Wishbone Soup Cures Everything

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

Last night: One glass of oak-aged red wine; which, I anticipate, will introduce me to more of its kind, I do rather relish Friday night wine networking; and a homemade burger keep both my hands busy. Dog is fetching shredded cardboard fragments in hope of me having a hand free to throw them away so she can fetch them again. Boy designs a website for his favourite strategy game, I advise on font size, that’s the bit I understand. Mr is on Facebook, liking stuff. Coal glows in the wood burner. Wine glows in me, warms up thoughts of sleep. Bare feet tread threadbare carpet upstairs to the welcome bed. All today: Waking is an easy drift. Of where dreams travelled there is no trace. Bare feet trawl across the kitchen floor, dragging a kettle to the tap and back. Coffee comes, dark matter that sparks life. A broom orders the crumbs and dog hair into one collectable thatch, to be scooped onto the fire embers, to smoulder quietly behind closed burner doors. Words are put demurely on the

Fourth of May, 2012 Fast down the alleyway, on foot, not sure if I have missed a turn because it’s dark, although, no: I have seen that same cat stroll from the shadow of that same wall, when daylight made the place look friendlier. Jump out of the dream in alarmed sync; disorientated but with time, this morning, to wash my face and drink leftover coffee, half a cup. I am wearing all of yesterday’s clothes, not that Baby will judge. She picks, interestedly, at a bit of dried sick on my jeans. ‘Lasagne,’ I remind her and she nods. After lunch she adds a bit of cottage pie to the Baby collage on my leg. The carrot is especially conspicuous against grey denim.  It is her whimsy today to drag the nappy change bag round the front room. When I remind her that fiddling with plug sockets is not permitted, she pats the bag strap. It signals- ‘But I have a bag, the sign of a grown up.’ Then she smiles and shakes her head, for she is just teasing me with her clever disguise. At home, the

The moon was a drop of white on a wet blue canvas, in yesterday’s evening sky. Briefly catch the mackerel cloud. Then the sun dips through its red finale, fixes our attention utterly. Dream, all night, of living in a jungle. Woken by Boy, waving a phone. Girl forgot to text me her shift dates, so I’m supposed to be over with Baby and not hiding from the heat in my bamboo hut. A swift time triage- swig coffee now, wash face later. It’s cloud forest humid, but without heat. The day passes, hazy as my tired head. The birds sing, the foliage is spring swollen. I remember in the jungle I didn’t have a car but things are barely less simple here. Baby laughs at Dog spitting out a stone. Mr puts the espresso pot on the stove. With no heat to hide from, I stand outside, hearing the song of the canopy. 

1.5.12 The wind has her head down, busily sweeping cloud and flailing the five wet tea towels I have hung on the line. As fast as she sweeps, the cloud piles up behind her. Here, in the brief sunshine of a clean house, I empathise. Walking in from pegging out, two young rats skip past, from behind the washing machine, squeal, skid into the getaway pipe. Curiosity causes a turn back. When I peer in, two dark eyes stare right back. All the poisoned grain packs are dragged away. Curiosity won’t kill them. That will be the anti-coagulant’s job. 2.5.12 We have yellow curtains, venerably old velvet, a shade too mustardy but fully lined and practical for the space it’s in. When the sun shines behind them the colour lights up; half in sleep I think the sun is climbing in the window. It won’t fit, so this must be dreaming. The light is here, so this must be morning. Back door opens to the back porch, where a young rat is dithering. I want to take a photograph of it. I can save its imag

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

Taking this challenge has helped consolidate what I have to say and how I want to convey it. I write everyday so the routine wasn’t too arduous but there is something about making the public commitment that makes you stretch a bit further, faster, stronger.  Thank you to everyone who has been part of process, it has been a positive experience and although I now, in all honesty, do follow more blogs than I have time to read, connections have been made and I hope to maintain some level of online sociability. In short: grateful for the opportunity to be pleasantly surprised.  Hmm... what to write next?