A Small Life

Arriving at the mall. The human race carrying on its everyday existence. The real world. As I have stubbornly perceived it. Forced to ask the question: Is the world outside my small life, the real world? Is my life negated by its smallness? Its overwhelmingly tedious routine. Quite suddenly, a quiet voice: Your small life is the real world. With all its warts and boils and bunnions. The tedium and routine and frustration. The real world encompasses every life. Be it large or small. Off, now, on somewhat of a tangent, I remember the words I wrote. Barely two years ago:

The degree to which I am physically dependent grows progressively. There is a corresponding increase in the bouts of despair I experience. Yet, as if to defy all sensibility, there is also a corresponding measure of significant personal expansion. Could I have achieved this personal development without the physical parallel? I would like to shout a resounding Yes! to that question but, in truth, I fear the answer may in fact be no. That is particularly hard to acknowledge. It adds insult to injury. It challenges both my deepest longings to be free from physical shackles and the import I attribute to such freedom.

The Softness

getting by heart
the softness;
dear skin
imprinted on the stuff
of memory


2001

Catching The Tail

One of those days when the mind stretches into the far reaches of that space that wavers somewhere between the conscious and the unconscious. A place where definition is flimsy. A breeding ground for private revelation. Catching by the tail things previously glimpsed but fleetingly, with peripheral vision. And then, continuing to hold on. Or not.

(Painting by Michael Smither 1971)

The Perfect Day For. . . . .

A cold, wet, blustery day. Perfect for sitting in an ancient old armchair. Close to a blazing fire. A cup of good strong coffee resting on the wide, flat armrest. A book in hand. Perhaps Maurice Gee's Going West. Or Kingsolver's Animal Dreams.
Maybe a game of two-handed 500. A glass of port each. Good natured rivalry. The same blazing fire, of course. Ciabatta and kalamata olives to satisfy any pre-lunch peckishness.
Or, how about this: Fire. Taking companionable turns at reading aloud to each other. A bottle apiece. Monteith's Pilsner to wet the tongue and smooth delivery. Might be a Roald Dahl short story. Like Pig. Or Parson's Pleasure. Something with a little black twist at the end.
Or, perhaps a hot bath. The extra long, extra deep cast iron variety. Full to just below the overflow hole. Hot tap slowly adding a continuous stream of steamy water. Van Morrison on the stereo.
Alternatively, the bathtub might be outside. Heated by a wood fire. A plank of wood in the bottom (to avoid burns). The fire maintaining a deliciously steady heat. Only one's head exposed as rain pours from the sky.

Infinitely More Valuable

Waiting for you to arrive. Anticipating a weekend spent with a long-time friend. A comfortableness developed over years. Indescribeable, without falling into meaningless platitudes. It is what it is. Infinitely more valuable than any flash-in-the-pan experience. No matter how intense and pleasurable.

Not Through The Wardrobe, Like Lucy

I've been here before. Many times. Not through the wardrobe, like Lucy. Instead, through the pages of a book. First introduced to Narnia in my teens. With absolute pleasure. Read, re-read and re-read. Today I'm back there once more. This time via the BBC. The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. Nothing's changed. So many of CS Lewis' lines faithfully portrayed. Almost thirty years on I find I still remember them. And am transported back.

Sticky Fingers

Something....hmm...wonderful about a nineteen year old daughter asking for a my era album for her birthday. The Rolling Stones. Sticky Fingers. On CD now though. Of course. Minus the actual zip (or is my memory playing tricks?) My nostalgia. Her new experience. I like it.