Vinland Stained

Thorfinn's men bend their strength.

From Iceland west the longships plough.

Seeking men, thrusting men,

leaving Greenland in their wake.

New land beckons, land of grapes.

wild corn, breathing space

Smoke drifts lazily over the hills but:

Swift canoes, deft paddles,

flitting shadows.

Others have seen,

others with needs.

Crimson shields hoisted aloft,

shields of war, red with blood.

Skraelings respond with

wailing flails.

Man clashes with man,

greed and selfishness emerge.

A finger of scarlet cloth

for soft Pine Marten fur.

One dupes another

and tempers flare.

Land vast enough for all,

tainted, besmirched by

lust and exploitation.

Great potential withers

and tempers explode.

By the shores of Newfoundland

looking ever west,

smoke drifts lazily to

a setting sun as hammers clang

and men dream of home.

L'Anse aux Meadows: Tribe threatens

tribe and dreams fade.

In A Garden

In a garden
   all appears
      tranquil, still
        until
looking closer,
     doppelganger world.
   Just as hectic,
         harassed, frantic.
             Little creatures
      just as noisy,
    rustling leaves,
crackling twigs,
stones moved,
      scurrying feet.
       Clack of plates-
a beetle's back.
Headlong rush,
     fulfilling tasks,
        carry burdens,
maintain balance.
Our myopic eyes
fail to see.

"Books at my bedside" - A Preamble

Someone, who I respect enormously, suggested that perhaps as I had enjoyed her "A Year in Books" I should do one of my own. I didn't feel organised enough to do that but thought that doing somethingsimilar with my current pile of books might be a useful exercise.

Here, as a preamble, is some of the background to my relationshipwith books.
Books at my bedside have been an enduring feature of my life for as long as I can remember. My first school report said that I liked best sitting in the book corner looking at picture books.

From the printed edition of "The Lord's Prayer", illustrated with beautifully composed none twee pictures of hands, on paper even then I could recognise as good quality by its sheen and weight, to the tattered edition of "The Kittens Who Lost Their Mittens" that my mother and father read to me with, what for them, must have been monotonous regularity, onto "Milly Molly Mandy".
Having regular bouts of tonsilitis (my mother wouldn't let me join the throng, in the 50s, of children having tonsils and adenoids routinely removed as she believed they were a safety mechanism and unless I developed quinsy the tonsils were staying) to the weeks spent with plaster casts on my legs while a fracture healed, books were my constant companions.

My grandmother through her second hand business kept me supplied with piles of comics,magazines and a very eclectic range of books.

Absolute security and comfort was being tucked up on a sofa,in front of an open fire, and entering the different worlds within all this reading matter.

Dan Dare in the "Eagle",the world of London/county society in "The Illustrated London News", the womens' magazines with their make do and mend or making co-ordinating accessories such as hats, belts and summer shoes.

Strangely, one of my favourites was a book in landscape format full of photographs of "our brave boys" exercising and training prior to going into the carnage of World War 1.

I realised later that if each of the pictures had been presented differently they would have made a "flick" book and become a moving film.
Eventually, I moved onto the classics, reading Dickens, Stevenson, Jules Verne and Rider Haggard along with the "Empire Youth Annual" (a relic of the strange bedfellows war throws up), Film annuals and, now and again, "Bunty" with the "Four Marys" and the world of hockey and boarding school.

All these other worlds beyond my own experience - I craved to be taken out of my self - and all provided by Grandma, who eventually handed over some really old books - bound copies of the"London Art Magazine", "The Church Times", gazeteers and "The Wandering Jew".

The day she gave me "The Master of Bank Dam" it was with an injunction not to let on to my parents.

Why? Because unlike most dynastic novels of the Victorian/Edwardian era, it made reference to bodily functions, albeit vaguely, of embraces down alleyways, and most particularly to the "petty" - the toilet.

The Brontes, Mrs Gaskill, not even Dickens did that!

I read anything and everything so that by the time I was at secondary modern school I had a head stuffed with general knowledge and was allowed to pick what I liked from the reading shelves,rather than that prescribed, only mindful that new words had to be recorded in my vocabulary book with its dictionary definition.

At that point I loved "Susannah of The Mounties" for the adventure and freedom it described, of a young girl travelling across Canada and up into the Yukon with the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. I don't ever remember even thinking about any question of authenticity - I was in the story, part of it.

At 13 I was given a scholarship to the new Comprehensive that had been formed from the old local grammar school and a new world of books was available to me.

The local library was also a vital source when books cost too much for my parents budget and became a constant haunt.

Only when I did my degree did I analyse and look for hidden agendas.

Many people say an English Degree spoils your ability to read and enjoy a book but, as usual, perversely, I run counter to the tide and enjoy the analysis, looking for the omnipotent narrator, wondering what was left out, asking what slant/axe the author is trying to produce/grind. Perhaps the fact that I was a very mature student meant that my ability to enjoy a story for its own sake wasn't subverted.

The Field

At one forty-five a.m. lights danced and
flared across Orion's belt,

silent helicopters, Tornados responding.

In its proscription the field contains all,

Today, at breakfast, a single pheasant
loped across the loam
like a chinless wonder.
There are the loners 

who stroll across the furrows

or the hare who sits
in the hollows between.

The desperately gregarious
who must be with others
if only to fight.

Startled they rise or bolt.
You wait to see 

the what and why -

Nothing.
A chimera?

Then settle and continue until.....

Twenty second of February

The shock of a weak vessel suddenly cracking in a daughter's brain, a daughter who has stayed with us by what seems like a thread.

Looking robust and rosy she hades a frailty masked by the emphasis on brittle bones.

Once again in the toilet, as on each previous occasion when my family have been in crisis, God and I had our usual open and frank discussion - not bargaining but the offer of my life, freely given, if that was what was needed to maintain the balance so essential to retaining the tension that holds life together.

Son-in-law and I cried, hugged, steadied each other as she disappeared into the theatre, shades of Craig's uber-marionettes.

Mad as it sounds, I was aware, on our way to and from the ward, of the sequence dance of the lift as dancers enter, leave and chassis back and forth, keeping out of each other's and the door's way.

In the intervening period we watched mind numbing dross on the cafe television and kept it together despite provocation.

Seven hours later we sighed with relief that she was awake and alive.

As we sat in the waiting area we were aware of another group, ashen and frozen, dealing with their own crisis and so tempered our euphoria.

The danger time wasn't past but the first hurdle was cleared.

Daughter's first comment on her condition was typically understated and concise - "I feel crap !"

We rejoiced that she could speak and her personality seemed intact.

The danger of spasm in the blood vessels of the brain, which could induce the effects of a stroke remained for the next twenty one days and I dare not relax. My life experience has tended towards it being dangerous. The moment I do seems to be the trigger for another crisis and more guilt so I only allow myself a controlled response.

In the following days she requested that all her hair be shaved off so that it could grow back at the same rate. She endured the removal of a legion of clips and contemplated the shaving of her legs and a pedicure as a high priority.

She continues to grapple with the tiredness that brings on slight aphasia and confusion, and an acceptance that for the next few months she has to step back, allow blood to be reabsorbed and let the healing happen.

Daughter and Son-in-law are blessed with a battalion of true friends who don't just say but do and a family who think the world of them both and two little girls with Grannies who support each other and love them unconditionally.

The shock, support, love and relief has girdled the earth and comeback ten fold.

Perhaps now my daughter will realise she doesn't have to be superwoman, is more than good enough as she is and is valued for herself.

February Randoms.

(The following are as yet unconnected, raw jottings)

Keep the Beat.

The resonance of the drums bouncing off the stones,

inducing the hypnotic beat until oscillations merge,

stones and drums are one.

The great malleability of human amplifiers lifting

The Beat to the sun on the solstice,

making The Stones speak.

Drum channeling voices from earth, humans, wind,

into a great funnel upwards to Sky Father,

not to desert the land, to re fertilise and make her

live again.

Taking blood, always The Blood, Life Giver, and

returning it to the Earth Guardians,

fecund in its falling, spilling, seeping.

The Drum synchronises brain, heart,

with Earth Throb,

creating an unbreakable force.

---------------------------------------------------

Last night out of my window a curved sliver of moon

finally faded over a crusted earth.

---------------------------------------------------

Do Robots Converse While Working?

Painting robots like shrouded, jerky ghosts,

bending, dipping as the spray bursts,

the armature turns and twists.

And the dance of the synchronised welders.

---------------------------------------------------

A Bruegel for today.

Men in hoodies, various types of woolly hats,

in overalls, with pinched winter noses and cheeks,

looking earthy, workmanlike, unadorned -

warmth the priority.

---------------------------------------------------

On the field.

Four cock pheasants on the morning rime.

One, still, in a furrow,

One circling,

Two heading for the cover of the hedge.

A short "man-run" with bobbing head that

fizzles out to a stroll and peck.

Boldly bouncing hare bolts through them

like a bowl through skittles.

In the field today a morning workout.

Four hares racing back and forth

like a rugby scrum without a referee,

(Four seems to be this field's number)

then over the crest and out of sight.

Singleton sitting in silhouette against the sky,

long back legs able to tip the body forward,

pushing nose to the ground,

or tilting it up to test the air.

They race in synchronised, apparently aimless,

circles sometimes stopping to spar.

Along the boundary hedge a chopper streaks,

and undaunted hares lap the field,

athletes limbering up.

-------------------------------------------------

Last night the wind howled with the ferocity

and rhythm of breakers on the shore,

whooshing, then silence, until the next heave.

So we keep trying

The month has flown, been and gone,

and My Dear Blog I haven't visited you.

So today, which hasn't perhaps been

particularly exciting, I sit here in my corner

watching the sunshine and fighter jets

going over, and determine to write,

even if only a few lines.

My mind drifts back to the early morning

promenade by four cock pheasants in

the adjoining field.

Ambling and pecking,

aimlessly wandering,

until Number One decides to sit in a furrow,

Number Two slowly circling him,

while Three and Four suddenly break into

a run and make for the hedge.

Through them all, like a bowling ball aimed

at skittles, boldly bounces a hare, bolting.

Number one gets up, breaks into that man-run

thing which fizzles out into a casual stroll of

no fixed purpose

A chinless wonder who either doesn't know

what to do next

Or

wants it to seem like something else.

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.