Wishbone Soup Cures Everything

This week's dictionary is the fourth edition of the Concise Etymological as compiled by the Reverend Walter Skeat, 1894. The copy I own has a pasted in book plate, so I know that in March 1932 this book belonged to Mary Finney. The cover has some rodent damage and the pages bear some discoloration; overall it is finely made and the paper superbly silky. It strikes me as incongruous that the first word I jab (eyes closed, that's the game) is ' frill , a ruffle on a shirt.' I was expecting something less decorative, something strict, a fastidious , perhaps, or a firmament ? Yet this word has a history that traces back through Low Latin, frigidulosus ; from the Latin frigidus ; cold; and frigere ; to be cold; leaks through to Old French (sourced from the dictionaries of Roquefort) friller ; to shiver with cold; and settles as part of the English collection via the practice of hawking. A hawk ruffles its neck feathers for warmth: a chilly hawk was said to fri

Expostulate v (foll. by with) reason (with) esp to dissuade. This word has an old fashioned flavour. I feel it would be best used whilst sporting a monocle. It brings a nostalgia for the days when I would pack my children into my rickety car and commence on road trips visiting old country estates. We would swan the aged hallways and pretend, of course, that this was our home, and we really must chivvy the gardener as the roses have been too straggly this year. Our trip to Castle Drogo was, most memorably, on the same day that I forgot to put the shield on the hair clippers and quite balded my son. He was rather little and pale then: the effect was a post-chemo chic that caused people all day to usher us to the front of every queue. And we were too embarrassed to expostulate with them.

[ dom -miss-ile] n a place where one lives. Which brings me to Oscar Wilde, and a quote I will search out on Pinterest because there is bound to be a splendid graphic for it: something about how rare it is to live, most people are merely existing. Acerbically entertaining, Mr Wilde, and the heart of my vocation: I have a drive to bring aliveness to life! And it might as well start at home. Everyone says their home is a mess, usually to apologise. But I am the only person I know who swept a dead bat out from under the bed. I hate vacuuming so I sent my hoover to the tip to be recycled. I don't mind sweeping. I kept the dead bat in a flowerpot for ages, to amuse guests. Anyway, the point is, my house is for living in: part comfy shelter, part springboard, part interactive gallery.  As suspected, and pinched from a Pinterest search of Oscar's fabulous quotes. Thought of posting a picture of my house but hmmm...

Conclusion n decision based on reasoning; ending; final arrangement or settlement. Yesterday in error the random finger alighted on 'cake,' but the game is to select and write without any real thinking time. First reaction to the reselection is disappointment: it is far too early in the alphabet game to be concluding! But it fits a life moment, here, for I have been engrossed in making decisions and have arrived at a personal conclusion. The problem I had with this was thus: a decision made becomes a concrete thing, it represents a fixing point, a full stop. I do not like to stop, I fear stagnation above all things. I had rather keep happily failing and learning than risk success. The breakthrough I have with myself is to redefine success: so that it means a point reached that enables further progress, rather than the 'death by fat desk' that I despair of. This decision is based on reasoning, and one remembers then that every ending is a point of new beg

This can happen when your eyes are closed. You can mistake boundaries. Clearly, cake does not begin with the requisite letter. A second attempt is therefore deemed appropriate. A second attempt gives me banisters pl n railing supported by posts on a staircase. Which being an actual boundary is an amusing replacement. I was about thirteen, or thereabouts, when I tied my brother's leg to the banister rails in our little cottage with a piece of stolen washing line and he thrashed wildly enough to knock the whole banister out, and it fell on the telephone and broke that too. As luck would have it, several years later, this turned out to be merely a bad sister's dream. I sometimes dream so vividly I have no idea that I'm dreaming: this can be horribly confusing. It's easier to separate out reality when the visions are fantastical. Mundane detail needs checking. There were no banisters in that little cottage, and the telephone was safe on a windowsill in the fron

This week I am using the Collins English Dictionary, First Edition 2006, for my random word selection. It is a straightforward text: main entry words in bold type, variant spellings and pronunciation given phonetically only for words deemed difficult. Parts of speech abbreviated, in italics. Section A is sectioned out: eyes closed, pages flicked: the finger jabs. The first word is not especially encouraging. Abysmal adj Informal extremely bad, awful. ( Abundant is only a column away, one notes, perhaps therein the lesson?) It is the morning, and the sun is clearing through mist. Drink tepid coffee; perform classic finger tap, ponder at the scene from the windows here. At the bottom of the abyss, Joseph Campbell asserts, there lies salvation. But abyss is a noun. Abysmal suggests that which belongs to the abyss, to the dark and distressing press. Which makes one think of media reporting and how once it had seemed serious and related to real lives and these days it is h

Seeds are poked into fine loam. Seedlings shifted from their tiny pot confinements to larger earth. Blue pen squiggles on the plastic markers. Little Granddaughter views the sunflower progress, satisfied. 'Are they growing?' Nam-ma asks. She looks again. 'Yes, they are. Yes, they have.' The tone: toddler-imperious. Nam-ma grins. They are and they have. She likes that the present tense precedes the past. She likes the emergent confidence. 'Good,' she says. Two coats are heaped on a workbench. Broad bean leaves are a midgreen, rounded: the peas paler and sneaking up in curls. Sunflower leaves pair like cupped open hands. Tea Break

Before the night, there is a clear sky, and the sun has a satisfied sort of glow. It warms a brisk wind so on the beach it matters not that trousers are dragged through deep pools. Dogs and children run in circles of exuberance. We speak of curves in waves and rock formations and stroke fingers over the smooth levels that the storms have stripped. Gulls call, the air is thick with salt. One lost boot is wedged in seaweed. In the rocks are many things mysterious; the tide comes, jealously, to take them back. Lying on hot granite, we eat ice cream, watch the seabirds fly. Dog buries and exhumes pebbles. Secretly we are laughing at a man adjacent who talks loudly of his lifestyle. In the car a spontaneous parody causes much amusement. Ah, poor man, you did nothing to hurt us. You were a comedic gift. We just knew by your desire to impress how fine and centred we are in our world. Still, once home and sat, in dry clothes, sipping soup, while Dog chews the ham bone retrieved fr

Edging to the far end of Spring's first month. The clock hands will slip forward tonight. Time melts. Winter's ghost sings in the night wind. Another new moon is nearly begun. When two new moons fall in one month, the second is called a black moon. It makes a cauldron of the sky, fills it with unknown things, with a power to catalyst. We can write phenomenal lists. We can think of all that we wish; entireties of other lives; swimming, dreaming, in unbounded dark. Morning comes as a brink.

There's a particular type of cold to be found at bus stops: whether rain damped or wind chilled or bit with ice. It fosters a particular type of appreciation for the thick piled fabric of the bus seat cover. The fabric pattern is avant-garde, brightly coloured. The bus doors are open. Onions are frying, over at the Gong Fu Kitchen. The driver waits for an elderly couple to recover suitcases from a taxi. He steps out to lift the cases in, while they worry that the taxi driver has left without a tip: I meant to give him something, the lady sighs. They look for their bus passes, synchronised. I never would have thought of the bus, the lady sighs, but eight quid it saves. She shows her pass. Her husband nods and holds out her cardigan sleeves so she can slip her arms in and warm up. The driver asks them which stop; there are two in their village. The second one, they say. He is a foreigner, the lady notes as they sit down, for no discernible reason. At the rear of the bus a ma

Fabulous mug found via Pinterest: https://twitter.com/gaelgreene In April a chunk of the blog-populace play a game called the A-Z Challenge. Everyday but not Sundays we write posts that follow the alphabet: a 26 day commitment. Some prepare in advance and I am in the other group. All groups do their best to visit and engage with as many other bloggers as is feasible. This year although I cannot commit to a topic- it's just not how I like to work- I have decided that my game rules are to open a dictionary to the relevant letter, close my eyes and point. Those words will be the title and starting point for each of the alphabet days. That should be just enough structure to keep the task in hand and not let it smother me. The right kind of uncertainty. Although, what happens if I pick a naughty word? (Laughs first, thinks second.) Errrmmmm…. (Thinks again as though checking a sum.) I shall daintily misspell it, not because I fear to offend but because I prefer no

Today's path is not complicated. It follows flowering lanes, between the bell hyacinths and the bluebell leaves. It pilots under a sky painted flat, with cameo ware cloud. It loops the cool grass in the field where the wind blows over badger bones, where vivid slime grows in the stream overflow and daisies tinge pink at the petal tips. Buzzards wing thermals and the cattle are sat, chewing. Dog runs, dip dyed in mud. And the evening is straightforward too, is routine. A drive across Plymouth as the daylight fades and neon softly flickers. Small groups of people stop to communicate. One here holds a pint glass, another, a bag from the takeaway counter. The air has a tarmac earthiness: tangs of tyre rubber and buttery garlic. ~ 110,625 words make up The Novel so far. Working on Chapter Nine out of ten. End in sight! But I fell asleep over my laptop this week. Much energy expended. It makes one jittery. It has resulted in a thick cough and a thin delirium. The end is

Not quite a full set here, but a good photo moment with a dry sky! Ate a falafel sandwich under a Church Road bus shelter, watching hail bounce. Between hail showers we sat outside; the sun blazed but sometimes it rained too. It was exhausting: taking off a coat, a scarf, a jacket, rolling up the wool trousers, the shirt sleeves, and swiftly reassembling it all, shivering, and repeat, repeat, repeat. A small cough flourished. It was a Bristol pre-grading day. Twelve of our students were there to be studied, amongst the nervous batch of 100 or so. The question was not pass or fail, though that's how they felt. The question was, are they ready? If they could do better, then try again would not (it should not) be a negative. We should remember all that disappointment can bring: the priceless grit of perseverance, how it lines the path to a destination of deeper import: but it still hurts to hear it. Sometimes philosophy must be augmented with a hug. While we all waited, un

The front tyres at the outer edge show a zigzag of tread, as one would expect, but when the wheel is turned to park, no pattern at all is visible at the inner edge. To the tyre fitters the old car goes; the driver alarmed and repentant. She drives straight in, the way being unimpeded, into the tall rectangle of the workshop, leaves the key in the ignition. She opens the door marked Reception.  Out of the wind it is warm. In this building within a building a large window attempts to bring in natural light but the plant has withered despite this and the careful bit of string support tied through a ceiling tile strut, and the tennis ball sized glitter ball hanging from a cable tie on the bamboo stick. The leaves were heart shaped, once. A man with a face that has known weather sits at the desk. He asks after tyre sizes, and they'll check the tracking for free. Would she want it fixed, if the tracking is out? Yes, she says, emphatic. It's not usual for tyres to wear li

This year, if I think of it as alive, has a yearning for adventure: more specifically, a quest: a pulsing and a push. Not this shared calendar year: this, my year. One can own time: one's own time. Who else would have it? Who else does have it? My utopia is a work of art: is a collaborative work of art. Living is a creative process. An ongoing, interactive, lit up process. Life has such vitality, firsthand and through memory: and memory need not be something that is carved out, but can be a plastic art, informed by one's own experience: is like a torch passed on, it lights one's own view, yet burns a previous fuel. All this is thought, walking steep up the grassed hill; the wind blows cold, the clouds, rowdy, travel in packs. All this, thought, whilst stuck in the hedge, caught by a wire barb. Two cuts neat on a boot toe: one triangular hole in the back of a coat. Happy with a wet toe, sliding down to the river banks where the anemones chuckle. It rains,

Surprised by a squeeze from the transverse abdominis whilst dropping onionskins in a pot for stock. Could be a result of rapid furniture moving or clambering loose-footed paths on steep slopes; with a couple of prized deer bones gripped in hand; or wandering waist deep in the slippery cold river, favoured bones slung makeshift in a scarf. But despite the upper abdominal flinching, thoughts are focused on soup. Soup is made of items found. It is made when we are not sure what else to do for nourishment. It is best made slow. It is best made with time to scent the earth inside each mushroom as the knife slides through: to let an onion sting, to smile at the orange flesh of a drab skinned sweet potato: to feel each density, hear the thock of knife edge contacting the chopping board: to see the irregular, the pleasing collection, chopped and mixed in the old iron crock, glossy with melted ghee: to feel the anticipation as it is set upon the Rayburn hob with stock water a

Settled in the Iron Age, in modern times known mainly for its sauce: Worcester, that's where we began our return journey. The journey up encompassed a visit to our youngest granddaughter, who is breaking out teeth and standing up, ready to morph through toddlerhood. In spite of teeth she smiles and cuddles: brave and cute. The journey up was obstacled only by inner Bristol road works. We paused overnight there, guests of my brother and sister in law, treated to fine Taiwanese dining. I slept like a hog, too accurately, Mr says: snoring, he says. Oh karma, says I. I pour him coffee. Set up the navigation device. Feed him honeyed sesame and the roads are clear and the sky bright. Venue parking is all used up: the next spot is a pleasant canal side walking distance during which we learn that Worcester also homes the world's oldest surviving newspaper. Berrow's Journal, should you wish to look it up. The parking has cost two pounds sterling for the whole

Mist covers the morning, greyed, as though the road dirt has tainted it. No sun burns through. Cold holds the day. Snow could fall. The field where the old barn sits, beams cracked; calm in the process of demise; is unpopulated. The walk leads off road, over the stile and finds a line of spine and rib, a skull, the bones of two back legs. What was badger lies on grass, posed like a medical illustration, too unusual to be repulsive. Shinbones poke down into feet, a dancing skeleton in boots. Because of this: the curiousness, the nonchalance, it seems composed to this fate, even celebratory; it retains a certain vitality. I lived a badger's life , it says, and died a badger's death. And that is how wise badgers judge success. Dog sniffs, seems to agree, trots along the hedge, down the broad curving grass, over the opposite stile. Mud, ankle deep, heaps on rubber booted feet. They wash clean in the brook. A swirl of wet earth flows over flat stones, under the reflecte

Woke inadvertently having slipped into a parallel realm. It has no sense of humour. It is clumsy and it frowns too quick, although the day begins in bold white fractals of mist. Nothing in this time is less beautiful, yet the empathy for it is absent. Whether the change is irreversible is unknown. As a cure, time is spent outside, where the mist merges into blue sky, shiny untrammelled sun. In the sleepy heat some semblance of normality shimmers: and the rich tang of earth turned with dung in the surrounding fields is not unfamiliar. It is the right Earth, of course, it is the person who is wrong. It is the usual kind of wrong, of course: simply overtired. Deceptively simple and infiltrative. Easier to put one's self in another dimension than admit that the idiocy has struck again. Or to say, the creative output is worth it, or even that it is tied into this delirium: but life is the most authentic creative experience: but then this is part of the experience: a strengt

A similar ping of intuition to the one that gave life to this cure-all blog: I recognise it. It must be followed. It makes not so much sense at first: to start a private blog that only I read. I have notebooks and a pen, I have always had notebooks. What is wrong with my notebooks? Apart from the lack of organisation? Yet somehow it does feel… sensible? So yesterday, unbeknownst, a secret blog was duly initiated. Not so clandestine that I can't speak of it. It's more that I can't explain it. I'm building it as a small child constructs, artful and subconscious. Meanwhile Dog is arching gracefully on the sofa. She appears adorable and wafts an eggy cloud. My Buddha-self says this is a lesson that one must not be too caught up in appearance for the substance may be rotten. My nose suggests a new lid for the Dog-raided compost bin. There is no discrepancy in following the spiritual and the practical advice. There is washing on the line in the dark waitin