Birthday

They only comes once a year and so I aught to commemorate it in some way.   I have a child's mind.  I see things in very black and white ways.  I react to things with extremes of pleasure or of pain.  I have adored the prospect of my birthday and intensely as Christmas every year of my existence and the enthusiasm I had for them never waned with the passing of years. Now my birthday has started to mean less to me. 

I think it began when my sister's behaviour when drunk became a source of pain for everyone and then my stance on it alienated me slightly from the rest of my family.  I refuse to attend family events if she was there, as this meant that it risked seeing her drunk and the rest of us retreating into the deepest of shadows that ours mind's possessed.  Then, when she sobered, and lacked any kind of condition, I refused to attend at all.  I do not seek sympathy or blame that is just the way things are, now.

Celebrations become a source of concern even when the prospect of them are mentioned.  Because whether she is there or not we all feel the sorrow of her absence, the real her.



Time up.
Inspiration: The reality of my birthday, today.

Time

There is simply not enough time.  Where exactly does time go? 

Some weeks I can see that my leg hair has reached neanderthal proportions and that there is simply no time to wrench myself into the twenty first century.  Above the temples, silver sprouting of the most obnoxious kind can see seen after some weeks of neglect.  Left long enough they will turn into what is, euphemistically, know as mallen streaks but which are just, frankly, grey.  A perfect arch of my eyebrow can become as blurred as a bow after the arrow's flight.  I have time to rectify none of it.

You may ask how I could let things get to this pass.  Just blame Time, or the absence of it.  There are far too many pressing things to do.  Work, more work, shopping, cooking, cleaning, walking the dog...I could go on.  I don't even have the added responsibility of children, thank the Lord.  Children would have no place within the frenetic pace of my world.  I am too busy working hard to impress people that only care for themselves.  After all their opinion of me matters - doesn't it?



Time Up.
 Inspiration:  It's Friday and I'm just reflecting on the nature of work.

Hands

Put your hand in mine.
Then, wrap your arms around me
So that I feel I am yours
And that we are two in one,
even for a moment.

You may have to leave,
Rip yourself away from me,
Without any sense of the pain that
I feel each time we part.

But for now, feel my hands touch
Yours and yours mine.
Let our skin feel the warmth
that we share together,
However the heat arrives.

So that when you are gone,
I will press my hand to my face
Imagining it still holds your essence
Here, with me, so that you never truely
Leave.



Time up.
Inspiration:  I haven't written a poem in a while.  so it thought I'd have a go.

Still Life

It had not put up much of a fight before it died, but then, it was so tiny.  It wasn't a wren; it was a trifle bigger and the tail wasn't the stubby exclamation that is the wren's trademark but it had the same colouring. 

It was almost over before I'd had a chance to intervene.  My little Jack Russle had starled it from a patch of mottled undergrowth and it must have been too shocked to have got enough momentum to burst into flight.  She pawed at it and then, like a cat, toyed with it for some moments before I'd even realised what it was.  I shouted and ran towards them both.  The dog stood back to let me approach.  The bird cowered by a clump of grass.  I could see its chest rising and falling very lightly and slowly.  As I bent towards it, the chest stopped half way before rising fully and the tiny pointed beak slowly opened, as did the eyes, taking it's last look at the world before darkness fell.

I picked up the creature and, although it was all in the run of the wild, I felt choaked and angry that this timy life was taken so suddenly and violently.  It made me think about the arbitrary nature of all life and I felt the awfulness of the injustice that I mean very little in the scheme of things not better than the buddle of feathers in my hand. 

Looking back at my dog, she was ashamed.  I left her to feel the weight of what she had done.  I put the bird back very gently on the grass and pushed a tuft of the sweet green fronds over the dun feathers.


Time up.
Inspration:  I thought of an incident about a year ago. It happenend exactly as above and it has stuck in my mind and will do for some time.

Spontaneous

'Let's have some fun,' she said.
'O.K. what would you like to do?' he replied.
'I dunno. Let's just be spontaneous and do anything we fancy.'
'I'm not exactly sure what you mean.  What d'you wanna do?'
'Well, I'm not sure, but let's just do the first thing that comes into our minds.'
The first thing that came into his mind was a nap on the sofa but he didn't say that out loud.
'Alright,' he said.  'You go first.'
'Um, right, now.  Let's think. Hang on. Why do I have to go first?  Why don't you suggest something?' it came out a little more acerbic than she was expecting but she stood her ground.
'Because it wasn't my idea, that's why.'  he replied, rather piqued at her tone.
'Well, it's always me that thinks of the ideas and things to do.  It's about time you thought for us instead of me.'
He thought of all the times he'd tried to please her by organising or suggesting places only to see a look of boredom if he was lucky and down-right disgust if he was not.
'I'm happy to do anything,' he mumbled, tiredly.
'Oh for God's sake.  It's like talking to a brick wall.  I'm going into the bedroom to read.
He was relieved.  A nap on the sofa was beconing with open arms.

Time up
Inspiration: I missed two days due to work commitments so I'm catching up with whatever pops into my head.

The Gentle Tide

Gentle breezes and the delicate kiss of the sun on your skin.  The world, an expanse of sky, a very pale blue touched with the merest hint of yellow.  The glorious soothing scent of the salt drenched air and a slow rake and draw of a receding wave pulling stones which spin and whip out circlets of spray; a pause, a held breath; the whisper of the fingers of the tide reaching in once more to caress the shore - an eternal dance of love.



Time Up.
Inspiration:  I'm upset so I looked at some old photos and this reminded me of the beautiful summer.

Sitting Here, Listening

Here I sit, listening.  It is night and quiet.  With everything off, no television, no music or radio I can hear the buried sounds that have been masqued until now.  The continuous, but gentle whir of the fan on the laptop, a distant dog barking once or twice, the tick of the clock - that timeless sound that could easily be in a Victorian parlour as in my front room.  The indescribable sound of your own fingers running through your hair: a scratching echo that must only happen internally, resonating in the cavities in your skull. 

Then the unwelcome, vulgar sound of the door opening, a voice asking a question.  It seems intrusive and alien in the peace that has cocooned you for what has only been minutes but felt undefinable as if centuries could have passed in a moment.  Because peace brings its own timelessness.



Time up.
Inspiration: The Write Practice: Focus on your breathing while you create and listen for sounds that you may not usually notice: Pen noise against the paper, the sound of the keys as you type, birds chirping outside, quiet hum of the heater, etc.

Predator

There's a flash of blurred colour; it hovers for the briefest moment and then, in an instant, it is perched and probing jerkily into the feeder outside the window.  It is a goldfinch.  I don't think they are rare, there's plenty in it garden, at any rate, but they are very exotic- a really out of place bird amongst the gentle pastel colours of an English country garden.

It's head is constantly moving like a piston, in and out of the feeder, out to either side, twisting round to look behind, on constant lookout for predators and they are always about: Cats.  Domesticated predators; savages. Mauling their victims, toying with them,  dismembering them, as if for sport, rarely for food.  I don't often see them as they slink through then along the hedgerow, undulating in and out of the foliage, at the hint of detection creating a lean statuette and then moving on placing their paws gingerly and neatly keeping their eyes riveted on the vulnerable creature fluting from branch to branch.  It might dip and lunge ending in a fluffy of feathers and a corpse on the ground but, today, the goldfinch is lucky, I am there to stand guard against our common enemy.




Time up.
Inspiration: my garden. 

Golden bubbles.

"Alright, Hels? How's the heart today?"
That's her nick-name, Hels.  Her real name is Helen.  So, I suppose it's not really a nick-name, just an abbreviation.  She is my sister.  We both know, too, that there's nothing wrong with her heart; it's a euphemism for her mind.  She's always been quite a ebullient person but there has always been the slight hint that the effervescence is the tiniest bit forced and that the golden bubbles on the surface are an attempt to hide a certain cloudiness below, even from herself.

For few months she has not acknowledged problems, she has surrounded herself with people that don't discuss important things with her or challenge her opinion, at all.  There have been massive family issues that we've all been trying the cope with and she just won't talk, just cuts the conversation off or leaves the room or cries so that we are forced to change the subject.  So much burying.

It didn't come to any good, avoiding things.  She had a panic attack at work, thought she was having some kind of seizure and now she can't stop shaking.  I know there is a clawing in the pit of her stomach, night and day, and the fear will not give her a moment's peace.  That is how it works, the fear: the feeling that she has lost control and can't see a way out of the void.



Time up.
Inspiration: I forgot to post this yesterday.  So this is my instalment for yesterday.  I hoped to capture the idea that bottling up problems is not good and the effect it can have on the mind.

The Cabin

This is my favourite place.  It is my home.  I bought it and I helped make it.  Many people think that this is a poor substitute for a real house or flat.  they come and admire it and comment on how quaint it is but, they go home and ask their husbands or wives how anyone could live in such a tiny place. They don't realise how lucky i feel to be here.  it may be cold in winter; I have to put on jumpers in the evening and a few winters back I even went to bed in a hat for a few freezing nights.  In the summer it can get boiling hot and stifling until you throw open the door and the double windows and the fresh breeze wanders through the house.

Yes, it might seem like a doll's house to many but I don't mind.  It fits me and there is no space wasted.  There is no guest room and I have to climb up a ladder to get to my own bed at night but this to me is joy, not deprivation.  I walk out on warm evenings feeling the grass underfoot and watch the midges dancing in the air.  I rest my back against the front door and feel the caress of the sun on my face.  

I watch the apple tree turn from bare, to blossom, to fruit and then watch as it weeps it's brown leaves to the ground.  I watch the blackbirds feasting on the fallers; pitted with disease and harbouring some maggots but such richness is still encased in those rosy orbs.

When I am at home, I feel that I can do or be anything I want and although the house is animate I can almost hear it's breath synchronised to mine.


Time up.
Inspiration:  I'm really rushed tonight I have loads of work to do so I wrote about a special place to me and this is the easiest one I've done.

Dormant

The North wind blew.  It blew so hard that the dew froze on the leaves of the trees making them like lace.  It froze the water on the stream at the edges leaving only a turgid and slothful movement in the centre.  It quieted the tiny song birds in the trees who were now intent only on finding enough food to see them through the day and night to come.  It whipped across the faces of people desperate enough to venture outside like razor blades until they scurried back into the warmth of their homes, shriven. It threw crows like missiles through the grey, bleakness of the sky.  It was a day to be dormant.



Time up.
Inspiration: none tonight.  I just needed to write and that's what came out. Clearly not as much as usual. 

Chekhov's Gun

Ellis wasn't an unattractive kid, he was just awkward and quiet.  Like so many teenagers, he spent too much time thinking, his black thoughts turning inwards, constantly tormenting himself over trivial inadequacies.  As a consequence, he was sullen and avoided the other students at school as much as possible.  All apart from one.  She was a golden girl, popular and beautiful but gentle and 

open, completely the opposite of himself: Jessica.  It was as if she existed for him in a permanent halo.  When she walked past, along the buzzing corridor, his gaze, although covert, devoured every single fragment of her.  He had been watching her like this for years and he was exhausted by the hollowness of his adoration.  He needed recognition.  He felt compelled to make some sort of connexion, he didn't care how small, he just wanted her to notice him, to witness in his eyes the awe in which he held her.  Ultimately, he wanted her to love him like he did her. 

He hadn't planned it exactly but he took his chance.  As she walked past on her pilgrimage to class, he allowed his books to tumble from his hand.  They slid like a wave breaking at her feet.  She looked at him and down at the floor, looked back, cocked her eyebrow at him, without the the hint of the gentle smile she used so readily for others, nearly everyone, he thought, and walked on. 

Time up.

Inspiration:  from The Write Practice, they suggest: Practice foreshadowing by writing a scene, early in the first act of a story, and slip in Chekhov’s gun. Don’t fire it yet.  Just make it present somehow.

Beautiful People

Vincent Peters Photography

"Oh, God, yeah, completely.  I know exactly what you mean."

"He really gets it, you know?  He really capture what's going on in the mind.  You know?"

"Oh, yeah, totally.  He really gets that." Christina had completely forgotten who or what they were talking about.  It didn't matter though, she'd worked with Javier on a couple of shoots now and he was always the same: completely focused on himself and the jobs he'd been on, who he'd worked with and for, and how he really wanted to break into acting.  Reflecting on the echoes of his last sentence she concluded that he must have been speaking about a photographer but she couldn't remember which one.

She was so unbelievably bored.  She was hungry too and the stench of the cigarettes they'd been using as props had started to turn her stomach.  It felt like the tar was permeating her every pore.  Her neck was sore from the ridiculously hackneyed position she'd been asked to hold, a rip-off of the 1950s Hollywood publicity shots - done a million times before - and she was freezing cold.  What was worse, Javier, the self-centred idiot, didn't seem to notice or mind the inconveniences of the shoot, he just kept on taking regardless.  She really just wanted to yell at him to shut up but satisfied herself with the mental image of stubbing the lit end of her cigarette out in his eye.



Time up.
Inspiration:  The photo.  I wanted to image an interaction from a given image and imagine what was going on beneath the gloss.

The Desperate Man

                        
'Tempt not a desperate man'

With a mind quivering like the tender leaves of the birch in a spring gale, he writhes there in his agony.  She cannot be his.  She will not be his.  He will never possess her.  His dreams and fantasies, tender and dramatic, domestic and passionate, that have supported his body and soul for so long, have been ripped away.  A huge cavern has appeared at his feet and now his mind turns to the temptation of flinging himself into the abyss.  His expressions of longing, of the justice of his claim over her, of the deep connexion that he could never break, now or ever, are as useless to her as the empty leaves of the memoir next to the corpse.

He cannot conceive the future, he flings his mind to the past, reliving the promises made and given, the two souls entwining to become one.  His incredulity that is was possible for one soul to break free from the commixture of the two.  How could it be possible that her vision of their future could possibly differ from his?

Who would he spend eternity with now?




Time Up.
Inspiration:  I saw this picture and the title reminded me of Romeo.  Naturally, it made me wonder why a man might become desperate and, like Romeo, my mind lead its way to love.

Change

There is a change coming, I can feel it.  It is the lightness off the air, the glow that lingers a fraction longer in the darkening sky.  Perhaps it started with the song of the robin in the hedge.  Perhaps it started when I felt suddenly overburdened with the layers of clothing I wore for the ritual Sunday walk.  I feel sure, though, that it was some internal kind of clock.  The same one that tells us when it is time to wake or sleep; the same that tells us that something is not quite as it should be and we need to be on our guard; the same that tells us that we have found someone that will make our life more comfortable than it has every been before.

Change is not always for the good, but more often than not it is.  In any case, we can't stop it, not this change, being in the hands of Nature and this change is always for the better, long anticipated and wished for, longed for, in fact, and when it starts to arrive it is like a deep sigh, a knowingness that everything will be alright. 



Time up.
Inspiration: was a bit lacking tonight.  I just wrote about how I felt about the change of the season.

Clock watching

Do you ever have that feeling that the clock beating inside you is permanently telling you that you're late for something? Well, that's me. Right now.

My skin is alive to every sensation but heightened to a ridiculous degree. Sounds, especially are abhorrent; loud sounds unbearable.  If there was a door that opened into my body you wouldn't find pulsing red organs, oh no.  There would be a sheen of metal and the black ooze of the oil needed to drive cogs, which would be grinding away relentlessly like some Victorian treadmill.

If my mind were personified it would resemble some snarling beast backed into a corner, froth hanging in ribbons from its yellow fangs, one front paw poised in front of it's body as defence or leaverage for it's next pounce.  The one thing that can barely be seen in the eyes of the creature there, muscles taught like spun steel, is not the rage but the fear.


Time up.
Inspiration: the anger at obliging myself to write every day.  I'm stressed and angry. I don't want to write this but I want to keep my promise to myself.