Another Resolution

Here we are again, Dear Blog, at the end,

And beginning, of another year,

Ready to make a new commitment to each other.

My head is telling me that if I were a serious writer

It wouldn't be necessary to keep resolving,

To keep saying "This time, come hell or high water..."

You and I both know that truthfully if I hit a snag

Or my stress levels go through the roof,

Paralysis sets in and writing is the last thing

I am capable of.

However, one can't give up hope

And so again I promise to keep you company

On a regular basis, with my unimportant thoughts.

Winter in the drove

Dawn light comes muffled,

cloying and lilac tinged

with a chill edge.

There are chevrons of beating wings

above blanketed fields,

Rippled clouds like sand

as the tide recedes.

Ebb and flow of dawn mist

making remoteness more so.

Pheasants strut,

confront each other,

feathers erect.

Spar, circle combatively, play act,

then retreat,amiably,

back to their bush together.

Today's performance complete.

There's a tree,

by my bedroom window,

without a straight line,

twisted and gnarled.

It's foliage bends and hangs

like feather boas.

At the top is an

inescapable shape made

by a clump of boa-like

twisting,forking limbs.

It forms a silhouette

of a 50s "New Look" model,

haughty,nose in the air,

however much the wind blows.

Her hat a "Moulin Rouge" headdress,

breeze ruffled, arched swan's neck

atop a stick body, thin,swathed in

moulting foliage.

Veins of filigree twigs criss cross

the alabaster skin sky.

Twisted aorta forks, branches

to capillaries.

An armature stripped back.

Still proud and elegant.

Hares bounce boldly,

with invisible pursuers.

No hiding place until their coats change.

Against the white canvas the

secret world of hedgerows

and acres revealed.

Low morning sun emphasizes

furrows old and new.

Undulations of the past revealed

and the model's hat is

ermine edged.

I struggle with mine and

everyone else's anxiety.

The ice in my fingertips reflecting

arctic chill in head and heart.

I'm wanting to hide again,

frozen by fear,

not acting on my own advice,

afraid for the future.

Not living by my creed,

ashamed, guilty, powerless,

alone, inadequate.

Response to "Shadow Play"

Gentle understatement,

Haunting Bartok,

Silhouettes in slow motion.

Rebuilt Chain Bridge,

Testimony to renewal.

Shadow feet walks city street,

To haunting boots, shoes,

At river's edge,

Tramp to oblivion,

Memorial to an obscene last act

by Danube's chill waters,

An end and beginning.

Deeply ironic resurrection,

Of those whose elimination took them

into the water-of-life for the perpetrators.

(or: from death to life-giving

in the enemy's midst.)

Poet with his life reduced

To darkness, certain death,

Still wrote verses on scraps

Shoved in his pocket.

Future exhumation made them

Identifiers after his disintegration.

Immortalised in words and bronze.

Statues transmuted from oppression,

Super-human inaccessibility,

To relaxed, human proportions.

Powerful in their informality,

None-threatening but always challenging.

Edward Petherbridge's Budapest.

An iphone production of montage,

Shadows and ripples.

Gentle voice alliterating,

Rhythmically playing with

Language, light.

Expanding pathos, drama.

Exposing fundamental paradoxes.

Another moving, revelatory gem.

New technology performance art

Provoking irresistible response.

Child -poem

Almost Soho

Once the decision was made that we couldn't go on

and get into Soho, which like Brigadoon seemed

to have become an illusion with all roads closed

into the enclave due to the Lord Mayor's Show,

we would people watch, take photographs,

comment, sometimes waspishly,

on the passing scene.

I'd missed the meeting despite being in London a

good one and a half hours before starting time.

My stress levels were through the roof with

exasperation.

After an hour in static traffic on London Bridge,

with an effort the levels subsided and I

succumbed to sense, deciding to make the

best we could of the situation.

Looking beyond the cones and no entry signs,

we glimpsed portly men in antique uniforms

raggedly making their way back to wherever

their incongruous transport was parked.

Standing at a bus stop, an Air Cadet with

cymbals clasped under his armpit,

hands still white gloved and pristine,

making his way home.

Theatre and the prosaic meeting.

At 3.30pm as we waited in more grid locked

traffic, a figure lurched to a standstill, at a corner,

steadied himself and his can of Special Brew

against a wall, and surveyed the scene,

taking stock through eyes, that even at a

distance, looked unfocused.

It was a rubbery,Hogarthian countenance,

and equally booze soaked.

The camera clicked randomly and with

my usual abandon, hoping that out of

the indiscriminate might come something

interesting.

Like the figure sitting by the roadside,

hood up, eyeing passers by and, surprised,

acknowledging the lone donation dropped

onto his blanket.

In the viewer the figure was blurred,

all the focus on the outline of wing mirror

and car window sill.

I was going to discard it when No.1 son

stopped me and saw potential.

"Do we really see the homeless?"

The picture spoke and remained.

Stepping out of a taxi an African woman

stopped to look about her before ascending

a flight of stairs to her maisonette.

A cloud of silver tissue gracefully swathed,

folds draped, crisply angled at the shoulders,

a toque pleated into a cockade.

Lusciously exotic against a seedy,limp

background.

Another episode of gridlock gave me

the opportunity to snap boys on bikes,

casually gliding in decreasing circles,

then suddenly pirouetting,

with rising back wheels,

weaving in, out, of columns and

each other.

In an unchoreographed barn dance,

people advanced, retreated, with

suppressed hysteria into and out of

tube stations.

They sashayed out into the road making

for the safety of the isles at the base of

traffic lights.

Making shapes where real life lies.

Crawling in traffic gives time to look

down alleyways and glimpse

another London, and dimension,

behind the hi tech facades.

Fenland Samhain

As day fades,

Sun makes one last entrance,

diffuse cascade of gold poured over

the horizon.

Long rows of trees stream

to the vanishing point.

Distant buildings in this

flat landscape,

dwarfed

by the sky,

forcing eyes upward,

to a varied cloudscape.

Veiled flame-clouds fill

two thirds of the windscreen,

enveloping mist gives the air a pink-grey haze.

Trees, a palette of umber,ochre,

terracotta, russet.

Long fields dry but striated

by dark, loamish slashes.

Parapets of cumulus rise

threatening rain.

In muted tones earth-life,

slows,

cryogenic.

A slow throb holding the spark

as it renews, garners strength and power.

Fusion rolls, compounds secret stockpiles

until the Sun returns,

A high Gloria unveiled.

Droves, cuts, are calm,

sluice gates stand raised.

Churches, chapels, in field corners,

marooned,

sentinels of a once new order.

Hills of mangold wurzels

undulate.

All transmuted

by Autumn's chill breath.

Shrouded shapes coalesce.

Copses rise crannog-like,

above a meniscus of mist.

All Hallows Eve

an attempt to reconcile

what?

Threads of both old and new,

unbroken, bloodied, but unshaken,

Its fulcrum - the Sun Son.

Cloudscape,

above,

of a parallel dimension.

Buildings,

below,

isolated, square,

austerely dark except for a dull glow

in the endmost top window

intrigues.

Aren't they afraid to move so far

from a comforting hearth-side?

Eye, Walsoken,

etymology

connecting us with our past.

Flag Fen, the Iceni,

hidden,

still faintly pulsing,

their DNA entwined with ours.

Samhain-All Hallows

reminds us of part

of helix at our fundus.

Tomorrow the mantle changes,

seemingly.

Warp to weft.

Thread of the future that help us face,

overcome,

winter's soul demands.

The chthonic,not necessarily

detrimental,

reminds that in frailty, arrogance,

ignorance,

we still need the earth,

we are more than flesh.

Rationale is suspended;

for one night

we nod to an olden time,

invisible world reinforcing its reality.

I like night driving.

Light changes

perspectives,

removes details, reveals basics.

Silhouettes,

untrammelled.

Lighted ribbon way speeds,

dull glow behind treed roads,

signals humanity,

at a distance,

where,sometimes, it should be.

At night,

in Fenland, earth has

pre-eminence.

Humans are

marginalised,

other creatures reign,

things closer to God.

My Autumn is now.

If I am wise I will

reconnect

with the basics.

Ditch flim-flam,

remove deadwood

that I might,

at last,

see the trees.

Teenage Logic

Grandson No1, the nineteen year old, has been my carer/supervisor today.

The pain has been bad so I stayed at home with him while the rest of the family

went to take their chance at TV Centre.

I wandered around with a heat pack wrapped inside my pashmina and tied

round my middle.

He's excited because tomorrow he goes to meet his "Divine Sarah" and spend

a few days with her, playing house.

The night before last he accompanied his parents to an event held in a plush

burlesque club and promptly left to spend the evening in the car.

"I felt uncomfortable being there and her feeling ill away up in Yorkshire."

Bless him!

Under that unfazable, super cool exterior he does have limits and standards

he can't transgress, and is willing to stick to them.

He handed me two pairs of denims, scruffy and frayed, and indicated the

slashes in each on the inner thigh.

"Can you mend these like now?"

Two slits closed later and as I clipped off the cotton, I tentatively asked

if I should also trim off the tatty scraps that drag at his heels.

OMG! No! They're like essential"

But not the slits?

Think tolerance Jenny.

After all, here you are dressed in fleecy, uncoordinated layers, real grunge,

with a halogen forehead lamp and glasses on the end of your nose.

Best keep quiet perhaps?

Following my whimsy

With a sense of anxiety bubbling in my stomach,

before dawn broke, I tried to gather my faculties.

At 3am I was watching shooting stars of the astronomical

kind in a clear but crowded sky, sans orange glow or city

lights to obscure the glory.

All confidence had dripped away.

I would know no one, be in a daunting environment,be in

the same space as someone I admire immensely.

People might be beyond me intellectually and in terms

of sophistication.

I was engulfed in an inferiority complex that has trailed

me since forever and, at the last minute, has given me

endless excuses to duck out of difficult situations and

then berate myself for missing out.

Telling myself that I was as good as anyone else, that I

only had myself to blame if I missed this, I steeled

myself and we set out for That London as daybreak started

to evaporate the rime, so that wispy misty drifts flowed

erratically across fields and hedges.

It was early enough for a herd of deer to linger

behind a hedge close to the road.

We filled up with diesel, the queue and checkout

woman still yawning and coming to.

On the outskirts of The Great Wen the traffic thickened.

I developed palpitations which increased as the husky voice

of the satnav variously sent us left, right,straight on,

obviously using a long out of date map.

All our factored in time for delays drained away and with a minute

to spare we steered INSIDE the black barriers beyond the visitors

entrance of The Mother of Parliaments.

In my sweaty little paw I juggled the invitations and confirmatory

emails ready to prove our right to infringe the usually forbidden areas.

We were at checkpoint/border posts.

A cheerful helmeted bobby got us through the first and handed us on

to terser, more aloof colleagues with guns and mirrors.

The car was trapped between mini ramparts that rose

back and front from the earth and the vehicle was searched

inside and out before we were ushered on.

Our host met us and took us through the personal security procedure.

I didn't warrant a photograph on my pass being too low down,

because of the wheelchair, for the camera.

Then on through inner courtyards, through the village

that is Parliament, passed stonework shrouded in plastic,

regiments of cast iron tiles being cleaned or replaced,

weaving and dodging past cages of provisions

disappearing up dim corridors.

At last we entered Westminster Hall and inside the cordon

I got my first glimpse of my fellow society members,

my first opportunity to assess what I had joined.

We seemed a varied bunch with the age range

weighted towards the middle aged and elderly.

I felt reassured,

It was much as I had expected.

The Secretary welcomed me and at last I could put faces to email tags.

I think I was a little anxious about the possible inconveniences

the wheelchair might engender and any discomfort its presence

might give to others but there we were and soon setting off

to our first point of assembly, ahead of everyone else

because of the different route needed for the chair.

It was a recurrent feature of the day and I decided to be positive about it -

it would give me a different perspective and view from anyone else.

The tour took over an hour and our guide vied with the presence

and hubbub of other guides and groups in trying to show us everything

and guide us through chambers and spaces.

The visual senses are overwhelmed with the pre-raphaelite,

mock Gothic decoration, with ceilings dripping in gold leaf and complex designs.

There was also the character of the group and I felt at home,

perhaps too much so, in the company of so many elderly people

muttering that they couldn't hear the guide,

wandering off to look at things themselves or engaging in

diverse conversations with friends not seen since the last meet-up.

Our shepherd tried his best, was exasperated with other guides who

transgressed time and space, fielded quixotic questions,

and long over ran his allotted time.

There is an element of change coming as all the guides are being re-trained

and this obviously rankled, bringing challenges to perceived competence

and suspicion of increased vigilance and uniformity.

Hurrying on now we made our way to the marquee on the House of Lords

terrace and the reception.

This bright autumnal day was perfect for the view of the Thames

and London Eye.

Quiet servers started to circulate with drinks, people drifted out

on to the terrace and finally someone braved breaking the ice

with wheelchair woman.

I tried to guess who might be who, identified Norma Major, and

then Edward Petherbridge and his wife arrived.

Like a silly young thing I became flushed and starry eyed,

finally seeing someone I had come to admire so much,

not just for his Lord Peter Wimsey but the plethora of his other

work.

OMG! The editor of the society bulletin is speaking to him,

gesturing towards me and they are coming over.

How could she do this?

I shall be either dumb or inane.

Nevertheless, here he is shaking my hand.

I had already drawn my son's attention and asked him

to get a picture as EP gave his reading from the new novel.

What came out in a sequence of photographs,

on the mobile phone camera, was the mortifying sight

of my raised index finger pointing, for all the world looking

as if I was wagging it, at this lovely man.

What I was saying is a blur but I am absolutely certain it wasn't

anything in the least bit admonitory, but it's a gesture I loathe.

The saving grace was that EP was laughing.

He was kind enough to remember my weekly comments to

his weekly posts positively and spend some time talking

about various aspects of his work, amongst other things.

My day was more than complete.

Then he had to go, I had to go.

Son and I retraced our steps down ramps, in service lifts,

down back corridors, and into Black Rod's car park.

We both sat savouring the moments and

asking ourselves if it had all really happened as it seemed.

Almost euphorically we dived into London's traffic

ready to take our chances, enboldened!

My whimsy had taken me into a place and situation

I had not expected to be in three months ago.

Thank goodness that damned reticence had been grappled

with and discharged, this time!

Zen and gin made me feel stimulated and happy but in a

Non-productive way.

Won't feel guilty about that,

Just psyching myself up for seeing one of my heroes

Next Monday if all goes to plan.

But I won't speak to him,

I'd be tongue tied and stupid.

I must have an ipad, to play with,

To tinker with the Touch Retouch app,

And the painting app,

All the apps!

Oh I don't care!

Had to answer a million questions, today, to see if I qualify

For an extra £23 pounds per week pension.

I hope I gave the right answers.

DO I have right of abode in this country?

HOW would I prove it?

(IF I had to.)

WHAT does it mean?

I know I sound like a demented old hag.

Look it too, according to the bloody phone videos

My son insists on shooting.

And the notes for this blog look like a spider

Has tottered across the page.

DON'T CARE!

Get it?

This Week

Photograph by Alan Taylor-Shearer

Monday was brain workout day after reading Petherbridge's Weekly Post
(as it always is).
But although it was created by his editor it linked to his newly renovated
Staging Post etc., and covered so many aspects, that by the end
of the reading, my brain had the healthy ache of a good workout session.
It included reflections on the work of Edith Sitwell and Dylan Thomas,
amongst other topics, with a rap from Mr. P and a tour of his attic,
poetically as well as visually!

It triggered off so many other ideas and urges to experiment and tweak
what's already in progress but I am trying to be original or, at least,
not completely derivative.
All this necessitated a trip into Kings Lynn to buy, amongst other things,
picture frames, black paper and card and then get back to start cutting
and devising.
This time also with the realisation that there was no deadline to meet
or need to cram all artistic endeavour into concentrated compartments,
each vieing for my time and energy.
That night I went to bed with sheets of white paper and scissors
and cut and snipped the way we used to at school, around Christmas
time, when we made streams of angels all holding hands or circles
folded into segments that, when opened, looked like snowflakes.

Tuesday -Odd day! The CPN visited No 1 son to talk about recommencing
treatment now he's moved from a military to civilian setting.
We all try to be upbeat prior to his arrival but behind the facade
we walk on glass shards and keep looking, covertly, at him to try and
assess his stress levels.
The initial assessment the previous week involved me as well as son and
wife and ended traumatically.
This time I stay out unless he really wants me there.
I know he gets embarrassed about what I might think and it's no good
if he's holding back so unless he says "Stay"......
Part of me hopes he won't.
The unbearableness of trying to stay composed, matter-of-fact,
while watching him chew his already excised fingernails, holding himself in
until the moment when he's asked to go back and remember.
His eyes glaze, he's dumb, zoning out, not with us anymore.
Wife tries to bring him back but he's out of his seat and stumbling passed us.
I follow.
We stare into each other's eyes.
I see my child retching, twitching. He doesn't see me despite my efforts to
focus him, get his breathing under control.
He is seeing horror, desperation, human scraps - those whom he waved off,
promised to welcome back, who instead went down in flames.

There has been four years of panic, insomnia, dislocation, alienation and
a million dreams shattered - for all of us.
The two older boys were shielded to a degree by boarding school but
the youngest, although not privy to the full horror and protected as far
as possible, sensed the problems, pondered on the silences when Dad needed
to be left alone, when Mum pretended to maintain her fragile optimism
while struggling with a recalcitrant body.
He took refuge in day dreaming, unable to focus or concentrate and found
solace in the cyber universe that didn't make emotional demands.
He has learnt early about the vulnerability and hurt that can come from
trusting outsiders and that there is security within the family and distance
from those who take advantage and heap on another layer of pain.

Wednesday was a relief and was spent making a mini set in black paper and
cardboard to photograph cutouts, silhouettes, and lighting effects
a la Edward Gordon Craig.
I was exasperated by 'none' sticky sticky tape that refused to adhere,
patterns that won't stand up, lay flat, disentangle their filigree parts without
tearing.
What seemed so simple!
Waited for night fall to play with lighting, shadow, texture.
A delivery arrived of a beautiful posy in the name of a delicate
daughter-in-law but not for her to enjoy.
Tomorrow she's off to Stevenage for the funeral of
a favourite aunt and staying over to support Daddy and grieve.
She took herself off, with ipod, to her middle son's vacant room to cry
and soak herself in soul music.

I tweaked yesterday's stew with paprika and cumin for "Man of the house"
and self, "Small fat old woman of the house", serving it casually in bowls,
then made rhubarb crumble, gluten and lactose free, for "Woman of the house".
On Tweetdeck No 1 grandson's darling ranted about the vicissitudes of
communal living and its constraints. Grandson is offering, in chivalric
manner, to 'speak' to she-who-has-offended-his-lady, in no uncertain terms.
I Tweet restraint - "....the idiotic, like the poor, are always with us......"
( Yes, I know two parts of the triangle are in the same house but it means
moving.)
In between all this No 3 grandson burns his finger touching a hot griddle,
as a diversion, and first aid is given.
I blub with anxiety as d-i-law announces she's staying away longer,
afraid my presence is proving too much, and blurt out my fears.
We blub together and embrace, reassuring each other that all is intact in
both our worlds.
When everyone else has gone to bed and darkness has fallen, I carry the
set and screens to the breakfast bar and with No 1 grandson manipulating
various types of lamp, and offering sound lighting advice,
I finally get my shots.
The set is already up for grabs and could be starring in other productions.
No 3 grandson and his father have ideas for interesting uses of their own.
Watch this space, or rather 'YouTube', 'facebook', Twitter et al.
I am considering its rental potential.

Thursday was going well. Son and d-i-law had set off for funeral so there
was just No 3 gr.son, who is home schooled, plus his brother still comatose
in his lofty pit, and myself.
We opened the grow house as the sun warmed up, walked down the drive
to see if the flag was raised on the mailbox and collected the post.
I got back to the house and made the fatal mistake of congratulating myself
on feeling loose and relatively pain free.
I made bread, times two, and scones, times one, checked my emails and
opened my post.
There was sudden, unexpected pricking behind they eyes on opening
the envelope from the Royal British Legion and finding two crosses
ready for a repeat of last year's dedications.
Soon, it was lunchtime but in all I did there at the back of my mind was
the mini-theatre and possible variations. I made a salad sandwich,ate it
and then was over whelmed with tiredness and a desperate desire to
curl up and sleep. It was impossible to shake off or succumb to but
I fought it.
However, it meant very little was completed during the afternoon.
Son returned alone and with Ibuprofen and coffee the ennui began
to lift.
I am determined not to be stuck with the cooking of evening meals
so after a hectic search for the car keys, son was dispatched
to the 'chippy'.
Creativity surfaced again and i considered a large sheet of black mirrored
card before turning it into two columns as a support for the 'tree'.
A cereal box covered with black paper became a support of the 'arch',
simple silhouettes, reinforced, created characters and voila!
New ideas.
I played with them using a halogen forehead lamp and realised quite
quickly that I must get more black paper/card/gaffer tape as a
matter of urgency - for whom?
For me, that's who.
Am plagued by ache in ribs, knee, hips. God! everywhere hurts but I
must wait for darkness so in the meantime another Gayton sunset
photograph can be taken, as an after thought perhaps, then monochrome
takes over.
Eventually, the yawning intrudes, I give in, come to bed and then write
up this journal.
If it doesn't make sense it's because I gave in and went to bed with
Lord Peter Wimsey, just for a change you understand.

Friday was a funny day.
Unrelenting rain pounded on the conservatory roof. Definitely a day
for staying in.
The ennui seemed to affect us all and the pain was pervasive, making
it difficult to settle to anything for any length of time. I crack on, however,
with the 'Monotheatre' as I've called it. The black and white pictures,
on the laptop, are interesting but playing with effects gives the option of
experimenting with accidental colouring.
I seem to do nothing but move from one seat to another and yet the
aches grow.
Half an hour in one place and rigidity sets in.
I am steadily turning to stone.
Today, I made soup for lunch out of odds and ends from the freezer.
The ice cream boxes that fooled grandsons, contained portions of
pre-roasted vegetables or the remains of a can of sweetcorn, that all
went into the pot.
At least, today, I didn't need to make bread.
I settled in the conservatory with paper and scissors. "Man about the
house" joined me with his ipad and I was diverted by his roaming
on 'YouTube'.
There was an interlude of the kind of deep, demanding laughter that
leaves you exhausted and your facial muscles pleading - "No more!"-
where you get to the point of being laughed out.
The evening ended with a print off of a picture of No 2 grandson sitting in
his dressing gown with two 'Pringles' sticking out of his mouth
like a duck's bill.
This will be his birthday card - "The Greater Duck Billed BillyFish at rest"

in his natural habitat.

Off to bed to cut more patterns from more paper. For what point?

Saturday and Sunday passed almost without incident although three males

together seem to find it difficult to function in any sort of practical

coherent manner. They rove from one diversion to another and are

resistant to the benign controlling hand of matriarchal me who is attempting

to bring some sort of order to even the most mundane of daily tasks,

all without success. The constant reminders of what needs to be done

so we can see the sink or fish out sufficient crockery and cutlery to eat with

is met with equally constant mananas.

I leave them to it and retreat to my civilised little corner, only venturing out

when need drives me to it.

However, the tempo increases with the realisation, by them, that Wife and

Mother will be back on the Monday, and a frenzy of clearing, cleaning

and tidying brings them and the place back to a semblance of order.

These are my weeks now - elements of routine interspersed with scary

but healthy doses of unpredictability.

Child asleep by water

Child, snub nosed,

hands lightly clenched,
asleep in the grass,

by slow moving water.
Patchwork between her
and the earth.

Hair like damp, soft, feathers.
Perfect half-moon cuticles.
A finger ready to rise,
summon her slaves 
when she wakes.
Fleshy creases of shoulder
and elbow,
Long eyelash fronds delicately
rest.

She dreams of.......what?
Harmony,abundance,bliss.

(Words and picture by J. Taylor from an original
photograph by Claire Hutchings Dunigan)

The cycle begins again

I was woken this morning by the tractor passing my window
as ploughing started, so close that I could wave to the farmer.
Timed my dressing, to save both our blushes, with his
disappearance over the horizon and had bra and top on
just as the cab reappeared and grew steadily bigger.
Waited for it to diminish again before taking off my pyjama
bottoms and getting into my pants.
On his third pass I was decent.

Back and forth in great diagonal sweeps with a devoted
entourage of gulls, rising, falling, systematically
"field walking" with finds consumed and unrecorded.
Furrows, deep brown, contrast with the green and
baulks almost invisible as every foot is used, scattering
indolent gulls who move no further than absolutely
necessary so as not to miss a morsel.

The field has lain fallow since my arrival but this morning's
activity is encouraging.
If he's ploughing then there has been no change of land use.
For at least another season our solitude is safe and I can
watch the cycle of the farming year from start to finish
With the job done in less than two hours he makes his
final pass, glances, and waves an "au revoir".

Death in the morning

The battle was played out on my window pane.
As the crane fly struggled desperately,
its wings invisible in their impotent beating,
the spider continued spinning relentlessly and
amputated two of the fly's legs.
The end of the second leg freed the fly.
Denuded, it limped on to an adjacent pane and
rested.
Spider sated herself and stored the surplus,
delicately arranging the long spindly feast into a
compact, concertinaed, easily stored package.

The modified cranefly waited for death in the sun,
four legs gracefully splayed.
It's abdomen an unadorned, flared column,
fatally silhouetted.
Spider didn't keep the kill for future enjoyment,
as breakfast was taken early and replete,
she retired to a quiet corner of her web
amongst the ivy, abdomen faintly throbbing.

A passing bird,vied with its kind, and ate
the rest of the fly, an unexpected snack.

Recording

It's a long time since I've waited in a queue
for artistic reasons I mean.
Ahead of us are young women, with fluorescent hair,
apparent old hands at this radio recording game
and determined nothing and no one will be allowed
to get in front of them.
Then two Americans who communicate monosyllabically,
without looking at each other and while reading.
That's obviously where we failed - no books to while away
the time, or a kindle like the young woman just behind us.
As the temperature dropped her decision not to wear a coat
and to sit on her cardigan looked less and less wise.
But she bore up.
Another family arrived,the mother glamorous but outgoing
and unexpectedly, because my son is also outgoing, we struck
up a rapport.
Passersby stared, tried to make sense of this expanding line
outside the BBC, and other ticket holders hailed us and vowed
to return later.

Book less, I passed the time people-watching, speculating on
the ebb and flow of guests arriving and leaving The Langham.
There was a frisson of raised hackles when three other women
arrived and instantly queue jumped, talking animatedly to
the three at the head of the line.
Kindle girl, indignant summoned a security guard who,
wimpishly, ducked out of the challenge.
So she tackled them herself, to no avail.

Eventually, there was movement and our tickets were stamped.
Inside we passed through the scanners,men removing their belts
and praying their trousers wouldn't fall down.
Interestingly, women were presumed not to wear belts,
probably on the assumption that those with suspenders
were out of date.
Once through security we were shepherded to the bar.
We snapped up the seats by the door.
Apparently, this is essential in order to get a head start
when the stream is unleashed into the studio.

The feral nature of the audience became overt as
the crowd around the door became denser and
people tried various ploys to bag an advantage.
The unholy scrum as the word came that we could
go to the studio was the epitome of "everyone for
themselves" and a stumble at that point would have
meant a severe trampling.
How naive of me to imagine a modicum of civilised behaviour
would prevail within the hallowed portals.
Half the stalls seat were already occupied as we entered the
theatre and occasioned puzzlement but was explained
when we realised that this was the end of the series and that
these were family and friends, plus VIPs.

A radio recording seemed to me rather like a public
rehearsal or read through, in format, except this was the finished
performance.
The setting is quite informal with the cast casually dressed, although
the female members were more chic than their male counterparts,
and simply sitting on chairs between trips to the microphone.
The fluidity of this had elements of the dance.
Microphones suspended above our heads could pick up
laughter, applause,(wanted) coughs and mutters (unwanted)
so we had to be both spontaneous and yet careful.

At the end of each session the producer bounced onto the stage for
the re-takes.
My heart went out to Richard Johnson, who probable had most re-takes
to do and one, to his great exasperation, three or four times over.
We willed him to get to the end of his speech ( he had quite complex syntax)
and when he finally did, amongst the cheers, I let out an emphatic "Yes!"
which will probably be edited out.

In the middle of the stage, on a stand, perched what I can only
describe as a smooth coconut shaped item with a green light on top.
The actors have to wait for the green light before commencing
their re-takes and the wait sometimes seemed interminable.
We had to remember to laugh, clap, cheer in the right places,
each time.

How different in so many respects from conventional theatre
and yet there are similarities such as the evocation of the story
in the mind's eye.
The imagination compensates for the limitations of the stage or
in this case a total lack of physical setting.
It has completely changed my listening habit as it is now enlivened
by remembrance of what listeners don't see or aren't aware of.

And I had to remember to laugh, not because it wasn't funny,
but I was so engrossed in the mechanics of the action that it almost
took precedence.
I'd love to go again but next time my Dorothy L Sayers will go with me
as will some extra protection against the scrummage.

Three weeks in

The hardest part of winding down is not to go too far so that the brain
becomes moribund, the adrenalin levels drop too low,
the synaptic gills close and filter nothing.
I am struggling to maintain a balance and accept that I
don't have to do everything with in a restricted
time frame.

There is time to consider,
no deadline to meet (as yet) but I still feel pressure,
probably of my own making;
that not enough is produced in the time I have (for whom?);
not enough artistry, creativity, revealed in the hours available.
It is as if I am still constrained by the greater demands
of the work place and its insistence on subordinated self-expression,
which had to be crammed, concentrated into snatched moments.

These moments are in danger of expanding to a degree where their bounds
could become invisible, non-existent and therefore perilous.

Evenings with satellite food channels

Commence with the culinary excess that is "Man v Food"
Impellingly repellent.
Twenty million calories smothered in gunge
In peculiar combinations -meat with grapefruit conserve
Wrapped in bread.

Then to Ina in the Hamptons
And her Jeffrey.
She's independent,apparently,but so down home.
The concept of "back to basics" enshrined in processed
This and ready made that.
Make it for yourself dear-and if
Jeffrey doesn't like then....
More for you!
Harking back to Europe,
Shabby chic that wouldn't dare be.

Assume nothing, take nothing as read,
From an audience that needs an ad break
Every ten minutes
And smile at all costs.
Why are there no brown eggs in America?
And an electric squeezer for the juice of half a lemon?
How back to basics is that?

My god! the man's not due back 'til tomorrow
Yet he hangs like an omnipresent master.
He's a patterned sweater wearing,
Grizzle haired,
Teddy bear of a man
Who comes home now and again.

Ina's cuisine is slightly less
Overblown, less smothering,
Just as calorie, cholesterol laden
And I shouldn't watch, especially
At this time of night.
It makes me hungry and I'm
Trying to be good.

They keep guffawing at each other,
She's actually said "My purpose in life is to
Make you a good dinner" and
"I do love our weekends together".
Does she go into a cupboard from Monday to Friday?
Was Sunday dinner filmed on Monday because of Jeffrey's schedule?
A chimera like their whole relationship?

I'm gritting my teeth not to succumb and go to the fridge.
I should switch off and do something more useful instead -
Like sleep!

Next up -
Dypso drifts around The Med,
Pickled in claret and merlot.
I can't be bothered.

Tonight it's the woman with the
Curly fingers and that damned perpetual smile and
She has pink spatulas.
This is another supposed option to fast food,
She makes the sauce after serving the dish,
Surely it's getting cold so is it fast food per se?

From the semi-sublime to the nearly ridiculous.
"4 Ingredients" from Oz.
This is cooking through white tombstone teeth.
Smile after smile.
Open a can of this (boiled condensed milk),
Buy a ready made that.
Serve it up to four captive guests who will
"Ooh" and "Aah" to the camera.
It's really all about the sea and surf setting,
A cheats dinner party,
Okker food.

Now back home for Nigella.
All this contrived domesticity,
Barefooted (but no Contessa).
No bed hair or naked face (although the
Pretence is there).
"Ugly duckling" children who
Mustn't upstage her.

Why does she never splash herself
While wearing crisp summer linen?
The pretentiousness of pulling a
Large mixer from a holdall,
Just can't be without her
Culinary status symbols.
I refuse to believe she does the washing up.
Domestic goddess to skivvy?
Impossible.

Everything has to be a seductive,
Quasi-orgasmic experience,
Trying to be ordinary but would be
Horrified to be defined as such.
And do the friends mind being used as
Stooges, foils, accessories?
Wearing less distinct clothing,being colourless,
So as not to draw the focus away from
"The Star".
Patronising didactism demonstrating
Pallid parcels,
Rice based,vapid,
High class nursery food.

Prissy, flirtatiousness,
While friend is consigned to
Bathing the children,
Putting them to bed,
Prior to the grownup food.
Ostensibly, South Indian, but never
Tainted by peasant fingers.
This is playing at "roughing it".

Unpromising Day

As they often do, days start out uncertain, anxious, full of foreboding.
Today, the arrival of the post woman only increased
that sense of dread I've relearned, too quickly.
Fatal brown envelope lay in my hand between junk and my railcard.
Daughter-in-law opened the envelope.
I saw the tremor of her fingers as she tried to tear along the fold.
As usual my role is that of "sure and stedfast" rock,
but I'm struggling to fulfill it.

We waded through the jargon, the welter of figures that
seem randomly plucked, to the nub.
They accept my son is ill, that he needs space,
may eventually be well again.
But for now, he doesn't have to endlessly recount the horrors,
push down the nausea, justify himself to ignorant pen pushers.
I sagged onto her shoulder, shouted, silently,
"Thank You" to the sky.

The whole day changed.

Son appeared, zombie like,
and took a while to assimilate the news.
The weight gradually lifted as the import filtered through
clogged synapses.
Now, I could enjoy, really enjoy just standing, watching,
Red Admirals, delicate proboscis probing each sac of the buddleia,
Dragonflies, whisking the air, and pick lavender and bay.

Cloudscapes change from louring to sunlight and at last I can feel
a sense of genuine happiness,or rather contentment.
Not quite the same thing.

That night, while three fifths of the family were out,
I sat outside with a wee libation, and sang, realising that there
was no other human near enough to hear me.
The only accompaniment was the trickle of circulating water,
in the pond and trees silent after the wind dropped,
Inky black sky, punctured by pin pricks, with no orange, city glare.
I switched off the lights and sat in real darkness.
Moths, who had cavorted around the lamps, were disorientated
and threw themselves against the glass.

Apart from a sleeping young boy, I was alone,
liberated rather than scared.

Photogragh by J.Taylor

Settling in

The days are flying at the speed of the Tornadoes zooming over the house.
We all appear to be in our separate zones but we are actually
collaborating and creating at the same time.

Grandson number 2 after eleven weeks holiday decided to produce
his "other washing and mending" from The Great Wen that is his suitcase.
"Nan, I love you, do you love me?"
"Yes James, what do you want and how much will it cost?"
"Not money, I didn't call you Grand mama Dearest, did I?"
"True my dear so what is it?"
"This seam in my trousers needs mending and can you repair the slit in my
brassard which got accidentally caught with scissors - not by me I hasten to add....."
"Oh and also, sew on my badges in this order? I'd do them myself
but got to fly-Xbox game to play...."
Some things never change.

Forty eight hours before he goes back to boarding school we start
a massive clear out/clean up and he suddenly remembers a host of items
he aught to take back with him that amnesia has hidden.
He produces three packs of decrepit emergency rations,
from a long ago cadet camping expedition, so far out of their sell by date
that not even the most dedicated eco-warrior would touch them.

The rain is rattling a staccato tattoo on the roof of the conservatory and I think Autumn approacheth.
I live in a house, now, with four rock guitar fanatics so as I walk through
to my room Grandson number 1 stands in his boxers on the stairs,
playing his bass along to some vibrating cacophony while a projected,
animated idol struts across an expanse of wall.
Grandson 2, slender, long legged, as hairless as his brother is hirsute,
plays a lead guitar while Grandson 3 runs his fingers along an instrument
known as the "cigar box" but which resembles an oriental instrument
played with a bow.
Their father sings and plays all their instruments and the house shudders.
Fortunately, no one overlooks or hears us, except the quails
who sometimes craik an accompaniment.

They groan at my musical taste but tolerate it and show me
spontaneous kindnesses such as making me a step to ease my entry
and exit from the house or taking my coat,without being asked,
and hang it up.
They even accompanied me to the dentist with relatively good grace
and "tweeted" while I endured the excruciating scream of the sonic devil in my mouth.

Sunset, after the first week.

Deep orange above the horizon,
Striated through with brown.
Azure melting into navy
As the sun recedes.

Lights flicker at points
Across the vista.
Grouse or quail craik in
The undergrowth.

Dark,sharp, shapes stark
Against the dying sky.
Sun flames linger in a
Gloria of cloud.

(photogragh by Jennifer Taylor)

Internal worlds

I've posted this week's comment to another blogger's post, after drafting and proof reading the few lines at least five times, before hitting the "post" button, this time without typos, in my usual trepidation.
I become a gibbering idiot at the thought he might read it (how immature of me) and think me an illiterate, which he obviously isn't.

Such talent. The pictures and erudition prove that, along with the ability to not only observe but make connections of a global and more local nature.

(I'm finding myself in the midst of an internal trio again - the other two as yet blurred and ill defined. Foils to me or vice versa?)
I share my passion with an invisible cast of thousands. Those who don't appreciate or share said passion can be disregarded with impunity.
The real power of fantasy is the omnipresence and omnipotence - of being the omniscient narrator moving the pieces at will.
The problem for me seems to be that the characters play scenes on a screen immediately behind my forehead and won't stop unless I write down what I see and what they say.
Only then will they move on. My omnipotence is undermined by the power of the characters to act independently- apparently.
I feel I am "the puppet". When I try to manipulate them or the storyline it doesn't work.

Well, the characters are in a new setting and like me are having to attune themselves to it.
It will take me ages, I think, to lose the conditioning, to realise that time is more flexible.
The danger will be in forgetting, or not being able to let go.
That a) some semblance of discipline is necessary and b) it is no longer as rigid or unrelenting.
Managing the new environments, new routines and re-learning the strategies of communal living is the most challenging. ( Dealing with the old anxieties when the postie appears has reasserted itself,unfortunately)

At the moment I am learning to cope with living in a one-storey building with odd steps, climbing in/out of a new bath; remembering to lock toilet doors, where locks exist, etc.etc.
All the new patterns and I haven't even considered the outside!

The skies really are high and wide in Norfolk and the bands of weather are equally wide.
My brain is trying to break out of its cocoon-one part is freeing itself, alongside other parts that still plough along in seventeen year old furrows.
That's done with but I know myself well enough not to be fooled that it won't nudge me from time to time, or refuse to relinquish its vice-like grip.
After all, part of that furrow is Me. The perseverance, the strait way, the caution.
To jettison it all completely would be false and a pretence.

Now I have access to extended facilities, shared equipment, that offer more opportunities for artistic and other development.
Of course, it also means compromised privacy - I can get it if/when I need but it's not total as when one lives alone.
There is also, still, the sense of time needing to be managed quite tightly- that will take longer to loosen its grip.

More shorts

1) Hand Skin (Old)

Noticing that the folds create new landscapes,
Flesh thinning like the bones,
so that loose creases concertina,deepen,convolute,collapse,
interrrupted by purple pools and a navy delta of bloody tributaries,
a boney sierra covered by a delicate web of thinning epidermis.

2) Hand Skin (Young)

Swollen,plump, taut-
heavily blood fed epidermis,
smooth virgin territory,
unworn,unworked,unblemished
bloody tributaries, subterranean.

3) Face Skin (Old)

Alternately worked by a thousand diets,
stretched, flaccid,
soft crepuscularity,
wind, sun flensed,crevices deepened
by reduced collegan under the jaw,
around eye sockets.
Proportions altered by lengthening pinna and drooping lobes.

4) Face Skin (Young)

Unadventured
cradling bone structure snugly,
super collegened, inexperienced,
punctuated by pustules, sebum soaked,
hormonal dynamo in hyperdrive,
overloading regenerative balance.

Young skin, cool as cotton in summer heat,
refreshing, reassuring.
Old skin, cool as a shroud in summer heat,
shrinking, warning.

Balance

Balance is the key
Perfect and all is peace and harmony,
Off kilter, by the merest micron,
Result- chaos.
In spiritual terms,
the Fulcrum hangs at Golgotha.

Shorts

The crack in the rock seems settled, hidden, where I can observe,safe until....
The dust blows into my eyes
or there's an itch.

The perils of having a brain,
and daring to use it,
is the jealousy and painful clarity
it invokes.

The "lonely" wind blows and the chill of anxiety
over perceived difficulties seeps into my bones.
The silences when no Tweets come and the facebook status
remains unchanged for days.
The insidious fears dare to tip toe from the
margins and attempt a coup d'etat on centre stage.
I'll be damned if I'll let them seduce me into a fit of the
blues just as everything is reving up a gear.

What did I say?
The blues came, tsunami-like,
the following day.
I rolled into a ball,went to bed and believed that,
whilst I slept,
the rest was a mirage.
I awoke still with the weight of fear
pushing me down.

The pain was almost negligible.
Nevertheless, I struggled to get dressed and
push my way through the treacle,
fear debilitating me.
Positive thinking matters but my mind
is swamped by the "....what if...." and
the realisation that we live,largely, in a
fools paradise.
We're falling for the hype and
when the lights come up
we will see the utter stupidity of most
of what we say and do.

My internal life deserted me,
my saving strategy evaporated,
I am really alone.

It reasserts itself.
The constant meanderings of an
untrammelled brain that fantasizes
ad infinitum.
Two days later I was back in my
usual trio adoring an idiosyncratic being.

Sunday in the park

For the first time in years I've spent Sunday afternoon in the park with a band playing (albeit a rock group), sunshine, cake and a lively family picnic.
We're a bit rowdy when we're enjoying ourselves but not too much so.
As an adjunct the birthday event was enhanced by a fun fair that happened to be there at the same time.
A beautiful day but the ground was still soggy from a week of heavy rain.

I suppose we were a microcosm of the average contemporary social grouping.
The Birthday Girl has two divorced and single grannies, multi ethnic cousins, a grandpa who came alone (as his second wife doesn't gel with the rest of the family), and her parents friends who run the gamut from goth to theological academic,with fantasy role players in between.
Rather like a dinosaur I sat in the middle of it all, because I can't get down onto the grass, and let it all swirl round me. I did have the last laugh though as my bottom stayed dry while everyone else's got damp.The men compared the wet patches on the knees of their jeans and pretended they didn't care.

Two oriental children wandered into the middle of it all, drawn by the hubbub and possibilities of cake and chased the bubbles we all blew en masse at the end of Pass-the-Parcel, music provided by my eldest grandson testing his vocal range and singing acapella. It also meant he could manipulate the stopping,starting, so that each child got a present and Princess Mir the piece de resistance by ripping off the last layers.
Even the paparazzi were in attendance in the form of eldest son and daughter's friend, who vied for camera angles and then compered lenses and equipment spec.

The end of the party was signalled by the wailing of overtired children,starting to feel a little queasy from several rides on the merry-go-round mixed with fairy cake, so the cleanup commenced and we left the sward pristine, proving we might be a little unruly but we are also responsible.
It was one of those rare occasions when things go to plan,are unwittingly enhanced, with no one feeling the need to be diva-like or indulge in tantrums, when it requires no effort to be relaxed and sociable and even going home feels right.

Where do words go?

Where do words go?
One moment they're spilling out,
Vehement, energetic, diarrhoea.
Today?
The synapses are silent, producing bugger all.
Thoughts, ideas, higgledy piggledy,
Aborted unformed, lying dormant,
Refusing even to peek out of their spiral shells.
Tyrants!
You know I want to
Create, express ideas,
However frenetic and
You stay away,
You refuse to behave.
I am supposed to be in charge of You
Not the other way round.

(photo by Alan Taylor-Shearer)

Moving

Each box filled,
And still more to follow,
Hardly seem to make a dint.
I shall get to the point
Where I dump stuff out of
Sheer exhaustion, exasperation.

Winding down

I really don't want to go into work.
I am detaching myself,mentally,emotionally,physically and counting the days.
The "Goodbyes" are starting to be said,with the realisation that this au revoir really will be goodbye for a lot of the people I'm attached to.
There's more than a racing cert they won't be here, or anywhere else, when I pay a return visit.

My daughter asked if I was having a "leaving do" - what an appalling thought?
Me tottering my way along West Street or High Street?
Too too sickening to contemplate.
None of the bright young things would want to settle in one place or have a civilised meal - and anyway, everywhere glitzy would be raucous and I wouldn't hear a word so what is the point?

I dread having to tell the neighbours,especially as one of them is already depressed and will be
hyperanxious about the future.
I can't face fuss.