Wishbone Soup Cures Everything

This morning the sky is subdued, it droops over the moors, and rain fills the low gap between cloud and earth. Undeterred birds still sing. I sign for a parcel while the postman names the weather; ‘Unsettled.’  In the habit of revisiting books, seeking to turn out anything which has ceased to inspire; maybe I have outgrown it, or just absorbed it so much the original can carry its light to another shelf, I swoop a book as I pass through the front room; one I remember buying on another rainy day.  The colours drew me first; the words took me to the till with my rattling purse, tumbling pennies onto the counter. April ’93, I have written inside the cover.  Today also I seek colour; luminous, calm, luxurious colour. I think to scan the words. Instead I sit and read the whole book. Three quotes I pick out to share. Henri Matisse, son of a grain merchant, discovered his vocation by accident, given a gift of a paint set, whilst in convalescence from appendicitis. Paint on paper wak

A sunny day, when I am required to be under a roof. Several sneaks outside, to plug myself into the summery buzz, admiring details in the cotton-tail clouds because I have my prescription sunglasses on. They aren’t quite so clever to take to the cinema but we sit close to the screen and 3D launches whizzy machines even closer. We love wearing our plastic glasses. I love peeking behind me and everyone is wearing the same glasses. Mr and Boy chomp chocolates and sweets. I am crunching up a bag of rocket and a punnet of cherry tomatoes. ‘It will catch on,’ I insist; they are not at all convinced about the cinema salad bar future. Flying robot suits; they prefer that future. Not mutually exclusive: just greatly varying in degrees of enthusiasm.  Dry sky and clear views all the drive home. Before the film, we sit at a pavement table with drinks; fizzy stuff for the lads, espresso for the lady. Polished pedicures swish past in fashionable sandals. It occurs to me that some of these pe

Boarded up houses are obvious mysteries, no less fascinating for it, even if you know the reason why the boards are up and the people are out. We pass a couple, on the way out to Bude; one a casualty of the recession, one a fatality by fire. And then there’s one occupied house, a nice looking house with a tidy garden, which for some months has had one boarded first storey window. That is curious. Maybe it’s because we live in a curious town. I have just read an article about creativity, suggesting that an aimless walk is a viable way to invoke ingenious reverie. I think, I should go on a town hike, it’s about time I stretched my words beyond the farm and the sky. Engaging with limited initial subject matter brings strong discipline to my imagination, but for balance everything must be varied. But for now, it’s Sunday evening and the fire is lit. Mr has fallen asleep on the sofa, hands in loose fists on his lap, feet planted one shoulder’s width apart. Dog is curled in

Here is a poem born of last night's tired scribbling (compulsive behaviour) and this morning's rejuvenation of coffee. It almost jumped out, after a very short-seeming gestation. I wrote it before I really understood what I was communicating here. As I have been venturing into the blogosphere, I have been boggled by the number of people; talented, communicative, interesting; all out there, all with something valid to say, hoping to be noticed, and it seems impossible that one can be noticed, because each of us is only one life of approximately seven billion currently inhabiting the earth, and if you add in the tangible memories, the books and the paintings and the films and the scrolls, that previous occupants have left us to ponder- boom- your head will explode. It may not be infinite, but it makes me feel rather insignificant. But then I also find, once my ego has been flattened by the vastness, there is something liberating in accepting that insignificance. I have only t

  The Wishbone Alphabet – an experiment, of course, with attitude, life and the eponymous soup. I’m not totally against material possessions, just meaningless stuff we clutter our selves and spaces with. Some things can be the physical representations of ideals, like achieving the highest standard of musical expression (I'm merely a listener, picked Ziljan for the symbol/cymbal pun, shame on me, but then again, this is the end of the A-Z Challenge, I’m allowed to play.) My best symbol is my dragonfly, which is tattooed on my left shoulder and therefore unlikely to get cleared out. It represents the ability to transform oneself, and since I have used it correctly (smug but true) it has become a powerful prompt in my life. I like tattoos but I only have the one, because so far it’s all I’ve needed. I have pondered other designs, such as a periwinkle shell, a tiny home for a creature that survives the fiercest storms, but my dragonfly doesn’t seem to need any company.

The Wishbone Alphabet – an experiment, of course, with attitude, life and the eponymous soup. This is one of my favourite quotes, attributed to Eric Morecombe, light entertainer, who wore thick rim dark rectangular glasses just like my Dad’s. Often I have incurred displeasure for not seeming at all studiously glum, and have had cause to flaunt this piece of wisdom. E.g. ‘Sorry, that was an awfully short and self centred post, but it did have a sincere sense of fun with an important underlying message. You don’t have to be miserable to be serious!’

The Wishbone Alphabet – an experiment, of course, with attitude, life and the eponymous soup. This is a re-post of my first ever blogged communication. It is a bit cheaty to repeat; in this instance, I am not inclined to care. It relates to a time when I lived in an even wonkier, colder, damper house, but with much less agricultural clutter. “ It's a real soup. It's also a state of mind, which, if by cure we mean 'make better,' does cure everything.  To explain, here's a brief autobiographical tale. Once upon a time there was a wonky cottage with two tiny open fires and an impressive collection of cold damp draughts. There was no telephone, no internet, TV reception depended on the weather, and whether they could afford the electric bill. Living in the cottage was a growing family with a shrinking budget. When the gas bottle ran out they cooked on the fire. It was impossibly picturesque, so don't feel sorry for them, and most weeks

The Wishbone Alphabet – an experiment, of course, with attitude, life and the eponymous soup. I’m not always so secure about being bossy, but do, on this occasion, feel decidedly, hideously justified. Enthusiasm, like many things, resides on a scale. The enthusiasm gamut starts at a sustainable leisurely pursuit, ends in an explosion. Every stage has its pros and cons and, while idiot proofing can be a courteous gesture, I’m ( generously ) going to allow my readers to work out for themselves what is good and bad about mildly eager or maniacally passionate and all the bits in between.  My intent here is to speak up for enthusiasm as a generic element. Eagerness is sometimes perceived as desperation; people clinging to obsessions that bring meaning to an otherwise bewildering drift of existence, or taking cover behind fascination so they can ignore the blunt You Have Wasted Your Life truth. This point of view does possess a validly eponymous point. But!!! A life

The Wishbone Alphabet – an experiment, of course, with attitude, life and the eponymous soup. ‘Time is the sole capital of people whose only fortune is their intelligence.’ Honore de Balzac I’ve put down the 1811 Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue- literally, and in this house that means it might be a few days before I find it again. Meanwhile I’ve gone back to the rediscovery of a shelf of books I picked up, long, long ago, in a college, far, far away (by train.) One of these is called The Art of Time. ‘We think much more about the use of money, which is renewable, than we do about the use of time, which is irreplaceable,’ Jean-Louis Servan-Schrieber explains, on the front cover. I think, and my lifestyle will back me up here, that I have always been more time orientated. Last week I pretended to eat a brick and then sick it back up again. Baby chortled so much she couldn’t sit up, like hilarity trebled gravity, it took her down flat to a horizontal whole bodi

The Wishbone Alphabet – an experiment, of course, with attitude, life and the eponymous soup. Saturday’s short sunny scribble, scrutinising some symbolic stuff. Sunshine is reciprocal. Once upon a time I was all squashed out like road kill, and the weather was sternly grey. I saw a sign for a sun shower booth, not something I would normally try. Just a few minutes of pretend sun put some smile shape back on my face. Effectual emergency treatment. Sequins are metallic discs that take light in, and in the process of reflecting add theatrical enchantment. Although tinsel was my first razzle-dazzler; the magical density of nativity play haloes. I was not destined for ballet, the scuffle in the changing room and my red shoes in the cluster of pale pinks were obvious retrospective proofs; but the glamour of performance gets me every time. Sparkles are anything that refract light, unsplicing colour. Rainbows are part of the universal show. Hanging a bit of cut glass in a window, t

The Wishbone Alphabet – an experiment, of course, with attitude, life and the eponymous soup.   In the Great Britain of 1811, where I have been spending some time lately, the saying ‘In the reign of Queen Dick’ was a popular retort. There was no Queen Dick, in case you were wondering if you had misread your British throne lineage, therefore the retort clearly implies that the incident or situation referred to did not happen. If you like a challenge, use this phrase in a conversation today. I like it like this:- ‘And when did that happen- in the reign of Queen Dick, perhaps?’ With clear, archly barbed diction and a gorgeous smile.  Most of my fiction is based on incidents and situations that did happen, because I like to take what is right in front of people and surprise them with it. This is not to say that other ways of doing things are wrong- in fact, taking the everyday out of the ordinary setting is at the very least an equally splendid way to polish jaded attenti

My parents bestowed on me the first name Lisa (considered, they protested, unusual at the time.) My husband handed me the last name Southard (pronounced Sutherd, ideally, but South-hard will do.) Most of the world; this includes many close friends; know me as Lily Tequila, or Silverbetty Sequin… it’s nothing more complicated than fun. They aren’t alter egos. Silverbetty was a dancing days stage name, borrowed from my daughter’s teddy, Lily is a derivative of Lilith, an autobiographical-ish character from a novel I claim to be writing (have written, but not to my satisfaction yet.) Both pseudonyms are exactly me.  Having suffered this at school- ‘Which Lisa are you?’ (Think I was Number 5-) it is easy to realise why I might want to distinguish my existence with some flashy nom de plumes. Also why my Girl and Boy have slightly odd real names, and have preferred simplification. Plus ça change, plus ça même change… If I ever had an alter ego alias it was The Bad Girl Who Lives In My H

The Wishbone Alphabet – an experiment, of course, with attitude, life and the eponymous soup. I have been strolling the fields with Dog. The weather swirls from hot to cold, an assortment of fattened clouds are dumped across the sky, humidity fluctuates from one step to the next, like the dial has broken. It reminds me of when I’m tired and trying to cook. The weather is trying to remember how to knock up a thunderstorm, but keeps putting the cumulonimbus down somewhere in the troposphere, and promptly losing it . Then it forgets the dewpoint of water. And how much turbulence to add? Tiredness is a great friend to forgetfulness. I’m tired now, and in the mood for a mug of red bush tea. We have a new red kettle, it looks super-pop-fresh after the years-of-grime abstracted colour of its predecessor. If we wish for a cup of tea we simply turn on a tap; at worst, the cold tap sticks a bit; and fill the device up to an appropriate marker. Flick a switch, the electric eleme

The Wishbone Alphabet – an experiment, of course, with attitude, life and the eponymous soup. I think I was five, maybe five and a half, because it was summer time when we trooped to the circus to chortle at clowns and be brought to trepidation by the snarls of lions; in those days animals worked the ring, it seemed natural to us; and when the trapeze artists spun in the air time must have stopped. If I was five years six months four days ten hours forty minutes and three seconds old, that’s how I stayed for the duration of the act. Not a clock ticked, not a heart dare beat. Resplendent in spangled fringing, like birds made of jewellery, with make-up so huge we could see their red smiles, even miles and miles up in the domed tent roof, they jumped without fear so I loved them. I dreamt of them. I woke up, I thought of them. At home there was a swing in the concrete yard. Seagulls spread refective white wings above me in clear blue sky, the ground was sharp with hot afterno

I don't necessarily understand this game- jumping in anyway! Answering 10 questions posed by Teresa Cypher, http://dreamersloversandstarvoyagers.blogspot.com/  10 clumsily assembled questions of my own listed underneath. Answer in a comment or leave a link so I can find the answers on your blog :-)  1. Tell me what you think of love--is it overrated or underrated? I think it's misunderstood. People want the floaty magic feeling but the everyday effort escapes them mainly because they underestimate how much effort can be involved. It's a very important part of life.   2. Dogs or cats? One would not be as much fun without the other! Dog is a bigger presence in our lives but Cat does work for a living here, so I had better be diplomatic.  3. If you could have either a helicopter or a bulldozer to play with for a day...which? Bulldozer, after some careful consideration: because we have fields, and a very bumpy lane. 4. What is your earliest memory? I r

A Seasonal Message 'Furthering my quest to appreciate life, to actually be bothered to find the extraordinary in the ordinary detail of life, I have set myself this task. I use the word miracle to describe the act of seeing the moments where something wonderful is happening (if you are looking at it correctly.) I think I need about 41.66 per hour to cover 24 hours. Further miracle reports to follow.' [1,000 Miracles In One Day] 'You can't polish a turd, but you can roll it in glitter.' A Compare and Contrast of these statements is more serious than you might think! The second one is much funnier and more quotable. The first one takes a liberty with the word miracle which may raise an amused eyebrow. But! If you can be bothered to have a think about it, if you can be bothered to try finding your own, you might get a longer deeper happiness buzz by learning to see what is beautiful in your life, and then you can take the turd, compost it and gro

Stillpower: The True Path to Flow, Clarity, and Responsiveness This here article link also neatly links to my approach to writing. The source of creativity is often associated with wild emotional states, as though you have to tear yourself apart and use the bits to paint something dramatic. Peacefulness is seen as static and therefore unproductive, but the calmer I get, the easier the words and the meanings flow. Experience of life's dramas helps understanding but it needn't, it shouldn't, become an addiction.    Read and learn; peace out! xx

‘In so far as you may be aware, you have this one life. It is an exceptionally precious gift, though I say so myself, and I stayed awake for six consecutive days and nights, knocking back enough espresso to kill a minor deity, creating the earth and heavens so that these freely given lives could be played out under the wide sky, under the variations of sun, cloud, mist, moon, stars, eclipses, meteor showers, rainbows and weather systems that give each day, each season, each year its own particular feel, to make each life specifically different. Don’t just look up; the terrain under your feet, the horizon around you, the subterranean rock textures, the leaves on trees, the light configurations in a block of high-rise flats are just as variable. Don’t just look; use every sense you have. Hear it, taste it feel it: every moment you have is unique. But are you paying any attention? Have you looked at the sky in the last 24 hours; have you noted the clouds, or the breeze or the fineness

These pictures were taken on a winter's day when instead of tidying the house as planned we wedged bodyboards in our armpits and trekked out to hurtle ourselves down a bumpy snowy field. Then we came home with cold wet limbs, dramatising our bruises into near death experiences while the espresso pot bubbled on a dirty hob. There was an element of pride at the mess the house was in, with some simultaneous revulsion. It's a lively mess, because we are always busy. I like it as long as it's lively. When it gets stagnant then I get cranky and start to tidy up. There needs to be a process, so we can keep seeing that this is a reflection of how we have chosen to live, this is what the mess represents.  These are not great photos, but they represent something important to me, something specific to me; the splendid dirty funny dance of my only life.  Living is the most important creative process.

It's a real soup. It's also a state of mind, which, if by cure we mean 'make better,' does cure everything.  To explain, here's a brief autobiographical tale. Once upon a time there was a wonky cottage with two tiny open fires and an impressive collection of cold damp draughts. There was no telephone, no internet, TV reception depended on the weather, and whether they could afford the electric bill. Living in the cottage was a growing family with a shrinking budget. When the gas bottle ran out they cooked on the fire. It was impossibly picturesque, so don't feel sorry for them, and most weeks they could buy a chicken from the supermarket. It was one of those value chickens; kept in crowded filth for a short miserable life and its bedraggled body injected with water to give an impression of plump health under glossy cellophane. Not the happiest purchase available, just the cheapest. In death, the sad straggly bird was greatly appreciated. Roasted wit