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The Salad Snub Is Not Avenged

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A sunny day, when I am required to be under a roof. Several sneaks outside, to plug myself into the summery buzz, admiring details in the cotton-tail clouds because I have my prescription sunglasses on. They aren’t quite so clever to take to the cinema but we sit close to the screen and 3D launches whizzy machines even closer. We love wearing our plastic glasses. I love peeking behind me and everyone is wearing the same glasses. Mr and Boy chomp chocolates and sweets. I am crunching up a bag of rocket and a punnet of cherry tomatoes. ‘It will catch on,’ I insist; they are not at all convinced about the cinema salad bar future. Flying robot suits; they prefer that future. Not mutually exclusive: just greatly varying in degrees of enthusiasm.  Dry sky and clear views all the drive home. Before the film, we sit at a pavement table with drinks; fizzy stuff for the lads, espresso for the lady. Polished pedicures swish past in fashionable sandals. It occurs to me that some of these pe

Gracious Acceptance Post

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    A blogging award? For me? Teresa Cypher, thank you very much! I visit Teresa’s blog for a unique blend of science fiction and country life, always uplifting and educational. (Witches Jelly was one of my favourites.) http://dreamersloversandstarvoyagers.blogspot.co.uk In accordance with Kreativ blogger rules, accepting this award includes:  Firstly: Thanking the blogger who nominated me for the award and providing a link back to their blog. Done! Secondly: Listing 7 things about myself that the readers might find interesting. Easy, I thought, I am always doing ridiculous things… only to find rascally thoughts scattering and slippery… These are the things I grabbed hold of- 1. I have punched a seagull. 2. I married Mr in a disused slate mine. 3. Have recovered from a milk phobia. I still don’t like it, but the screaming has stopped. 4. Have seen a fox doing a bright purple poo. (They eat berries.) 5. Had to complain to my landlord more than once abo

Irrepressible

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Boy, exploring ruins, expressing a spirit of irrepressibility Today it has been my fantastical whimsy to deliberately not notice any ordinary miracle moments at all. Dog and me walk the fields, and do throw ball stuff, bag up a poo. Ignore clouds. Even when Mr notes that they are formed over the moors ‘in lines, like the lines of a poem.’ He doesn’t know why I am not rushing to ogle. This is exactly the sort of thing I love to ogle. My parents drop by for cups of tea and a lesson in re-potting the wilty vine. Nearly get drawn into how beautiful the view is. The rolling panoramic sculpture of the moorland peaks… Quick, cast my eyes to the crumbling house. Think of my bank balance… Mr cooks bolognaise. There is hot water for the bath. There is espresso. I sit outside to start a new illustration, in the sun, and the clouds billow away like sails at a tall ship race.

Old Tree's Last Dance

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Wednesday evening:   On the drive out, to Plymouth via Tavistock, fat mist rolls over the moor. Twists of bacchanalian gorse are waiting for the dark. The dark takes its time. On the drive back, to Launceston via Callington; the colours are concentrated, not consumed. The mist has lingered. The wet road reflects. Everything blends, like Monet has painted this evening for us. At the road edge, wistful leafage deepens slowly to silhouette. Night is here; tremulous trees breathe night air.  Trees are different creatures by night. Thursday morning:   Boy reports, on his looking from the window to survey the likely pattern of the day’s weather, that a tree has fallen across the lane. An elderly damson, I think, on closer inspection, as it has crumbled, not fallen. The wood disintegrates in my fingers, soft as the flat grey air, flaking like pastry. Mix it all up, says my playful imagination, bake a damson pie. In the debris, I find a nest, small enough to decorate the im

Museum Of Curiosity

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Showered, scrubbed, sat, fully dressed, in bed because the house is cold and from here I have a pleasing vista of leafy trees and sheep dots on field squares. Moorland squats under mist. The window has rain freckles. I hear a car rumble on the lane. Mr returns from his town errands, and he has bought a picnic basket in a charity shop. ‘Another bit of clutter,’ he apologises. I look up at my family heirloom stuffed Red Squirrel, and decide I’d better not worry about it. Picnics are fun, even an indoor picnic on a day that rains. It is difficult to pack food in a basket without being mindful of the intention to share and enjoy. I don’t know why I like Squirrel so much though. Probably because he is so odd, he provokes a quizzical mindset, even when I am used to him being there. And he reminds me of this: Once upon a time there was such a place as ‘Mr Potter’s Museum of Curiosities,’ a collection of objects including locally retrieved mummified cats, seventeen kittens drowned and stu

Egocentricity

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Yesterday, it rained. It was warm enough to have the windows open, though, and sit listening to the rain while my hair dried in untended waves and I finally finished the picture of the fly and the furnace fire. Exactly half way through the list of illustrations now. Never want to draw another picture ever again. My position and my sentiments being at odds, I get dressed in a reasonably civilised fashion and walk up into the town. If I were to stroll into town in pyjamas and Wellington boots, or a fairy costume, or painted green, and I were to meet a friend, they would say, ‘Oh, hello, haven’t seen you out for a while; clouds look dicey don’t they?’ No mention of my outfit, because they wouldn’t be surprised. I am a practicing eccentric. The clouds are colossal, an upside down canyon with a gleaming sky river. The town is little and lined with granite, made up of a mix of building styles, some so old and wobbly they have no straight lines to them at all. Some of the paving slabs

Split Sky Morning

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The world through the curtains is a grey cloud world. But I’m awake, so I will climb into my Wellington boots and take Dog to the fields, because I love Dog, under any sky.  I am watching her leap the five bar gate, watching the spray as she skids through dew heavy grass, I am thinking, let’s take the lower path this morning and check the Longwools aren’t caught in any bramble thickets. I watch my footing on the slippy wide bladed grass, down to the sloppy mud under the holly tree. Only then do I look up. Vast clouds fill the right hand side of the firmament; what is left, is clearly uncluttered blue. Last night’s fire in the grate means that there is today hot water waiting in the tank, my chatty little brain tells me, so it is entirely possible to indulge in a bath and then sit outside to dry my hair in sunshine. And if the cloud presses in, it was still a beautiful thought. 

Wooden Windows

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Boarded up houses are obvious mysteries, no less fascinating for it, even if you know the reason why the boards are up and the people are out. We pass a couple, on the way out to Bude; one a casualty of the recession, one a fatality by fire. And then there’s one occupied house, a nice looking house with a tidy garden, which for some months has had one boarded first storey window. That is curious. Maybe it’s because we live in a curious town. I have just read an article about creativity, suggesting that an aimless walk is a viable way to invoke ingenious reverie. I think, I should go on a town hike, it’s about time I stretched my words beyond the farm and the sky. Engaging with limited initial subject matter brings strong discipline to my imagination, but for balance everything must be varied. But for now, it’s Sunday evening and the fire is lit. Mr has fallen asleep on the sofa, hands in loose fists on his lap, feet planted one shoulder’s width apart. Dog is curled in

Composed, on Saturday

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

Friday Noir

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

The Day That Wasn't Hot

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

First Days Of May

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

This One Flame

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Here is a poem born of last night's tired scribbling (compulsive behaviour) and this morning's rejuvenation of coffee. It almost jumped out, after a very short-seeming gestation. I wrote it before I really understood what I was communicating here. As I have been venturing into the blogosphere, I have been boggled by the number of people; talented, communicative, interesting; all out there, all with something valid to say, hoping to be noticed, and it seems impossible that one can be noticed, because each of us is only one life of approximately seven billion currently inhabiting the earth, and if you add in the tangible memories, the books and the paintings and the films and the scrolls, that previous occupants have left us to ponder- boom- your head will explode. It may not be infinite, but it makes me feel rather insignificant. But then I also find, once my ego has been flattened by the vastness, there is something liberating in accepting that insignificance. I have only t

A-Z Challenge Reflections: a quickie post!

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

Z: Ziljan (and the symbols of authentic inspiration)

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  The Wishbone Alphabet – an experiment, of course, with attitude, life and the eponymous soup. I’m not totally against material possessions, just meaningless stuff we clutter our selves and spaces with. Some things can be the physical representations of ideals, like achieving the highest standard of musical expression (I'm merely a listener, picked Ziljan for the symbol/cymbal pun, shame on me, but then again, this is the end of the A-Z Challenge, I’m allowed to play.) My best symbol is my dragonfly, which is tattooed on my left shoulder and therefore unlikely to get cleared out. It represents the ability to transform oneself, and since I have used it correctly (smug but true) it has become a powerful prompt in my life. I like tattoos but I only have the one, because so far it’s all I’ve needed. I have pondered other designs, such as a periwinkle shell, a tiny home for a creature that survives the fiercest storms, but my dragonfly doesn’t seem to need any company.

Sunday Under The Petal Bombs

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Cherry blossom is plucked, whirled and mostly glued to my car by clumsy rain splats. Everywhere is petal polka dots. The wind is dizzy. The sky, choked up with phlegmy cloud. Cat runs in before the door has finished opening. She looks for her food bowl like a hypoglycaemic. Dog runs out, flinging her tongue to one side. Her ears and my hair catch a blast of cold air, blow obstructively to vision. Dog is not slowed down, she leaps the gate as I am fixing my hood toggles. Under the waterproofs I am still dressed in pyjamas, I am pre-coffee, pre-breakfast, haven’t even washed my face. Some instinct has propelled me out here, into the storm of blossom. This weather is set in. For a month, Farmer Landlord says. He brought rat poison, because they won’t get in the traps. I’m not sentimental about it, exactly, but I wish they had opted for a swifter death. It came to poison last time too, and one lay dead beyond reach in the roof space over the brewing kitchen. No one forgets a smell like

Y: You Don't Have To Be Miserable To Be Serious!

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The Wishbone Alphabet – an experiment, of course, with attitude, life and the eponymous soup. This is one of my favourite quotes, attributed to Eric Morecombe, light entertainer, who wore thick rim dark rectangular glasses just like my Dad’s. Often I have incurred displeasure for not seeming at all studiously glum, and have had cause to flaunt this piece of wisdom. E.g. ‘Sorry, that was an awfully short and self centred post, but it did have a sincere sense of fun with an important underlying message. You don’t have to be miserable to be serious!’

X: Kyocha Sogi

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The Wishbone Alphabet – an experiment, of course, with attitude, life and the eponymous soup. I haven’t written much about my martial art on this blog, not for a shortness of zeal or an absence of the obsession which if you are or you know a martial artist will be excruciatingly familiar. If you do know: I practice pre-ITF Tae Kwon Do, as espoused by Major General Hoi Hung Hi’s 1983 manual. And if you don’t, don’t worry, I am not completely oblivious to the glazed eyes, there will only be a short technical description, followed by an observation of equal brevity. Kyocha Sogi, or in English, X stance Cross one foot over or behind the other, touching the ground slightly with the ball of the foot. Body weight rests on the stationary foot. It’s a short stance, the feet being placed close, under the body. There is something irrepressibly funky about this stance. Baby uses it whilst tackling her toy box, which suggests a fundamentally

W: Wishbone Soup

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The Wishbone Alphabet – an experiment, of course, with attitude, life and the eponymous soup. This is a re-post of my first ever blogged communication. It is a bit cheaty to repeat; in this instance, I am not inclined to care. It relates to a time when I lived in an even wonkier, colder, damper house, but with much less agricultural clutter. “ It's a real soup. It's also a state of mind, which, if by cure we mean 'make better,' does cure everything.  To explain, here's a brief autobiographical tale. Once upon a time there was a wonky cottage with two tiny open fires and an impressive collection of cold damp draughts. There was no telephone, no internet, TV reception depended on the weather, and whether they could afford the electric bill. Living in the cottage was a growing family with a shrinking budget. When the gas bottle ran out they cooked on the fire. It was impossibly picturesque, so don't feel sorry for them, and most weeks

V: Vietnamese Weasel

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The Wishbone Alphabet – an experiment, of course, with attitude, life and the eponymous soup. Specific moments of deliberate enjoyment can be embodied in a scrumptiously eye popping cup of coffee. Still love a splash of Java Sumatra, and Guatemalan Elephant, but since the discovery of Vietnamese Weasel, Va Va Voom! The aroma of it sends me… back to my honeymoon (explaining the big love hit) back through history; into a place of hot fascination, a place that steps with me, out of time, into the construction of a personal mythology. Specific moments of deliberate enjoyment can perk up everything, even if you wake up too early. My decision is to make coffee And sit, watching the colours Change, outside; the pink Underbelly of mackerel cloud Somewhere in the fridge is a tin Of coffee. This week we are drinking Vietnamese Weasel. I picture the sacks Of beans on the quayside in a monsoon wind Maybe this started as a practical joke But whoever ground up the beans from The weasel’s p