Just Be You

Someone I respect has been encouraging me to just be myself, which is very empowering, to use an over-worked, but nontheless, stimulating phrase.

So, I've been kind of exploring this idea in a typically circumlocutory, tentative, exploratory way, because, even after reaching the advanced age of 58, I'm not quite sure who " myself " is.

And, I say " kind of " because, although I'm not American, I've started to use that phrase more and more, partly due to reading American tweets on twitter, but also because I imagine it reflects my uncertainty succinctly.

I'm not sure about anything at all for many reasons.

I know that you will understand this point of view, even if you are more sure.

To be sure means to be fixed and I want to be fluid.

To be sure means that you have an idea of what truth really is and if I have one fundamental belief, it is probably that truth is an ever-shifting notion that we must constantly pursue and never catch up with.

So, I've been tentatively trying to be myself, which entails a certain amount of trial and error. And recently, I've been thinking about clothes.

Clothes are tricky things. I could probably, along with everyone else, write a fat tome about clothes I have worn, clothes I haven't worn and clothes I wish I'd bought or items of clothing I've lost. These would all tell various stories about us, maybe portray little snapshots of us at significant points of our lives, all of which might serve as small building blocks in the picture of what we might be like now, at this point in time.

I've bought some new clothes and even tried wearing some of my daughter's clothes that she put out for the charity bag. Some of these I have kept. I'm beginning to look like my inner bag lady some days, if that's not too derogatory a phrase for a woman who lives on the street. I have some lovely going-out clothes now and, apart from being a tad too big since I seem to have lost weight recently, I do actually resemble an eighties version of myself sometimes which is nice because I remember feeling quite happy with myself in that era.

I'm a bit of a horder, so although I like to give things away, there are just some odd things I can't bear to part with.

For example:

Each time I come across my wellies, my heart kind of melts.

I've had them since I was 15. They're black, one size or maybe just a half size too small for me now in my post-child bearing, past mid-life female form, but I still cram my feet into them when I need them and they are still quintessentially me.

I bought these wellies because my boyfriend at the time told me to. He was an interesting person, into  fishing and woodworking and other things I thought were nice when I was 15. I'd been fishing with him a few times. My Dad was an avid fisherman and I think I might have borrowed one of his rods. I didn't really want to catch a fish. I just liked the romance of the activity. This boyfriend, let's call him Wyn, was a true outdoorsman. He loved nothing better than to sit, in all weathers, on the bank of our local canal under a huge umbrella and fix his gaze on the float. He also thought it his duty to walk the canal towpath regularly to check for things thrown in the water that might poison the fish. He seemed to love fish. He had a keepnet, but I dont remember him using it. He didn't catch a fish often, but if he did he would handle it very carefully and skillfully, removing the hook from its mouth gently so as to not damage it, inspect it closely, then plop it back in the water.

When Wyn invited me to go night fishing, I was very excited. He advised me to get some good wellies and even told me where to buy them and so I did. They were expensive and I didn't have much spare cash at the time. I had a Saturday job at Littlewoods, a department store in Shopping City, but since working there, my Dad had stopped giving me pocket money and most of my wages went on going to see bands in Liverpool and Manchester.

So, I can remember being a little reluctant to spend a lot of money on wellies. They're made by Dunlop. Black, proper wellies that don't come up to your knees, and it's therefore not surprising that 43 years later, their linings are blackened by water and snow coming in over their tops.

I got the wellies and went night fishing. I don't remember catching fish, but I do remember the moon being bright and lighting the way and the water on the canal. I remember the metallic tang of the cheap beer we brought and drank from the can. I remember the fine rain and the dampening dew of the earliest morning and the smell and shuffling sound of our Belstaffs.

We didn't talk much at all. I had to listen to instruction because otherwise it would have been either dangerous or fruitless. Canals are potentially hazardous places and fish have good ears apparently.

So we spent the night together sitting near, but not next to each other.

We didn't think it brought us romantically together. We didn't talk about our shared experience or passion or communicating without talking if we ever referred to it afterwards. We didn't even kiss, except, as I remember, a little peck goodbye as our ways home parted and I went down the hill and he went off up another.

It was just night fishing.

We got engaged eventually.

Then we split up.

And I've still got the wellies.

Along with a couple of other beautiful things he made in wood.

I sometimes look at them and think, yes, they really do reflect a part of who I was and who I am still.

Perhaps I should just shove my feet into these wellies whenever I'm wondering just who am I.

Precipitation

Rain,

Snow,

Sleet,

dew,

a casting down

( of the evil angels from Heaven),

The separation of a solid substance

from a solution,

in alchemy.


Act of falling

headlong.

Unwise

haste.

Rash rapidity.

Friday Phrase

Each child born,

So fragile, yet,

The will to live within so strong.

Not all are nurtured,

They struggle to survive;

HANDLE WITH CARE

Female

We're not supposed to voice our differences,             ( Medusa's shadow is cast upon the wall behind                
                                                                                      us)
For fear of fixing each other in stone;                          as we exchange our gifts;

          those ideas and dreams that we struggle to transform into living, pulsing, moving entities,

All the time fearing their fragility,                                Worrying that they might fragment,

Their potential for being disfigured,                              Into rigidity.



The female power,                                                      The power that is female,

An energy we have labelled,                                       The imagined thing we feel we have identified,

All that it is,                                                                All that it is,

Which remains hidden deep,                                       Within the labyrinth,

It's transforming fire,                                                   Forever flickering,

Perpetual light,                                                            Through perpetual night.



             So here we stand together, shifting shadows on the wall of the cave,

And here is the fire,                                                    And here is my gift,

                                              
                      Feel its weight                     Feel its lightness


                                It leaves a space within me

                                Carry it with you forevermore

A Woman's Gift

We're not supposed to voice our differences,

For fear of fixing each other in stone;

Medusa's shadow is cast upon the wall behind us

as we exchange our gifts;

those ideas and dreams

that we struggle to transform into

living, pulsing, moving entities,

All the time fearing their fragility,

Worrying that they might fragment,

or be disfigured into rigidity.


The female power,

The power that is female,

An energy we have labelled,

Imagining we have identified

All that it is,

Remains hidden deep,

Within the labyrinth,

It's transforming fire

Perpetual light,

Forever flickering,

Through perpetual night.


So here we stand together,

Shifting shadows

on the wall of the cave,

And here is the fire.

And here is my gift.

Feel its weight,

Feel its lightness.

It leaves a space within me,

Carry it with you ever more.

Out of time - a twitter Haiku

Walking alongside,

watching your moves,

feeling like Ginger,

but looking like Harpo.

Out of step.

Out   of
 time.


Success in failure.

Me in a Hat

Picture this; I’m leaning across a pile of clothes in a boutique,

feeling the brim of a hat.  A middle-aged lady, out of place

though not caring,  

so thrilled by the appearance  

in actuality

the re-appearance,

of a hat.

Look again.

I’m on the cusp of old age

I’m familiar with these things

Styles come and go

and come again.

They’re usually in different materials, 

which adds to the effect that

this is not real.

Style as an affectation

It’s an illusion

But this hat,

with its black, slightly wavy brim, silk ridged ribbon round its crown

is the same hat

made of the same soft felt.

Hat incarnate

that I wore throughout my early teens

which collided with the early seventies

(a sepia-toned time when Laura Ashley was queen.

May she rest in peace)

Transported,

I felt its felt 

and thought about the time I travelled

on the train with my friend in the day

to dirty Manchester in the rain.

Me in that hat.

We arrived in the pub

Incongruous in our precarious

Silly elegance

Our two lads so sheepish and cocky in their scruffy best.

I kept looking across to the spartan houses 

with their small high windows,

and their dearth of gardens,

(we were wealthy in gardens),

then across to the drinking men,

mainly men, in the middle of the 

Saturday on the outskirts of grainy Manchester.

We were young, in love with life

A rich tapestry we were told,

To keep us going.

I am nearly old now, 

but I still

get a thrill

out of wearing that hat,

in my garden,

or, occasionally,

On a Saturday,
And usually

in the rain. 

If I ever get a tattoo

If I ever get a tattoo,

It would be the symbol of a heart,

Cut in two,

An empty outline,

Drawn in red,

Or maybe blue,

Divided in half,

One for each shoulder.

Yes, you felt it coming;

Two teardrops,

To remind me of you.

Trilogy - Encounter No2

No. 2  Resolution of a kind

Some time later. Maybe a year. Stella will sit in the designated waiting area, watching people and trying not to look as if she is. A young woman will park her bicycle outside, come through the double glass doors and sit down opposite her with one leg under, then take out a book. Stella will discretely study her and think that she looks posh. There are certain clues to indicate this. A smart shortish dress with blue stripes, short, chic haircut will be the main ones. These, along with the bicycle which she will have noted has a basket on the front. Stella will wonder about the bike. Is it common to ride bikes round here ? Like Cambridge ? The girl will start chatting to one of the girls on the reception desk. Stella will wonder why she has come into this place since it is currently being used for interviewing prospective students. It is obvious that she is already a student or employee at the university by the way she knows the girl on the reception desk. She will wonder if she's going to take over her job at some point.

The relentless drone of the video advertising the success of the university will annoy Stella to the point of her nearly going outside for a break, but she will resist, knowing that her daughter will notice if she leaves and this may unsettle her.

Her daughter will be involved in an interview. It will be conducted in an open, group session far down at the other end of the room and Stella will be able to watch how the lady with the very short grey hair looks up admiringly at her daughter who is much taller than the lady and she will notice how the lady looks particularly at the delicate expanding tattoo style choker that her daughter will have put around her neck for the occasion.

Then, a couple will come noisily through the double doors, struggling with a large portfolio, several files and a giant unidentifiable structure made out of what will appear to be paper mache and chicken wire. Stella will presume this is a piece of art that one of them has created and she will think, disparagingly and unkindly, that it looks hideous. She will watch as they wrestle with it all and they try to explain their business to the friendly and courteous receptionist. Stella will decide that the female is about 17 and the bloke about 30 odd. Stella will take in the dishevelled shoulder length badly dyed pink hair, tight drain pipe jeans, old pumps and revealing skimpy top of the young woman. She will notice and raise an eyebrow at the way the bloke keeps running his hand up and down the girl's back, side and bottom and how he keeps chipping in and interrupting when the young woman tries to answer the receptionist's questions. She will also take note of the fact that the young woman doesn't seem to care about these two facts, which will be indicated by the way she keeps nodding and smiling at the bloke.

While all this is taking place, a huddle of young people will shuffle out through some kind of exit barrier which is situated at the opposite end of the interview section and seems to be the entrance to the college facilities. They will all be dressed in an interesting and arty way and will be laughing and talking to each other confidently as they move through the waiting area together and leave through the glass entrance doors. Stella will think how affluent and posh they all look and sound, despite their apparent scruffiness and will sigh a little sigh to herself. As a wave of anxiety washes over her, she will take a surreptitious side-long glance at the interview end of the room to see if she can still see her daughter. She will have to scan around, however, before she will find her now sitting at a round table with some other young people, apparently taking part in a discussion. Her expression will be pleasant and smiling, but Stella will know that she feels intimidated by this situation and another wave of anxiety will wash over her.

The young woman opposite will get up suddenly and, stuffing her book into her little leather backpack, rush out of the exit doors, smiling a brief farewell to her friend on reception. Stella will see her through the glass doors, rapidly unlocking her bike and wheeling it quickly across the road in the same direction as the group of young people. The bloke's voice suddenly will then draw her attention back as he fires questions at the receptionist about some course that the girl he is with seems to be applying for. She will strain her ears to try to understand the situation being described and although she knows her imagination and prejudices are filling in the gaps, she will deduce that the young girl is trying to get onto a course that she is not really qualified for and that the bloke accompanying her thinks he can assist by being bullish and pushy. Stella will see the receptionist ask them to take a seat and then she will go through a door located in the wall behind Stella and be gone for some time, leaving the reception desk unattended.

Stella will scan the end of the room again to see how her daughter looks. She will catch her smiling and nodding as someone else speaks and then laughing at some remark another person makes. Stella will wonder if her daughter is really as relaxed as she looks and will decide to ask her as few questions as possible afterwards. Slightly to the right and over the other side of the waiting area, Stella will catch sight of the couple kissing and manhandling each other as they wait for the return of the secretary. Stella's stomach will churn in response to this.

Some few minutes later, the secretary will emerge from the room behind her and go towards the canoodling couple. Simultaneously, the group interview session that Stella's daughter is involved in will end and the students will stand, draw back their chairs and move back towards the interview area where they will have laid all their art work out at the beginning of the interview some half an hour ago. Stella will watch as her daughter, still listening to another student who is looking up at her and talking, shifts her tall frame elegantly as they negotiate the obstacle course that is composed of chairs and tables. Out of the corner of her right eye, Stella will notice the girl return to her reception desk and the bloke get up after kissing his girl. She will not have any difficulty hearing his booming voice explain to the receptionist that he has to leave now to attend an interview himself for a job in the area and will leave through the glass doors, waving at his girl who will now be hunched over herself, chewing her thumb nail. Stella's stomach will churn once more at the sight of this.

After some indiscernible amount of time, Stella will see her daughter walking rapidly towards her, carrying her portfolio and the carrier bag full of sketchbooks. She will wear what Stella will recognise as a frozen smile on her face and Stella's stomach will churn for the umpteenth time. Stella will rise and hold her hand out as if to take the bag of sketchbooks from her daughter, but her daughter will say no it's ok she can manage and will lead the way out through the glass doors, barely stopping to say a brief thank you to the girl on reception.

Stella will follow suit and have to almost run to catch up with her daughter as she makes her rapid exit and heads off across the street, hardly looking for oncoming traffic. Once by her side, Stella will look side-long up at her daughter's face and see the tears welling in her eyes. Come on, get me out of here, her daughter will say quietly and, Stella recognises, with suppressed anger.

These things take time to anatomise. As a parent you learn not to pry or to react too quickly. Well if you don't, you'll never get to understand anything at all. During the 180 mile drive home, Stella will talk about everything in the world except the interview. Her daughter will remain quiet and look out at the passing relentless monotony of the East Anglian countryside as they drive along the only road out of Norwich which is the endless A47. By the time they get to Sheffield, she might start talking about how posh and intimidating she found the woman who interviewed her. Stella will remember how admiringly the woman had gazed up at her tall and elegant daughter, but, of course, won't reveal this memory to her daughter. And so the gradual unravelling of experience in parallel will unfold on the long journey home.

Trilogy - Encounter no 3

No. 3  Go. Never return, though you will live in my memory forever

Just over thirty years ago to this day, Stella had been happily cooking in their second floor flat. She was alone, listening to loud music, enjoying trying out a new recipe. The banging on the door interrupted her calm. It was dark and she wasn't expecting anyone and the banging was a bit louder than you'd expect, but she felt relaxed and thought maybe she hadn't heard them knock the first time over the music. The shadow looked tall through the glass in the door. Who can this be she wondered as she opened the door wide to find his fist poised to knock again. He lowered it slowly as she appeared in front of him. His lingering gaze took her in from her toes to her hair. She drew back slowly, closing the door slightly. " Can I help you ? " It was, of course, utterly the wrong thing to say. He looked at her lazily. After a long pause he responded in a deep, heavily accented drawl : " Is Raoul in ? " Relieved she can answer; " No-one of that name lives here. We moved in a few months ago. " He was still looking her up and down. He was wearing a shabby suit. The kind you'd find in a second hand shop. A bright yellow and red shirt under. His beard extended to his chest and his dreads were thick and slightly grey and caught up high on the back of his head. She couldn't see his eyes properly behind his thin blue tinted specs. She suddenly wished she wasn't barefoot for some reason. " Benny ? " He tries.  He's not going to move. " No, just me and my boyfriend, sorry. " She closed the door as quickly as would seem polite, but he remained standing there.

As she walked back into the kitchen, he knocked again, quietly this time. She hesitated for some moments, then, drawing herself up, ready to spell it out to him, turned and opened the door, this time only a crack. There was no-one there so she opened it a little wider to check.  He leaned in slowly, his back peeling off the wall, his face looming towards her. He was wearing some kind of top hat now. Startled, she leapt backwards and slammed the door.

She retreated to the back of the hall, watching his shadow through the glass. Her heart beat strongly, but she felt ready. His shadow moved away and she moved into the kitchen, cautiously. She went to the window and drew the blind slowly, watching for his silhouette behind the curtain. It was pitch black outside on account of the light being broken. She went into the front room to turn the music down and then back into the kitchen and started to cook again, cautiously. All her senses were on high alert.

When the thumping started, she began to feel fear rising in her throat. What to do ?  Shaking, she turned the cooker off and the light in the kitchen, then went into the front room. There was no other way out but the front door and she knew it wouldn't hold if he wanted to break it down. Surely though, he wouldn't be that mad. It might be that he just didn't really understand her. His English might not be good. His accent was thick. She knew she was making excuses and picked up the phone. The thumping remained steady and dull. Who should she call ? Her boyfriend was in another city recording and probably unaccessible. She decided to call her friend. For moral support and advice. The ringing sounded as if it was echoing in an empty room and it went on forever. Time stretched. She began to feel dizzy with fear. It sounded as if he was going to try to kick the door in now. Panic stricken, she thumped on the wall to try to get her neighbour's attention " Boo ! Boo ! Help me !". The sound of her own panic-stricken voice shouting help intensified her fear. She shouted again, then decided to try to pull herself together and work out a plan.

She sat down and rang the police. The police station was within sight of the flat. They could send someone quickly. The person at the other end of the phone was maddeningly calm and slow. They wanted detailed information. Was it a boyfriend was the question that struck fear in her heart. By then, she could hear the door juddering in response to each kick. The police think it's "a domestic". They're not going to come. She puts the phone down mid conversation and decides to ring the studio anyway. Her voice is shaking and becoming hysterical as she leaves a message on reception. The girl is concerned, asks her if she's rung the police. She decides to ring them again, but not before trying to raise Boo again. She wishes they had a phone next door. She gets a pan and hammers loudly with it " Boo ! Boo! Come round I need your help ! " Pausing to listen, she realises the banging has stopped. Edging towards the door, she thinks she can hear voices. Plucking up the courage to go and peep at the front door, she sees two shadows behind the glass now and hears the low murmuring of a discussion. Suddenly, the letter flap flips up and Boo's voice calls through " It's ok. I'm here now. Open up " She nearly cries with relief, but the adrenalin's still pumping. Still holding the pan, she cautiously opens the door.

He's stood there, next to Boo, looking seven foot tall in that bizarre top hat thing, grinning at her, maybe maliciously, maybe mockingly. Boo's girl friend, in her pyjamas, is standing in the doorway of their flat, looking serious. Stella marches past Boo, rage replacing fear now and, brandishing the pan at him, lets loose a tirade that comes from somewhere deep within her and his face takes on a look of astonishment. He may not understand her stream of consciousness diatribe, but her wrath is evident.

After she's emptied her pit of rage, she looks him directly in the eye. "Go" she commands, pointing in the direction of the stairs. He remains. "Go ! " I've called the police and they'll be here soon. Suddenly, she doesn't want him to be here if they do turn up. Boo and his girlfriend are looking at her, bemused, but perhaps also with approval.

Eventually, he saunters off with a nonchalant swagger, pauses at the top of the stairs and turns to raise his hand to her ; " You one angry lady. Seems like you could kill someone. Look out for yourself ". Then he trots lightly off down the stairs.

Stella slowly drops the arm brandishing the pan. She turns to Boo and says, her voice full of bewilderment " What the hell was he doing ? What did he want ". Boo is studying her face closely. After some time, he replies " He wanted you of course. He wants you. "

Trilogy - Encounter no 1

No. 1  I speak, you rise and turn to me.



 "Sorry ! ," she quickly pulls her umbrella up and away from his face. He, rising to his full height, looks her straight in the eyes. First in her left eye, then in her right. She's wearing her new spectacles with their dark thin red metal frames. They make her eyes look quite small but they seem to draw people into them. He smiles. Like dawn breaking. "That's ok. They're dangerous those things, " he speaks, nodding towards the umbrella. She blushes slightly and pulls the thing away to the side, folding it deftly down.
"I don't need it. It's stopped raining. " He continues to look at her. Quite brazen really. She gestures to the shop window he's been squatting in front of before she nearly knocked his eye out ; " I love this shop. " She doesn't really, but it diverts his gaze. It's a small shop. Charity shop. Its window is always absolutely crammed with the strangest array of things, some of them so tiny and apparently insignificant that she wonders how people would be bothered to collect them up and bring them here. Like that tiny pottery rabbit. So small it wouldn't even stand up. Such a mysterious little thing to have made and bought and taken the trouble to bring here to be re-sold to someone else. The kind of thing Ella would have been utterly enchanted with as a child and begged her to buy.

"Yeah. He's a good guy, Dennis. He does some good stuff." He turns to look in the window also. She looks up at the name of the shop " People's friend ". Not very clear what the charity is in aid of from that. She hasn't noticed before. Looking back at him as he peers in at the vast hoard of knick knacks, boxed games, oddly sized glasses, old shoes, drab dresses, crocheted baby clothes, garish soft toys, china tea set, two vases, one clear glass, one green glazed pottery, and lots and lots of books, she wonders at his interest. There doesn't seem to be much there for him, except maybe the books. There were sometimes records in there.

" I always pop in when I come to the library." He nods towards the big seventies composite stone and glass building opposite.   She spent so much time in there when the kids were little.   And before.  She hasn't been in for a few years now.  It's a bit noisy and the books didn't seem to be as well looked after as they used to be.   That last time, she'd been looking for an art book and had found a whole row in complete disarray, crammed in any old how, some pages turned back as they'd been shoved roughly in-between each other. It had really upset her. " I come once a week to deliver some sample books to Howard. The head librarian. " He's staring at her again. She thinks to test her reaction this time.

She thinks she knows what she looks like. She can see a vague reflection of herself in the shop window. Her long black coat, flat black suede boots and the bright blue pashmina scarf that her friend gave her from China, rippled and dim amongst the bric-a-brac. Her hair's looking slightly unruly today. She hasn't been able to straighten it so it's almost triangular shaped. The specs are quite distinctive. A nice shape. She feels demure, quiet, but not too austere. He stands out in his bright red waterproof. The kind you'd wear on a stiff hike. Khaki coloured cargo trousers, stout boots, also as if he was going walking and those black dreads, falling over his shoulders. She isn't going to ask him why or what his job is. That's not something she ever does. " I used to take my kids in there all the time," she says, in stead. He looks at her left hand, holding the folded umbrella. Is he actually looking to see if she's married ?! What age is he ? Surely not her age. Although her age is a bit difficult to determine she likes to think, her clothes kind of give it away. " Oh ! do you have kids ? " He's mocking her slightly now. She hasn't worn a wedding ring since she lost it. She stares blankly at him. Is his eye twinkling as he says " I've got a daughter. She lives with me. She's going to move out soon though to go to college ." The relief. A safe topic. " Really ? What's she going to study ? " she replies, just a tad too quickly. Again, that look. He has a way of lifting his chin. He's quite a bit taller than her. His demeanour is proud. His gaze open and direct. " Sports psychology. She's very ambitious. And smart." At a loss, she replies with her standard, clipped, polite " That's interesting." Then, somewhat stupidly; " she's into sport then ?". By now, he's openly grinning. " Yes....." he laughs " She is into sports. High jump mainly. But she wants to be a sports psychologist and make a lot of money. She's got her head screwed on the right way." By now, she thinks she'd like to escape, except not really. "How about yours ?" She searches around in her brain for some words to make some semblance of sense with ; " I have a daughter too, she's in sixth form. My son finished his degree last year and came back home. "   "What did he study ? "    " English. English literature. "  His eyebrows rise and his mouth forms the O of a whistle. " Heavy. Heavy stuff. What's he doing now ?"  " Not a lot. Reading more.  Thinking.  Wondering what to do next. " He tilts his face a little. Looks her more closely in the eye but from a different angle. She's hardly blinked since they began their conversation, and now she's totally locked into his gaze.  " He wants to get out of his room. Don't let him stay in his room. It gets harder and harder to get out. I know what it's like ,",  he says, suddenly speaking with a distinctly Jamaican lilt. It sounds soothing. Caring. Fatherly. She smiles weakly back at him, the corners of her mouth turning upwards more naturally than they've done for months and months. "Yes. You're absolutely right. He should. " He extends his hand to her. " Benjamin Thompson." She takes it. He folds his fingers around hers with a warm and gentle grasp. Her hand is cool and thin inside it. " Stella Robinson " she replies. He pauses a moment to take it in, then; " Very pleased to meet you Stella Robinson ." Their hands, lingering, part, and, slightly dazed, Stella waves her pale, slender hand vaguely towards the library " I may see you again sometime ". She can't say his name. His broad, brightening smile again. " Oh you will. I know we'll meet again Stella Robinson". He raises his hand. She hesitates, thinking he's going to high five her, but doesn't make the reciprocal move. Then suddenly he's off, turning on his heel and striding down the road, hand held up with his back to her.

She turns back to the bus stop, glancing over at the library, then down the road again after him, searching for his red coat amongst the drab crowd.

Dicho tomy

                                                    Dicho                                                               tomy

                                                    two parts                                                       cutting



                                                                      The beautiful mystery

                                                                       that leads to growth.

                                                                      A division of parts;


                               branching                                   and                                            branching.



                               The one that cannot be                                                                  the other,

                                                                            or part of it.

                              The essential nature                                                                           of life.


                              Not Yin Yang,                                                                   more the moon in

                              its first quarter,                                                              then its third quarter.


                             The one that                         complements                                       the other.

                             The dance of a couple                                                  where neither touches.

                             The one place here                                                     and the other one there.

                             The never the twain                                                                shall ever meet.

                               Unless the universe reveals its other laws to us and growth takes on

                                          an                                                                               other



                                                                                 p
                             a                                                  t                                                                   t
e                                                                               r                                                                               n

Not what we do. The power of no thing.

The what we choose not to do.

The torn up shreds,

Emptied like confetti.

The erased image that leaves a shadow.

The thinking about

And the forgetting

The remembering

Then the putting aside.




The thought                                                                                                            The action



The choosing                                                                                                        The action/non action



The intention                                                                                                        The consequence



The thought                                                                                                         The non-action



Void                                                                                                                     Void

Another Picture

I am a camera,

You are the screen.

I project and

reflect upon you.



Imagine 2 pictures,

propped against some attic wall,

our images changing

in this hidden room.



I want to take 2 canvases,

and each with one brush,

take turns to paint our images;

respond to each other's strokes.


Show me what you see.

Reflect upon me.

We can share each others' vision,

Become each others' screen.


Imagine the hidden pictures

transforming as we work.

An evolving parallel,

only accessed in our minds.

Honey thoughts out loud.

Watching a bee lazily drifting today.

It settles on the tiniest lavender flowers,

I read they're attracted to blue,

though lavender is it's own colour.

Pondering if the power of its scent

has also drawn the bee to it's nectar.

Smells are very compelling;

sometimes more than the look of something.


Wonder where its hive is.

Humming the sound of purposeful activity there.

Is there honeycomb within.

Some people don't like honey.

Its texture and intense sweetness with it's own

particular flavour underlying it,

depending on where the bees have been,

requires open-minded taste,

like wine, or olive oil, or water.



Come to think;

everything we eat or drink has the essence

of it's origin within its taste.

Sometimes its more perceptible,

than others.

Sometimes it takes a lot of practice,

to discern it.

Perhaps the produce from the polylectic bees,

has a more complex, delicate taste,

than the intense flavours gathered,

by the oligoleges.


Whatever sort, however beautiful,

and delicious,

Vegans won't touch it.

Others who think about the way it's made won't either.

Coming from an insect's bottom is possibly

a bit off-putting,


if you let it be.



But the purposeful wandering of the bee,

attracted to flowers,

snuggling into snapdragons,

roaming over the moorland heather,

luxuriating in the masses of red campion

along the hedgerows,

loving the aquilegia;

(if they waken early),

and the buddleias that tower absurdly

high in gardens and out of walls,

gracing wasteland,

alongside the graceful nettles;

butterfly nurseries;

(even they have their flowers)

is a magical thing.



Bees have been revered

even worshipped,


justifiably,


since humans discovered their honey.



Up in the trees,

different types of bees,

drawn to apple and cherry blossom,

alder and blackthorn flowers,

even the hollies,

and the ubiquitous sycamore

hold nectar and pollen,

precious and nutritious

to bees and so, by proxy,

to us.


The honey made from the bees

whose work is to pollinate Manuka trees,

is surely the most prized and expensive honey

of all,

and said to have antibiotic and healing properties.

Slathered on wounds,

it keeps the germs at bay.


Thinking of soldiers,

clutching honey-spread bandages.

Did that ever happen?

Or was honey too fine a thing

to be found on a battlefield.  


We watched the Baka people waiting

for the honey gatherer.

Shinning up the tall straight trunk

of an enormous tree to reach

the bees' nest with his smoking torch.

Such skill and bravery,

to risk one's life,

in pursuit of the prize of honey.

The others, waiting anxiously,

excitedly at the foot of the tree.

My small daughter, watching

the film with me, gasping

as some bees, not made sleepy

by the smoke,  bombard the gatherer,

who calmly wafts at them with the torch.



How she wanted to live like them.

Me too. Fishing and cultivating plantains,

and singing and waiting for the honey.

Just once a year.

Gorging on the comb.

Beautiful golden treat.



The wealth of bees,

their gathered gold,

how we steal it,

to rectify our ills.

Heal our souls even.

Maybe they make it especially for us.

A body's heart's ease,

for time everlasting.

Poesy

What is a poem ?

A rising confluence ?

A boiling spot where

emotions and ideas

meet and spill over into

imagination's flood

to form a mesh of words

shored against 

the backdrop wall

of the mind's eye?



Or possibly a bunch of gathered thoughts,

Scooped up as you walked along 

for days and days,

The hedgerows thronging with them.

You come back in to sit,

The quiet of the kitchen pungent

with the abundant bunches which

tumble and scatter in your attempt

to put them down.



There they lie, 

Itinerant discordants,

Jostling for position,

Bedraggled things,

That you fumble to arrange

in some loose knit way.




Write a list before

you write it down ;

- Bath mats

(for your grown-up child),

plus other things you'd like to buy

to prop her up because

you feel she cannot exist upright

without you.


(How quaint.

How funny.

When she's wondering how

to make you feel ok

about her absence

on her birthday ) .



Now turn the paper over

and compose,

This poem;

Some words to prop me up,

To make me feel an 

adult on the occasion of

my daughters' 20th birthday.



A poem as crutch,

As wondering,

And thinking about.

As proxy,

and love itself,

Words to quell,

To soothe,

To expiate,

To visualise.

A list of things,

A kind of spell,

That makes a posy

for a birthday.

Clearing up

You go in and the telly's on;

but nobody watching.

Go through to the kitchen -

know you'll find him there,

Making tea;

Or in the garden through the window:


It's the mess that's left behind that

causes the most distress,

but it's not a mess, it's not a mess,

And I don't mind, I don't mind.


Someone's dug your roses up

and the greenhouse has gone.

It's a lot to keep up,

Things must move on.

But your tomatoes,

And those beautiful melons,

So ripe and suggestive

in their cut off tights to hold 

them up they were so heavy.


We loved your curly cucumbers.

You tried so hard to keep them straight,

But they were unruly in their

waywardness. A bit like me.


I'm sorry. I'm so sorry,

For all the unresolved loveliness,

Such an abundance of beauty

in everything surrounding me

that is here now,

And in dreams and memory.


A surfeit, sometimes a doubling,

Nowhere specific for it all

to go ; the spaces

we leave behind must

be filled with another thing,

Old things be put aside,

Or they will stuff our cupboards,

Cram our minds.

Fill us up too much.


Over time,

Places will empty,

And fill again,

A tide of some sort,

Washing things up then,

Taking them away again,

But always,

Traces of history,

All of its facets,

Ghosts of experience,

 Will remain.

A discussion between 2 cylinders

Close your critical eye;

Listen and use every other faculty.

Disregard the illusion of progress,

Of individuality parading in succession,

As if Duchamp's nude was in fact

descending into our space.


Consider though that

Maybe she might just join us,

Take a walk,

An extended hike if we ask.


But where would we come

to rest ?

Even Alan Bennett has

no armchair.


Perhaps our perambulations

could take a turn

around the drum and return

to the space within,

Each of us cramming ourself in,

And altering the original image.


And maybe a diversionary visit

to a boutique could be navigated

en route, the bride redressed,

Returning from the other side

of the large glass.

We would make a nice group.

Dichotomy

We stand as two.

There is always two.

Parallel things,

Where wholes divided.


Everything is divisible.

All things are parting,

Other wholes blossoming

From this division of parts.


Here is one thing,

There stands another.

Above is the water.

Beneath are the stars.


Stand before the mirror

and contemplate the other.

There is space that's not void,

Here is change as we look.


Transitions, transferences,

Mutations growing

from borrowed parts.

Mirrored emergences.


Turn to the side,

Scan all around,

From North to the South,

From East to the West.


Be still and look closely.

Things are evolving,

All things dividing.

Infinity unfolds.

Future Woman

I'm going to create a utopian future idea for my elderly self. This is to counteract and 

hopefully cancel out the possibility of the recurring vision that keeps surfacing of me as a 

vagrant, a bag lady, if you'll excuse the expression. This vague, hazy picture of myself

wandering around a bleak, rainy city in several layers of filthy clothes, a battered old hat, 

worn down, ill-fitting boots, pushing a shopping trolly bearing my collection of rubbish in old 

plastic bags started to form itself on the backdrop of my mind when arriving in  

Manchester many years ago and, walking across Piccadilly, I passed a lady who was just 

that. 

I remember her that way, but I may have elaborated on some of the details because 

memory's like that. The original lady who inspired the image was, I think, well known in 

Manchester, but I think I've mixed her up with other characters such as Mrs Tachyon in 

Terry Pratchetts' story Johnny and the Bomb and the lady feeding the birds in Mary Poppins 

for example. 


Except my old lady definitely does not have a time-travelling trolley. She is totally vagrant 

and absorbed in her own world with its processes. These are very time-consuming and 

complicated; esoteric and important and they must be done outside on the urban street.

Each time this image crops up, I try to modify it. I imagine she has a cosy little terraced 

house to go to each night, with a cat and a friendly neighbour to look in on her. But no, like 

one of those imposing, invasive visual edits, this image is rapidly swept aside to reveal the 

awful scene of a grubby wooden shelter somewhere, with gaps in its roof and a filthy floor 

and a bench where she lies, precariously balanced, with the trolly full of debris 

dragged beside her for some sort of flimsy protection. It will be stolen by young, 

heartless thugs now and then, raided for it's bizarre detritus, swung around and played with 

until, becoming boring, it is smashed to the ground, leaving her angry and raving at them 

with her frail fists.

So I must rescue her from this bad situation. It really isn't sustainable at her age. The rituals 

she is performing can be done elsewhere with equal effect.

I put her in a garden. It's a walled garden in Spring. I love crumbling Cheshire brick. There 

are apricots and apples and pears growing against it, Roman fashion. An avenue of Cherry 

blossom along the gravel paths that divide the different beds. It's all been divided up like a 

knot garden. From above you could see the intricacy of it's design. As she wanders along 

the labyrinthine paths, it has the atmosphere of a maze, but without dead ends and with 

vistas. As she pauses next to a bed bordered by lavender, just showing its new tips, she 

looks across to the open circle in the wall which is a window on the fields surrounding the 

garden. Somewhere in those fields is a large field where people camp. Other fields have 

crops growing in them. The campers tend the crops. Turning to face the opposite direction, 

there is a door in the wall. It's slightly ajar and you can just glimpse the path leading up to 

the house. It's a large old farmhouse with lots of bedrooms and an annexe. Visitors come 

and go. They share the cooking, shopping, cleaning etc. It's a place people come to on 

retreat. There's a room lined with bookshelves, another compact with records, a computer 

with hordes of music to access and a good sound system. The middle of the floor is clear 

for dancing and it's lined with sofas. There are headphones in case you prefer that way of 

listening. 

The annexe has a rehearsal space for musicians with a recording studio. It also has a 

couple of very light rooms for making art. One has printing equipment in it.

It's all run as a co-op. It belongs to everyone. I don't know who the members are or how

the guests and visitors get to know about it. I don't know what the racial, sex or age mix is,

but this is a much better future for my future self so I won't question it too closely.



There she is, she's forking over a bed ready to plant something. Someone's coming through 

the gate bringing two cups of tea. She looks to be about the same age as my future woman 

and as she sets the cups down on a table which joins two wooden chairs together, she 

beckons my future woman to join her. Oh, actually, it was a tray she brought and there's a 

plate with cake on it too. 

Future woman, smiling broadly, sticks her long handled fork in the loamy soil, takes off her 

gloves and comes forward to join her, throwing the gloves into the shopping trolly which 

is parked on the path. Sitting down, she sips the tea, takes a piece of light golden sponge 

and, looking out at the perfect order of the beautiful kitchen garden, says "you came 

then" and the two women turn to each other and laugh.