and swooshed by the wind, and the warm brown crags of rock: to be here was to be directly connected to the source of all existence. Home time was foam time, and vice versa. Afterwards I sat in my car, door open, eating a square of dark chocolate, watching the white flecks and trying to work out if the dark dot was a...

Wishbone Soup Cures Everything

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