northern faerie tales

talamh

2010-11-04T13:53:00.000-07:00

threadbare flowery armchairs
dustbins of rice, wheat
and rows of vegetables
patiently waiting to be eaten.

two soggy dogs;
one frantic, one arthritic,
and two wild wee children
with open imaginations.

little jack liked to hit
me on the head with his lego lid,
and roisin requested story after story,
until my narrative powers were exhausted.

there was one smiling, sweet-singing
expert wood-chopper, one hippy-fawn
housefather, with tail-like locks of knots
creeping down to the floor.

one artist, an apocolypitic-zine-creator,
one mother nature ... one father nature.
one liverpudlian lovely, ex-dancing
kundalini yoga, i ching enthusiast.

it breathes and creeks,
sowing seeds of active social change
for fifteen hours a week
(it's in the agreement that is!)

i learned to dig up potatoes
without breaking the skin
and fell in love with the yellow
buds of the courgette plant.

we drank fresh cammomile and peppermint
but no cows came home to a vegetarian household.
pulled weeds from strangling beds
of endless veg,

and when i needed a red onion for tea,
someone said "i'll just go get one from the garden, ey..."
surrounded by aged hippies, anarchists and activists,
folk from into the wild with nicknames like 'digger'.

i felt whole stinking of wet mud and wood smoke,
watching children play wearing only sparkly waistcoats!
whilst we picked wild strawberries,
her doll snatched white clouds from the sky
and used them for brainpower,

in this place pigeons learned to talk
so that they could join the circus,
and marigold the orange monkey
was in a fable with colour envy.

like cups of tea, much can be harmonised
by scottish raspberries, toasted oats and honey!

the battle of boredom

2010-10-17T06:36:00.000-07:00

"the life of the creative man is lead,
directed and controlled
by boredom. avoiding boredom
is one of our most important purposes"

saul steinberg

most times i just sit with my boredom,

side by side, palm in palm, cross-legged,
meditative in all weathers, and feel at peace.
but then there's moments when i'm off-guard
and caught short, you know those times?
times when your hectic schedule
sheds even you and leaves you behind to resort
to wishing that life was just a little bit
more fraught with conflict, because variety
is the spice of it, right?
and since it's widely known to fly
i find we frantically fill time
with the debris of life.
i've clung to slipstream antics,
i've swum like a chinook salmon
with the vast majority of the population
amongst the hurry of my current affairs,
whilst my creative lifeblood
bobbed fin-less and endangered.

yet in subsequent explorations and extractions
from the boredom compound, i discovered
that a timeless awareness can be found.
it only happens if you can open yourself up,
and adventure with a heart and eyes that can see
the manifold diversity, the options and beauty of possiblity.
can you wake up wonder-ful with the world
every day and go with a happy heart to wherever you need to be?
earn your daily crust doing what you love?
i'm talking the daily practice of protest dancing
in my case, reading books in my dad's, perchance.
it could be professional walking in my stepdad's
and ironically i think it's writing poems in my mum's.

in this state people are different - focused,
immune to the room surrounding them,
keeping eyes steady on pieces or feet,
realising the importance of
every move they make, and somehow intent:
as we all should be more often in life.
there we're unblinking, on a different level:
not escaping in drinking, drugs or addiction to
fallible notions of love.

it was then that i realised
that even doing what you love
gives rise to daily deaths,
the pain/pleasure opposition
and it's adrenaline.
any extreme sports enthusiast,
back-street-smackhead, domestic extremist or
religious fanatic can tell you that.

the human desire for escape
wears a vast array of well-worn capes,
and yet everything that glitters
isn't always gold, so we're told.
still, i love to live with my incessant inward
request for festivals, dimethyltriptamine,
revolutionary times, witches, wizards, hobgoblins
and other tomfoolery, cause somewhere over the rainbow
i've heard velvet-satin-rose-lovers swear
that pastel-coloured light beings make daisy chains
out of dark chocolate!

no-one wants the everyday,
so we sniff blank haze into breathing spaces,
fill voids with white light to feel heady delight
for a moment please. and a moment becomes a minute
and a minute a lifetime but what is time anyway?
the mysteries of the universe engage me
and cosmic pondering keeps me occupied with that one.

but some days i take an alternate tack,
eat banana after banana,
overdose on the dalai lama,
preach the daily practice of pranayama
and goodwill to all men, women and children!
on those days i'm walking, not on earth or air or feet
but replete with love!
and some days i still search, relentless,
for the astral plane.
my dance with boredom has many names.
i say i want to live in natural time,
spend days in silence to clear my mind,
i even contemplate fasting, but unfortunately
never last much past midday!

some battle boredom with valiant charity
and work for the community;
another line of enquiry i
have tried from time to time.
because i'll have a go at each space,
every race, every pastime, hobby
or passion that's a passing fashion.
i've had interests coming out of my arse
for so long i identified with these words in shantaram,
"interested in everything but committed to nothing".

perhaps it's my age, flittering and fluttering like a
twenty-something butterfly. or maybe it's rage,
old rage turned into bored days, never surprised
by the money-grubby, tv-dumbing age i find myself in.
talk of finding ourselves is grim but makes me grin,
have we lost legs? toes? souls or a long lost twin?
it suggests a search for identity, meaning,
or more often, freedom. like the bluebells,
it floats away and we find ourselves amongst
waifs and strays, values kicked to the kerb,
nerves frayed by years
of searching for something -
but what was the question?

sometimes i request if i will please permit
myself to reject the big questions outright.
computer says no, like, philosophical thoughts spout
from my oesophagus unrequested
and sometimes i need a break.
so i'll take a break, but no kit kat thanks
(in fact, i'll have a yellow plum that smells of mud,
but you feel free, you see if you can feel free
whilst you nestle chocolate fingers
up your corporate bum, if you do so wish...)

no i'll never sit around, get fat on apathy
and boredom, but won't starve myself
for kicks and the media's mirror either.
i won't intoxicate my sacred self
but i will sometimes, because to deny
myself pleasure only delays it!
i'll let it come bubble up in cauldrons
commemorating the long-dead witches
of the women-hunt.

there are some thoughts i've dropped
and blocked for good, thank god.
my battle is now a dilly dally,
a pally little prancy dance with laughs most days,
'cause as my mum always said,
'only boring people say they're bored'.

i'll have fun. i'll have bucketloads of what i love
'cos a bit of what you fancy does you good,
but i'll always try to balance it with acts of kindness.
i'll stare down the abyss and dive in with my arms open.
i'll do whatever i need to feel free in my lifelong
battle: peace versus boredom.

dimethyltryptamine

2010-09-13T03:49:00.000-07:00

psychic raptures of half-closed holographic patterns
speak a silent theory of silver energy.

swirling light-beings touch and twirl, playfully unfurl
the soft-shaded mysteries of the universe.

an empty inner sky glitters before closed eyes, through
the window of my dream-state drift living sparks.

a smile of such peace creeps in and captures my face,
and it is my face but all the others besides.

it's the face of la que sabe (the one who knows), the divine mother,
the sons, the brothers, the sun's beams and earth's child.

the face of a million expressions directs their souls here
as their tranquility envelops and eases me.

i'm reluctant to open my eyes, but some ten seconds
or a lifetime later - BOOM (click),

i'm back in the room;
everything's different but almost the same.

el rio abajo rio

2010-09-13T03:40:00.000-07:00

some sink there,
foaming, frothing,
betrothed to the beauty
so that the waking state
is bare as exposed bone.

some retreat there,
gasping, enraptured,
betrothed to their paradise found
so that the morning can only ever
be dead as colourless stone.

some disbelieve there,
rotting, scoffing,
betrothed to their reality
so that their every breath
gasps as an illness moans.

some simply see there,
appreciate, engergize,
betrothed to nothing,
so that their luz de la vida,
ever-present to infinity shines.

istan, andalucia

2010-09-11T10:37:00.000-07:00

tiny white hillside dwellings, poised at altitude,
as though - like parachutes, they might take off.

their inhabitants periodically shed skin,
as cork trees, and reveal raw, red flesh.

i imagine them sitting at rest, eating bitter,
black balls submerged in jars of sea,

sharing bottles of wine where bits of
those same trees reveal raw, red

and the sound of flamenco music.
as i walk, i ponder the arid dust

and musk of these red hills,
think of istan as a place of wanderlust.

shiva nataraj

2010-08-26T03:20:00.000-07:00

(the goddess whose cosmic dance sustains the universe).

she holds the elements in her fingertips
there live creatures of the deep
in the moon's glow of her stomach.

she sees eyes in trees and green
reflected in the night sky
as pastel light-beings of energy .

she feels the saline ocean at her core
the mountains above are her lungs
her limbs are no more.

she is tangled beautifully in branches
as hips swing in the breeze
her essence in nature is freed.

her skin is made of the sand
and the sand is the stars
she feels each glisten on water.

a hair on her neck is a blade of grass
she holds snail-ears to the earth
and listens, listens, listens.

if we had never left

2010-08-24T04:31:00.000-07:00

If we had but never left this room
how much would not exist to us.

If we had scarcely space or time
what would such beauty mean to us?

What love could we feel but
for one and another?

What skies but stark white,
sunrise of yellow light?

Without earth to feel between toes
we would have only the wiles of tiles,

extracted and manufactured,
in our minds like the birds and the bees.

There nails on cotton sheets
reverberate in silent souls.

If we had but never left this room
this is all that we would know.

nature-lover

2010-08-04T16:40:00.000-07:00

bridleway veins, the path to his heart
lips are bowed like humble ploughs
my stomach full of love rumbles.

hilly cheekbones synchronise
form green-brown contours
beside peat-bog eyes.

grassy hair is overgrown
at home in the wilderness;
a kinked, not hostile environment.

brown-bowl eyes are shining earth,
sun reflected in mud, and a small
archipelago of muscle at the elbow.

it's the shape of a kidney bean.
two dots, 'x' marks the spot
underneath each bog.

but where are the fault lines?
i suspect they lie with the land,
just short of blood ties.

he came to me from the forest
with firefly eyes so deep to hold
a cup of my moonflower-love.

more owl eyes, woodland creature
life. are they a conduit?
contradiction or compass point?

he will forage in the forest
flying into flurries of firewood
and food. i will indulge,

smother myself in scottish
strawberries and soil, learn the
practical skills of co-operative toil.

see his sharp shins, see his
tender thighs, oh! see me sigh!
he has orange leaves for eyes

and a purple swirl at the
stomach. his mind crackles,
each brittle leaf an idea,

cherished but rejected in the end.
blobs of autumn mustard
scatter energies in every direction.

we have the sensation
of those leaves, caught on
a crisp, woody breeze.

he came to me from the forest,
lucky for us we're both
tangled in branches.

off with her head!

2010-08-04T16:16:00.001-07:00

how many women have wished
worse tortures upon their sisters?
many more men besides,
from aescetic aeldred to henry 8th,
elfin beauty punshed by death.
severing, he strung the holy head
of halifax to the yew tree. fastened
by it's own shining tresses, he fashioned
a warning to mother shipton's. the
witch-hunt, or should i say woman-hunt?

the 'they' complex

2010-08-03T06:53:00.000-07:00

in my hometown, there is
a vertiginous green finger
which swears at foreigners
as they arrive.

the locals once dubbed it
'the tower of spite'
and it seems that they are
still quite right.

it was of course, fine,
when migrants were
shipped in - but only
for the night shift, love.

now the bnp are on
the rise, and
it's not quite right
'poor hometown plight'!
that 'they' have got all the jobs.

the daily grind

2010-08-03T06:50:00.000-07:00

in this room they all sit
clucking in cliques,
repeating the same shit
week after week.

someone's nicked my cup again!
as if the world might end,
and time after time,
they refuse you a smile.

they clutch misery to their chests
like textbooks,
the young ones are
actually the worst.

still twisted up by teenage tantrum
and bitchy comments,
which are a bit rich, to be honest,
coming from them.

from school to the staff room
and some stay here forever,
it's particularly painful today.

i sit in my windowless room,
the artificial light like 'cynthia',
reminds of the first artificial form of life,
created in america last night.

yet even here, i feel energy like
moving music, bubbling, rising,
effervescent as the fields, the hills
and the sunshine outside.

i might just go and do a sundance,
sticking two fingers up through the window
and smiling at everyone in sight!

a tragedy this morning

2010-08-03T06:43:00.000-07:00

basking in the warm blast of my hairdryer, i observed her,

peacefully buzzing, juddering, low-flying.

i smiled from a happy heart, 'this space is equally yours',

i thought, proud of my own generosity.

i would not have fought to rid the room of you, small creature.

i would not flee; a fearful, irrational human.

i felt love for you from this pantheist heart i have,

before i went back to the warm blast of my routine.

i was disturbed by the sound. an electric-sizzle,

a juddering, low deathly buzz, sinister in it's similarity.

i was immobilised for a (dramatic pause) moment,

before i flicked the switch. in silence, listened to her twitch.

i hurled an expletive at the god of small things.

i was torn in two - to before and after almost certain death!

i witnessed a tragedy this morning. whilst i was yawning

her brain was flicking switches, off, one at a time.

i decided to stand back, at least until i had to leave for work.

i said a little prayer for her that she would fly again, took

a look at her resting place - shocked to find a brother or sister there.

i said a little prayer for them for the third time lucky.

as i basked in the warm blast of my hairdryer once more,

i observed my thoughts on this incident.

i worried that this would set my day off on the wrong foot(!)

along with bad hair days and getting out of bed on the wrong side.

hot air swiftly blew away my sadness and i almost forgot entirely.

until the noise again ... bzzzzz bzz bzzzz bzzz bzzz.

she was ever more juddering in her rumbling bumble!

i gave a round of applause for this miracle,

and went back to my hairdryer.

festival-love

2010-08-03T06:26:00.000-07:00

can be found in the 70% cocoa, dark chocolate
that we ate with magic mushrooms yesterday.
it's in the prisms and patterns of kaleidsoscopic
colour that we splatter with mud for extra effect.
it can be found in the satisfyingly round, spiral sounds
as we contemplate science in frantic ecstasy.

epiphany, anyone?! entangled particles describe
our hearts and we were all created from stardust!

it's there in the dancing and panting,
the prancing with earth between exultant toes
as there we stand, foot to foot with those
toes we love. shrunken amongst tall trees
and mingled sweat, never regretting
the sweet scent of you and i.

the joy of three days without washing,
and i still 'see' you, as though for the first time.
the sleep in our eyes crystallising,
our mud warrior stripes;
my dirty knickers are in a twist for you, as ever.
your mischievous eyes are fireflies in the festival night,

reflecting light displays of enchanted forests, more eyes,
grass-green seas and purple skies.
like plain paper, morning rain washes
away the excess of yesterday.
i can't say i feel fresh as such,
but you are the freshness.

no matter what playful concoction i ingest with you,
i never lose my grip on the space-time continuum.
"have you seen a bunch of old hippies
in 3D glasses mate?" he's obviously trippin',
but i wonder why we bother - wide-eyed
with love as i am, anchored by alice in wonderland.

small, decorative objects

2010-08-03T06:07:00.000-07:00

I have an unhealthy obsession
with small, decorative objects.
Quirky, artistic; with patterns
intrinsically pleasing to the eye.
They extract a pleasant sigh.

Such superfluous items worry me.
I'd like to survive on only what I need?
Images of children with distended
bellies rat-a-tat-tat in my head,
knocking on the guilty door,

I know it is not the desire for
a fat car, cigars or Beluga caviar,
but my addiction holds it own vanity.
Disparity is debatable, always.

It's the box the cigars came in,
made into a bag.
It's the girl smiling in sepia,
from the hood of a classic car,
in an antique photograph.

I don't know her. She's no relation
besides the quaint sisterhood of
my love learned from books on
compassion. I liked the way
the light fell on her 40's pin curl,
was appreciative of the sly curve of her lips,
her promising hips, all fashioned in
a cupid's bow.

I have so many small objects,
trinkets; I am a secret delinquent.
A collector of detail professing
simplicity, simultaneously
hoarding a trove.

how to be an old-school consumer

2010-08-03T05:57:00.000-07:00

pick each item up,
shake it, stretch it, test it.
hold it up to the light
check for holes or stains
and extort a discount
on force of pain.
let the shop assistant tut,
sigh, roll eyes to the sky,
or maybe she'll cluck -
proud of the display of
bargaining skills, which she
had thought lost.
at all times barter!
hark back to a world with
-out tills and microchips,
when coffers were filled
proffering goods or services
direct. buy only secondhand,
but not just vintage ladies!
get stuck in to rooting,
searching and looting,
not that i'm suggesting theft
(well, maybe from tesco's!)
steer clear of banks
as much as you can,
avoid the mobile phone,
and watch only re-runs of
very old programmes.
be at home in your own
old clothes and those of others.

sports and social club

2010-07-18T04:42:00.000-07:00

the union jack flaps in the sunday breeze,
it's threadbare and almost transparent.
next door, the roof is lower than the rest
and 'this building has 24 hour CCTV'.
it's a private club - members only,
and the members are smokers.
fag ends float in brown foam,
preferring the drain to the ashtray.
it houses the three-fold joy of quiz, bingo
and races on thursday nights.
it's here you'll find the disco,
and live sport on the big screen.
an escapee blinks his way out
wearing a t-shirt: 'if found, return to bar'.
he asks 'what're you doing, love?'
and i chance a truthful answer.
'there's nowt creative to be found
in there', he snorts,
as he steps inside the house next door.

still life at tan hill

2010-07-18T04:33:00.000-07:00

just after sunrise, in the sticky sweetness of a tent for two.
there'll be no need for an umberella this weekend.

the remanants of a fire; burnt carrot coals cooled to ash
and smouldering with memory.

memories of kinks of ink black hair and careful caresses,
of drinking cammomile tea with the stars,

these two seekers of secrets and lovers of solitude;
settled, for a weekend in wilderness.

surrounding green envelops, an ampitheatre for peace
and new love. there are only the bleats of sheep for company

and the landscape is bleak, and beautiful, but never, ever twee.

harvelin park, stoodley pike

2010-07-18T04:24:00.000-07:00

would this stone-finger waggle if it could?
residing as it does atop lumps and bumps
that cry out to be discovered, covered
in boot-clad feet, made for walking in bogs.

the standing statues magnificent,
juxtaposed with the tractor-hum
at seven pm on a sunday evening;
stillness and movement is simultaneous.

there's an aged house here on the hill,
where he peeled damp,
flowery wallpaper as a child,
found expletives hurled at the walls.

who would scatter swear-words
at the inanimate?
take the time to inscribe
them in fat black pen?

in the shadow, stansfield view.
cold coats and white cells
quarantined madness,
but when was it catching?

such black histories lodged in the hillside.
the toy-town homes are sore in the
twilight sun, such man-made creations
unwelcome in nature.

in the morning, you hear nothing
but the birds,
and his mother's
roses really are my favourite scent.

salento

2010-07-15T10:59:00.000-07:00

a stop sign advances
by the power of unison.
abstract wings are
cock-eyed and ramshackle.
libertarian-crows fly
across the stage,
where a back arches
like a vicious bridge
(not made for crossing).
that same spine
is a shoal of fish,
creating time
for spiral highs
as salento lifts.

distance

2010-07-15T10:43:00.000-07:00

above,

your full weight
brought to bear
upon me, who is
a 'delicate creature'.

even as you
lay     there,
i feel you

disappear

inwards, folding
like a sphere.

this fear
becomes
and grows
and can
go nowhere
in this L-shaped room.

L for love
becomes one I
and another,             r
yet you're just          e
around the               n
                          c o r

he burrows a hole,
head bowed
into myths and
literary criticism.
i want to ask,
'what have you found?'

but my words are
dr
       ow
           ne
                    d
in self-sabotage.
it's that damned
vishudda again.

i need to scream
and gargle
with salt-water,
sing a song
to the oceans
and splurt
hurt into sinks.

this poor frog                    s
in my throat;                    t
time and again               a
have i washed              o
him away,                   l
but the bloody thing f

the strangled kitten
manifests as laryngitis
and ineptitude of
expression.
i may be sensitive,             v   e
but i don't want to call it o         r.

little worlds

2010-06-21T15:28:00.000-07:00

my rasping heart
clasped one hundred pictures,
but observed them not.

my skinned pink feet
sought just one kindred soul,
but touched it not.

my wavy fingers
grasped one thousand treasures,
but freed them not,

and then i saw
all within and without,
for a timeless second

and i needed not
to clasp, seek or grasp anything,
within this mikros cosmos.

midnight cowgirl

2010-06-21T14:06:00.000-07:00

positioned between two mirrors,
she observes a warped vision;
there's two of her,
twelve fingers and three noses.

she rocks back on hardened heels;
shorn with contact, cracked and fraught
in contrast to the sheet -
which is virginal, in non-judgement.

she strokes it's cotton-skin
long before the lines creep in,
but bloodstains still flower,
spreading sordid tye-dye across the bed.

faint grey lines emerge and
she picks up a rubber,
but the lines remain,
persistant grass stains or period knickers.

her voice withers with
explanation as the mirror
beckons; she is resting-less
for the lack of the lotus.

i suppose it's a question
of freedoms exchanged,
peeling the onion, layer after layer,
crying out freeing fears
but weary woe betide her;

for i wonder what we will find
when she is all gone?

lotus flower

2010-06-21T13:21:00.000-07:00

just call me nymphaea (or ms nelumbo, if you please!)
under favourable circumstance, my seeds
remain viable for as long as 300 years ...
even when recovered from a
barren lake-bed in china, i thrive.
i am the aquatic perennial;
ever fertile, and emerging baptised
and disguised as a mermaid.
how strange to be the lofty lotus;
sacred with sexual purity and divine beauty,
it's petals unfold like lovers souls'
alongside one another, in perfect unity.
i like the anecdote about growing from the earth -
that my flesh and blood will return to mud
is certain, but meanwhile,
i will try my best to make a pretty seat
for the feet of deities.

a riddle-poem

2010-06-21T13:04:00.000-07:00

they decorate oreilles;
snail negatives of open space,
in which the tunnel funnels down
in sound.

like dream-catchers,
these dangly apparatus
capture secret worlds
for little girls,

and twirling them
between fingers
is somehow
always comforting.

plain paper

2010-06-02T01:33:00.000-07:00

i love to write poetry on plain paper,
i find it more natural
to create on this fresh slate.

and you are a human being
in plain paper form,
with the rare simplicity

of nourishment without the adornment
of sweet decorative barriers,
all the better to contain me with.

fences, hedges and pledges of allegiance
all melt, there are no taboos
between me and you.

it's exponentially true
that i could observe the freedom of this
woodland creature for time immemorial.

the beauty of blank paper again,
the eternal sunshine of the spotless mind
and the unconditioned energy of touching souls.

seekers of secrets and solitude

2010-06-02T01:04:00.000-07:00

Kinks of ink black hair frame his face on blue air.
I embrace the teeth and scratches of carnal rapture,
the skin of secrets, the green itch of acts and
silent pacts witnessed by the wind today.

In an isolated ampitheatre; with only the bleats of
sheep to break solitude and submersion in
each other. The sides of the valley rise like new love,
enclosing and unfolding with the fear of feeling.

On occasion, we run to the top in opposite directions,
but we return to the idyll to un-eat the ancient fruit.
We are seekers of knowledge and wisdom,
yet know that we know nothing, so do not worry.

We drink cammomile tea with the stars;
talk of past loves and outdoor poos. I find
solace in brown owl-eyes, dusted with dusk
and the lust of libertarianism.

Within the sticky sweetness of a tent for two,
beads of sweat adorn him. With each one another
necklace of love forms, but why decorate that
delicate spot with chains?

Some freedom can be found in reins and the
tender pain of change. In the highest pub in england
I have enormous wings. I laugh that the table is
too large, too much space between me and thee.

Before momentary seclusion even from you,
surreal time-space perception and a snag
as I sense your unrest. You have descended
into the abyss, where I can see nothing.

Nothing but you, shape shifter, as
chamelion-like you reflect light.
We light fires, the archetypal chamber
of mystery for us seekers of secrets.

The caramelised coals look good enough to eat
and I long, long for something sweet ...
Yet hold back - must be careful - as sure as I can,
that those crackling coals don't burn my new tongue.

the forest and the mirror

2010-05-28T14:26:00.000-07:00

below the reflection room lies the forgotten forest,
with it's ruined walls and closed doors,
which if tempted to open, might force you to fall
for a floor or two.

from red brick to blue paint as buildings revised,
it's a sombre sight, and such feats (whilst great)
have not quite halted the roots
which took hold when we were not watching.

their secret beauty takes tiredness away
and returns with wonder. inside,
the swedish girl finds the same wonder in
my wavy fingers - we're jigsaw people.

i linger upon strands of stray hair,
escapee spaghetti flees the window-frame.
i take on the role of cartographer,
trace map lines of veins and marvel in shame.

i see strong calves and feel thick skin like set jelly,
it's comforting, but my throat is exposed.
there is confusion in my right leg and
clarity in my left arm,

but the two can never meet in the middle?
instead, i swing between, a pendulum, as ever.

sighing with this i visualise
the city-forest outside,
i could kiss that freedom -

flying down from the third floor,
and i'm in just the right mood to
join jungle heathens.

love and chaos

2010-05-28T14:14:00.000-07:00

despite chaotic appearance,
love reigns in this cruel cosmos
of lovely chaos,
and what complex chaos
this cruel existence is -
though my whole heart
does love it!

animalistic tendencies

2010-05-28T14:06:00.000-07:00

are we but earthly creatures, beasts and straw dogs?
subsumed by a cycle - are we savages who bite
when pushed, and slice through love with our carnal lust?

can we unwind? unravel the bind between love and disgust?
the physical impulse of sweat and scratched chests,
as i find clumps of hair in my hands afterwards, and wonder,

where did that come from?

in those kinks of ink black hair i grasp traces of darkness,
i grow claws when you are near, enjoy the fur and teeth
of beneath, and twinkle-smile at my sexual aggression.

i see forests and sinister, crackling branches as home -
a place to make your body my own
for a molten moment.

i delight in the reflection of vicious teeth
dipped in stringy saliva, not sure if they're yours or mine,
but i share your desire for soft flesh to sink them in.

all i can visualise are
dead rabbits dragged in by the cat,
but who's going for whose jugular, i ask?

i tear at your hair like the banshee i am
and howl, a whirling dervish of
extremity, exalted for the present
in teeth-baring depravity.

fear, feeling, fate?

2010-05-14T09:54:00.000-07:00

a few hours in and i'm tapping
the shell for weak spots,
leaning in, peering round
at kinks of ink black hair
and brand new stubble.

i have a red chin
and fear trouble ahead,
as i indulge in
bowl-eyed-beauty
of animalistic tendency.

i'm sorry that you seem to find a bind,
do you see reference points on a map
as a trap? i thought it was the kind of
thing you'd like - being practical
and enjoying detail, and fact somewhat.

there's a road sign we all slide behind:
it says no entry, roman sentry at the gate,
but like me you don't believe in fate, as such,
but what is, is, as lemn says
and we thought as much.

if i'd been alone i would've stayed,
followed the light, zoned in, got shot of ties
and reference points, pins in a map
can dangerously alter the course of flight
in spite of independence.

it itches like freshly cut hair
on the back of the neck to admit,
and i resist the comparison to
samson and delilah,
choice, i repeat as a mantra.

'the leap of faith without fear
requires relinquished attachment to result'.
i prise my fingers apart -
remind me that i don't own them!
a borrowed body shudders

and what strange creatures we are?
can't we let go of the stories we're told
and create our own?

i fear you're searching for a truth
you will not find, sir,
not in socialism or free parties or straw dogs.

is there more to life than death as it is?
let's not comfort ourselves in philosophy,
cast off the blanket of ideology,

let's remain unwrapped
entreating lines of logical
time space, space time
to spin behind, in front, upside down,
and all around in a circle.

a perfectionist, yes, but you'd do well
to end the embargo
on public displays of affection.
loosen the fingers from a clenched fist,
i'll help with the rest.

a beginning should be unspoilt;
so please, let's not let it be soiled
by reticence.

the sadness of a single line

2010-05-14T08:35:00.000-07:00

I was a full-time waitress. It was an interesting learning curve.

One particular day, I was observing the behaviour of rain. I watched it score liquid lines on the white-blue wash of glass walls between me and the world. All day it poured, not dripped; glib watery onslaught. In memory, it appeared slow-motion like liquid methane on titan - a byword for boredom. Through the sheen, a samaritan sought shelter under the white outdoor arcade.

Silver-haired, he flopped on the chair to eat chips. They looked salty, warm and dry with grease. He seemed tired, grateful and cold with rain. Cue wringed hands and a pained expression. Boss gave the nod and looked on expectantly. He was the kind of restaurateur we all abide. A stereotype: inflated stomach and ego, misogynist, and lacking human warmth. As server, it was my job to rid our chair of the customless bottom.

Reluctantly, I sidled up to the elderly gent. I did ask him to move and for this I repent. I blamed it on the boss - claimed higher power, peaceful sneaky flower (I am, I am!) Cue wringed hands and pained expression, crease upon crease stacked slow and year upon year of "Well I never, flower! Whatever happened to the milk of human kindness, eh?"

I strode back in to the soundtrack of a million raindrops, scoring liquid lines on the white-blue wash of glass walls between me and the world. 'Never again', I shook my head. For this, I will never repent.

broken rope swings

2010-05-14T08:32:00.000-07:00

the frayed blue undulation is weightless,
on a trip back and forth
in seamless swing.

the pregnant breeze brings life lines,
and i'm aware of this about my neck
as i remember death.

the broken rope swing is bittersweet and
branchless; tied to the tree as it is, in a
footnote to freedom.

the click

2010-05-09T03:37:00.000-07:00

"good day everybody! my name's hamish and i'll be leading your tour of the royal botanic gardens today. beautiful day for it too, ye little buggers ... s'not like this on ma days off!" esme smiled at the freckly specimen of scottishness before her. it was a beautiful june day, sun high in the sky and all thoughts of exams were far behind her now. it was the end of her first year as a philosophy student at the university of edinburgh, and she had been meaning to visit the gardens for months. esme loved the rich history of the city, and here it was again in all it's finery.

she lolloped along languidly behind the group, tuning in and out of hamish's dialogue at random. esme was stunned by the blossoming bounty surrounding her - huge, white orchids, gigantic, rich green amazonian lilies ... and a 200 year old west indian palm tree, planted in an elegant 1850s glass topped palm house. it was like stepping to another spot on the time-space continuum, and she had the unsettling feeling that this place existed in another dimension. 'too many books!', her mum would say, 'i knew that studying philosophy would do her no good, she could barely keep one foot on the ground as it was ...'

and it was true. esme felt that if she concentrated hard enough, she would banish the entrance of the west gate on arboretum place, and find herself out in the depths of the amazonian rainforest somewhere. she breathed in the multitude of scents and stopped still to soak in the diverse shades of green surrounding her. allowing one thought to cast out all others, she wondered along, 'green, green? was it really green? was it all even really there at all?' as she did so, she slowly became aware that she was being watched. it's strange how our instincts can tell us what our physical senses do not. it was a curly haired bloke with fascinating brown eyes. kind of serious, but with a mischievous twinkle at the same time. he was wearing a tweed jacket with leather elbow patches - very history teacher circa esme's school days. in fact, he particularly reminded her of one such, favourite history teacher.

"hello. amazing, isn't it? i'm not much of a botanist but i really do appreciate the beauty of it all. and pavilions and glass everywhere too, it's all rather grand ..." esme felt instantly intrigued. she was a great believe in speaking to strangers, took pride in the pure joy of it. unexpected alliances were always the most interesting, and as for social convention, well it was a knackered old concept that sucked all the fun out of living. just then, hamish butted in, bounding along enthusiastically and ushering them towards the rest of the group.

"come on ye stragglers, we haven't even seen the wee chinese garden yet ... get a shifty on eh!" the two grinned conspiratorially and obediently followed. the air between them was no longer empty, and esme knew that mystery fella with the brown saucer bowls for eyes was equally as aware of this as she was. well what the hell, a thought crossed her mind, a sordid fling with a history teacher to round off what had hitherto been a somewhat disappointingly rebellion-free year. hopefully he was married, kids, the whole shebang. esme smiled in shock at the lowlands to which her own mind could descend. elevated examinations of the concept of colour one minute, sexual deviance the next ...

"so, my name is rory, what's yours? to whom do i have the pleasure of speaking? and what do you get up to edinburgh? you're obviously not local..."
"my name's ana", said esme, "ana-maria. aspiring painter, sculptor and printmaker. currently pathetically penniless. born and bred in yorkshire, but of brazilian heritage". bloody hell, esme blanched at her own fictitious tongue. it had grown legs all of it's own in this game she occasionally played - creating characters, acting them out with people she hoped never to meet again. it had only backfired once before, but in a fairly hideously embarrassing manner. a look of surprise crossed rory's face, and esme quickly returned the question,
"and you rory? what do you, 'do with yourself', in edinburgh? you are obviously scottish, that's a lovely soft edinburgh accent if ever i heard one."
"i'm an antiques dealer. or perhaps that might be stretching it somewhat. i have an antique shop which might otherwise be known as a junk shop. it's just off prince's street. it's an aladdin's cave - full of curiosities for the inquisitive. had it for about 6 years now, but unfortunately, it too leaves me pathetically penniless. we lovers of art are doomed to this i think". esme inwardly grinned in anticipation, there was actually nothing she loved more than a rummage in a junk shop. being a great appreciator of the weird, the wonderful and anything olde worlde - time spent in the dusty enclaves of such cluttered shops was something she treasured. indeed, she thought she knew and had visited the shop he was talking about, though she had definitely never seen him there before. perhaps he was lying too. perhaps he really was just a history teacher. perhaps she had finally met her match in the lovely world of lying for ones own entertainment.

the tour continued but they had little chance to continue their dialogue, such was hamish's insistence upon group cohesion and the undivided attention of all it's members. however, when they reached the gates on west arboretum place, esme no longer wanted them to disappear into a whirl of south american jungle. she was now taking with her some new, somewhat tribal desires concerning the curly top in front of her. mumbled suggestions of coffee on his part and fluttered eyelashes on hers, took them towards city cafe.

"it's where irvine welsh drank coffee and wrote trainspotting, you know", smiled esme. the cafe represented an altogether different side of edinburgh, one of contemporary note, she supposed. esme had read the book, had loved the characters and observed startling similarities between herself and the anti-romantic renton, who was in fact, it seemed, a huge romantic at heart. dislocated, dis-enamoured and dishonest, esme found herself afloat on the waves of a life in which she lacked identification with anything much.

the existentialist romantic is a terrible type, and makes for an altogether painful experience. alright, so she wasn't a smackhead, but apart from that, she'd backed herself into a pretty similar psychological corner. despite the fact that she could observe this, esme still seemed utterly unable to find the 'click' that would drive her past this 'giving up point'. if only paolo coelho had provided a method; a tangible, results-driven mode of interrogation into finding the evasive sticking point.

"really? interesting ... never read the book myself. got the impression it was all misery and drug addled lunatics. would've spoiled my notions of old fashioned scottishness. i steered well clear to be honest". rory's answer was intelligble, and made perfect sense in the context of his seeming infatuation with nicety and antiques. his voice was gravelly smooth with a whispering lilt and he gave the impression of one who enjoyed the finer things in life, finances or no finances. esme yawned and ordered a coffee from the tired looking, pierced and aubergine-haired waitress.

sitting opposite rory, drinking her strong cappaccino (no chocolate) and posing as ana-maria that afternoon, esme was numb. she had felt more back in the botanical gardens, when she was surrounded by plant life. if only she could let go of her attachment to an inflamed world. all the way down the royal mile she had been exhilerated, passionate, loving of life in all it's wondrous variety. she'd spotted troops just back from iraq or afghanistan, with harassed girlfriends and kids trailing along behind their mirage. there were canadian tourists, bickering couples, two girls with the long, lean elegant limbs of dancers and faces like expensive cats. on that short walk, underneath rare blue skies and with a stranger at her side, esme had felt in love and at peace with the world. but love for an inflamed world steeped in the heightened anticipation of pleasure was not true. even esme knew this.

exhausted by her own exhileration, she now stirred out the swirls from her good cup of coffee and wondered where that sense of well being had evaporated to. she failed to see the person sitting opposite her, though rory believe that he saw her. she had a freckle underneath each oval eye and a toffee colour complexion. she was exotic and manipulative, with a stunning sense of self-assuredness.

to him, 'ana-marie' was the archangel of feminine mystique, descended from the synchronicity of escape from his girlflriend's boring choice of destination. edinburgh ... antiques ... he might wear tweed but history was not one of his strong points. more of a persona he had adopted since realising that lovely literary girls always love a period drama. rory had ditched elaina dusting off books in the ridiculously named 'unicorn antiques', and was now entirely arrested by the momentary magic of this brazilian beauty.

"you can really see the hispanic heritage in you, ana. i can just imagine you dancing the night away in rio ..." murmured rory, in what he believed to be a seductive tone. esme blanched, the reminder of her lie and his convoluted notions made her feel slightly and suddenly, quite claustrophobic.
"just popping to the ladies rory. be back momentarily. keep my coffee warm, and if the waitress comes over - get her to bring me a glass of decent red wine too. i think it's time for a drink drink" in this way, she excused herself from the red diner-style seating (american influence - city cafe - why had she never observed this before?). once downstairs, esme sat for several minutes staring at posters on the back of the toilet door. the band on later sounded interesting. they were called 'king charles' - apparently some kind of art-school pirate boy with huge hair and a propensity for falling-over during performances. esme absent-mindedly kneaded the purple flower-bruise upon her left thigh, the slight pain was satisfying.

she might come back tonight for the gig, but for now she slipped out quietly behind rory's unsuspecting back. the air was definitely empty again, and whilst unexpected alliances might be the most interesting, this was turning out just as tired as the last one. esme, too, was tired. 'interesting? interesting? was anything really that interesting?' she pondered. perhaps esme had finally found the click? the thought did cross her mind briefly, as she placed one foot in front of the other and focused on home. this was a doubtful turn of events, dear reader - but entirely possible of course...

the sweet taste of

2010-05-08T17:55:00.000-07:00

today really was a beautiful train journey ... and so good to see the sea! i miss the water. the sea and the sun are important to me. my mind is half still, soothed by the rhythm of the train and exhausted by exhileration and adrenaline, but it's also half racing along - racing along with the scenery and enamoured with life and love!

this life is such a joy eh. there's a noisy hen party, soldiers just back from afghanistan, crazy fighting families and canadian tourists ... all right here, on this train. all walks of life in all their wondrous variety! i've also found out that the girls sat opposite me are returning from a dance audition in edinburgh. of all the people to be sat with! magical synchronicity, reminds me that the door to carriage f stopped directly in front of me ...

i am the smiliest public transport passenger! truly in love with everything and everyone! so appreciative of being alive! i am returning home in a crazy yet contemplative mood. the next phase of my personal legend is beginning. the brown saucer eyed beauty is but one more inspiration! a cosmic gift to keep me on my fully extended toes!

it's always the way i suppose. the unpredictable and intriguing nature of the art of living. there is always more to learn, always another enriching challenge, and anything is possible. so bloody much to be joyous about!

fond farewell

2010-05-08T17:38:00.000-07:00

my final shift at himmat was a bittersweet parting, forced simply by lack of hours in my days and weeks at present. i really didn't want to leave. in all honesty, the whole thing has never seemed much like work. i've met many beautiful people - a diverse set of characters, from the youngest child to the eldest of the organisation. the kids have been brilliant, and i leave with so many wonderful memories of my short time there. many an evening covered in paint, refereeing arguments over the pool table, and drinking copious amounts of tea with my fellow youth workers. two in particular, will be friends for life.

not only have i laughed, learnt and loved during the time spent between these four walls, but i have discovered a new way to live. i have grown, become much less selfish, and finally understood that for me, when it comes to making a positive contribution, it really all starts with the next generation. they inspire me; through them i have rediscovered my own inner child. yesterday, i was touched to receive their goodbye cards, with such lovely spelling mistakes as 'good luck in your egsam miss izzy'. it also tickled me to notice that the other izzy (the male, bearded, muslim one!), had insisted that they all address their cards to 'ms' instead of 'miss' or 'mrs'.

i remembered fondly, an event from the previous week. one particular girl had been reading to me from an english translated version of muslim stories for children. suddenly, she stopped and asked, 'do you like the qur'an miss izzy?' i had to admit that, no, i had never really read the book to be honest. 'what do you read then?' she continued, 'the holy bible?' i shook my head again, no, and answered that i wasn't really religious, although i did quite like parts of the bible and had read it from time to time. the little girl looked utterly shocked, 'not religious? what do you believe in then?!' i said what i believe, which is both everything and nothing - translated to the statement that god is everywhere to me. having no particular name, religion, stories, but being all around us and in us at every moment. she looked intensely relieved, as though i had just been saved from hellfire by the skin of my teeth. 'ah, that's ok then miss izzy, you're right. god bees everywhere'. if you don't come across little kids of pakistani heritage and their slang often, that will be lost on you, but trust me, it was the most adorable thing ever...

so back to the last shift and after work we went for a meal, where i was shown photos of the wedding of my boss neelam's cousin. it had been ongoing for what seemed like weeks, and i was reminded of the cultural diversity and insight into what can seem a somewhat closed community, that i had experienced through working there. despite believing myself to be utterly non-judgemental when i began, i had to admit that the last six months had still provided a steep learning curve. they found me a curiosity, and i them. i loved to hear about their traditions and felt privileged to be included. when neelam said i could join in with the preparations for her wedding, whenever that may be, i was somewhat overwhelmed! a week of practising dances long into the night and elaborate rituals involving covering her in some kind of turmeric paste ... bizarre and brillianT!

i will really miss that place.

characters

2010-05-08T17:30:00.000-07:00

i treasure characters:
the joy of eccentricity and
the quirks of unique beauty.
the saffron-robed, shoeless monk
in yorkshire november.
i always remember him
and his echoed reflection.
pete the feet and in turn
a lion-maned one
casting the cloak of
the image in rejection.
their rejection of comfort inspires
and souls reside on the other side
of the thin blue line.
they are questionners.
characters as questionners.
they wander freely as clouds,
through tree-tops
without clocks or any awareness of time,
and a 'character' would share
the tree's stance in politics,
'but you're not a tree, man,' i whined,
missing the point entirely, of course,
in my defensive subjective projection
of another's perceived dejection.

short thought. 2

2010-05-08T17:23:00.000-07:00

: the moon and the sun

i go a little crazy around that time. i've experienced some extremely bizarre events by full moon-light. i'm not sure why - but apparently we cancerians are heavily influenced by that great shining orb ... and isn't lunar such a great word? a reminder of lunacy! but what else does a moon remind you of? i think we'd all be lying if we didn't own up. forever and eternity ... the viscount advert - or was it jaffa cakes?! 'full moon, harrrlf moon ... total eclipse!' in strange scandi accent.

and now to the sun. i am interested in plato's metaphor about the sun. u also read a quote yesterday in my spiritual india book, which went like so

we do not require another lamp to further illuminate the sun, when we can simply remove the curtain that stands between us and the sun.

wise words, i thought.

short thought. 1

2010-05-08T17:18:00.001-07:00

: feminine things

sugar and spice and all things nice - is that what little girls are made of? what a question. my friend is a big fan of proverbs and quotes, often communicating some nugget of wisdom via text in quotation marks. one of my favourites is as follows:

experience is a hard teacher, because she gives the test first, the lesson afterwards.

he was giving me some advice, since i had been berating myself over some mistake earlier in the day. what interested me was that 'experience' was personified as a woman. what is it about experience that implies femininity? is it that we women are wise?! or does it hark back to the loss of innocence - the day that eve ate the forbidden apple and we were all doomed ...

a prayer to myth and legend

2010-05-08T17:18:00.000-07:00

i would like to fulfill my own personal legend. i would like to unlock the door to the recesses of my own soul, my subconscious mind, my whatever it is that is beyond mere linguistic expression. i would like to find down there, amongst dusty chapters or age old myths, a huge, ancient key - slightly rusty and ominous looking. what's in there? a story-board outline of a life, a techni-colour painting depicting the overarching themes? perhaps a simple word - one word, summarising all that i will strive to achieve. or perhaps i will find nothing there - a pure, empty shell where once a legend lived. is jung correct? do we all know instinctively why we're here as young ones, but then forget progressively as we age? and never forget the 'giving up point'. to forget is to live a half-life.

and so, a prayer to peace and to love. to the part of the personal legend in playing it's unique solo in the universes most awesome orchestra...!

sheep on drugs

2010-04-02T03:42:00.001-07:00

i spotted the above words graffiti'd in bratfud. it made me chuckle, think, and then despair, in that order.

the easter service

2010-03-27T03:02:00.001-07:00

As I stood in the Easter Service at the school yesterday, I didn't know whether to find the whole event quite nice or utterly ridiculous. I never went to a religious school myself, I'm not religious in the usual sense of the word. Consequently, I felt both warm and cold - warm at heart and cold in the knowledge that most students (and staff) were also non-believers. Arm-twisted by authority to attend (if only the kids realised it's not so different being a teacher). But they seemed so different, as stern-faced and unsmiling they stalked the walkways, making vicious and prolonged eye contact with anyone who spoke. The discipline was quite unprecedented, I've never before witnessed anything like it at the school. Despite this, the overheating hall bristled with repressed discomfort and irritation. The uniforms were crisp and neat, the silence was almost complete, as the odd rebel was shifted to a more well-staffed spot.

The vicar was different; a large, joyous black lady. Vibrant, faithful and the antithesis of the pervasive atmosphere. There were sniggers muffled by smiles, red faces covering resentment. There was the odd intrigued soul, who held out their palms for the bread and wine with some hint of solemnity. There were the silent, raging teachers who are always angry. There were open-hearted evangelists too, singing high-pitched and nasal in this white Christian school. Every so often, the projector displaying the lyrics malfunctioned, and we were left with only the evangelists and the dutifully rumbling song of the teachers.

Some guy took to the stage to talk about brokenness. He got two kids up to try and put a broken easter egg back together (why do they always choose the badly behaved ones?) Needless to say, they failed in fitting the pieces back together, point being that once broken, things are very hard to fix. He talked about broken dreams, fractured communities and natural disaster. He tried to empower the kids to do their part in keeping things whole, or repairing our broken world in their own, individual ways. Unfortunately, it all had to come back to the limiting banner of Christianity. It should be 'your faith' (as if the majority of the audience had any) that inspired you acts of goodness and compassion. To most teenagers, it sullies a powerful image, because it severs their ownership over the act.

Yesterday, as I often have in the past, I silently rolled around the question - can we not be the good samaritan simply for ourselves and each other - must it always be for faith in a specific God of a particular religion, or under threat of Hellfire?! Is there not an all encompassing faith, a spiritual path we can all follow which might also include all the different religions. It's a wild and beautiful dream I suppose. If I ran a school, we would use readings from all kinds of disparate scriptures. The Bible, The Qu'ran, yes, but also The Dalai Lama's books, Krishnamurti and Kahlil Gibran's 'The Prophet'. The school of pluralism. I'd also introduce aromatherapy, meditation and yoga to the curriculum, to name but a few!

The whole thing became long and ridiculous in parts, most notedly - the piano and vocal solo which has to be the most embarrassingly white Christian performance I've ever had to witness. Bless him, he enjoyed it, but it was really awful. It made me itch for a gospel choir or some kind of 'Sister Act' hymn singing. However, I did enjoy the ritual of the service, even the singing, at times. It was somehow pleasant and spoke of community of a kind rarely found in contemporary society. I smiled, I even almost shed a tear when a candle was lit for a teacher who died a few years back. I had to exercise serious control to send the tears back down from their welling up point, despite never having known the woman.

It touched me to observe teenagers blushing in the face of a blessing. I felt sure that they knew they were loved in that moment, somewhere in the labyrinthian confusion that is a teenage soul. The intention of the Christian ethos, is of course, good, but like so many things in our human world - it's expression is, ironically, one of brokenness. The facade of many in the face of the truth. When the vicar spoke of peace, love, of us all being brothers and sisters, I recognised my own religion and felt blessed. As British schools cast off the final remnants of the cloak of religion, we must start to provide some alternative, in terms of the spiritual, holistic education of the whole child.

a dancer

2010-03-27T02:47:00.000-07:00

she was a naughty school girl mover,
mischievous then morose,
she danced as the orb-like moon rose.

and as it rose under her chin / her body sings /
and a thousand songs have been sung
on her feet, her toes, the bones amongst.

there was enough energy in one little toe
to power a thousand bulbs in antarctica,
all the way from here in huddersfield, yorkshire.

her grace inspired a glow as
saintless, soulful and sharp shouldered,
her phraseology inspired silence.

/ she brought action ! /
choreographing synchronistic sanction to my
dream-catching.

stepping stone

2010-03-27T02:45:00.000-07:00

one specific slippery stone
is moss-coloured and fantastic,
before casting twilight devours it
chameleon-like, and the stone
becomes only the round brown
of sunless lives.

milk

2010-03-27T02:42:00.000-07:00

certain events have departed,
leaving only my acidic stomach for company.

i go on to wonder, if it's not something the sweet milk
of human kindness can cure?

it's wholesome alkaline goodness repairing
stomach linings, frown lines and the

acidic effects of bitter red wines.

teracotta pot

2010-03-20T12:51:00.000-07:00

earthy, bed-red and
naturally moulded in
the shape of (wo)man.

it is riven, lacking
the thoughtful needs
intrinsic to human existence.

mesmerised

2010-03-16T14:54:00.000-07:00

by stepladder skies, i rise,
intrigued as silver sighs expose the
geysers of ice.

they steam-scream with release
and i visualise suspension
in freedomsong flight.

in a timeless second i nose-dive,
expel air and share my body
with the ground.

scissor-like, i sever,
and let hips thrust as needs must
come willfully unbound.

in tandem

2010-02-25T00:20:00.000-08:00

the grace of sound is
lengthening and strengthening my tall soul.

i'm finding equilibrium
in the free flow of limbs

as i contract abdomen
and swirl pins.

pressure to the left knee
reminds me of age

and moisture rises
like a welcome morning.

intent, my posture is clear
as i focus on there,

far and nowhere but here.
is pain inevitable, suffering optional?

connected / married / in tandem,
the inseparable tribal / divine.

the martha graham technique

2010-02-16T03:39:00.000-08:00

from studio window, i witness
the hill that has governed my life.
i breathe deep, roam the room on air-clad feet
remembering tweets from birds of freedom.

a warrior stance, my even breathing,
extend and contract in cause and effect.

i direct intent in wholesomeness,
each muscle in unison illuminates.
removed from the organic machine
that breathes and reads and seeks,
i keep time instead with sound,
and the tribal shout of my time-loss dance.

i dig deep/mine,
uncover shovels of love and good
once coiled at the base of the spine.
body-connected i contract,
effect a spider-entwine,
my sweat drips in a satisfied line.

endurance ensures that pain is good
as i strive and stretch to arrive at rest.
lights infer my body's guest
and the heart in throat slows.
elegance follows neutrality
and i relish the memory,

the adaptability that i have learned or earned
during the cracked flow of this journey.
movement provided the space for intent
and when i enthuse my path is correct.
weightless moments draw space,
the grace of movement never lies,

the ominous drum is my friend
and my own sweat has baptised.
i taste salt: observe again
the dark, partial shape
outside and decide; as earth to hill,
this dance is me, am i it's wife?

varieties of ice

2010-02-08T10:47:00.000-08:00

the marble effect of water glass
creates a sheet between me and thee,
as layer upon layer of cracked thought
becomes more opaque.

yes i'm crunching on a love
that's been creaking for days,
encasing grass and stopping streams.

why do we burn back the beautiful heather
and what is wrong with my curiosity?

i say tread on every puddle of ice to see if
it breaks. test it with a toe, jump on it
and downright kick it.

i still want to do this
like a 12 year old.

blackberry

2010-02-07T13:51:00.000-08:00

the bursting sea of a black wind
sends clusters of sadness
rippling, like fat women
on weighing scales.

grape

2010-02-07T13:49:00.000-08:00

as one of a multitude
i feel pale green.
squeaky clean and boring -
but i thank myself a bunch
because fortunately
i'm becoming good
at crunching my own paradox.

kiwi

2010-02-07T13:43:00.000-08:00

like a little furry rodent
it’s seeded with thoughts that are
slimy mathematics for a words brain.
it appears green – hideous envy!
but small and sweet,
to counteract this.

orange

2010-02-07T13:19:00.000-08:00

the textured nature of
life is sweet.
full of juicy morsels
alongside inevitable
sour sections.
naturally segmented,
i only hope that no one
slice gets too sticky.

an adhd story

2010-01-30T07:16:00.000-08:00

jumpin' jack flash twitched his way
onto the adhd spectrum.
attention deficit hyperactivity disorder
alienated those around him so
that his impulsiveness repulsed
as he smashed the third telly in a row.
stop it stop it stop it! jack screamed,
as mum flew at him all eyes and teeth -
he protested, it's not my fault that
my chemical messengers are fucked
and i somehow ducked the radar
of behavioural screening.

she nearly split spleen trying to fix him.
no e numbers, no ay carumba, less screen time,
lots of fresh air (and broken tellys).
he went through three primary schools
though admittedly, two of the head's could well
have had 'nob' preceding their name.
little bitty jack even threatened to stab
someone with a compass once.

his condition threatened to send the whole family
over the edge. she sighed, gave in,
fed him ritalin twice a day -
and all at once like magic,
jumpin' jack was a different lad.
loss of appetite and insomnia
were but a small price to pay
for the chemical messengers
boosted in his brain.
fixed, they put jack back in
a box and older brother sam

crept in, took the chance -
stole just 'the odd one'
as a cognitive enhancer
and was an a* student in exams.

adult ballet

2010-01-30T07:07:00.000-08:00

one at a time

we pas de chat,
both legs in the air
diagonally,
just as i side-stepped
a sledger at shibden.

dicing with danger elegantly
i dredge a grande jeté
from the recesses,
dust her off
for a laugh
and a gallop.

there's a certain smell
in a studio:

leather shoes and sweat
as we chassé. my body is a tool, none left unturned and minutely examined as my mind re-learns.

the 5k giveaway

2010-01-28T09:00:00.000-08:00

http://beta.theconch.com/content/text/if-i-had-the-money--931

If I had the money ...

What I'd do with the wonga if I won the 5K giveaway.

I've put alot of thought into this!

My first thought was obvious; if I won the 5K I'd put it towards my next adventures to faraway climes, using it to cut short the long months of saving it's gonna take to get me there, so that I could sack off Blighty immediately and head straight off to my next stops. First for me would be a serious Yoga course, rising at 4am for meditation and looking out at the mountains everyday in India. It would be a soul cleansing trip and a dream to study Yoga seriously in it's country of origin. I would follow this by a bit of Southern Indian beach life for good measure...

But the big trip, and the place that has captured my imagination and held it for some years - would be Latin America. I'm particularly interested in Chile, Argentina, Peru and then way up in Central America, Guatemala. The Mayans, The Incas, the Amazon, the Andes, Patagonia, and on and on and on ... volunteering, hiking, teaching english, salsa-ing, tango-ing, snowboarding and travelling. The landscapes and possibilities for adventuring are endless. This is the continent I am particularly fascinated by.

During both of these trips, I'd also be doing a bit of research. This is because my dream (along with millions of others out there...) is to write a book. I have the outline of a novel in my mind which you could call a postmodern, coming of age novel. Centred around the life of a 'struggling' young artist of the wannabe-Beat generation and our contemporary, bohemian middle class. As a young woman who has lost her 'artistic vision' she goes on a journey in order to regain it - via experiences amongst 'the common man', with hallucinogenic substances and spiritual enlightenment ... not necessarily in that order. This mammoth undertaking would be intended as a comment on the comforts and confusions of our life of choice in the First World (and the joke's also on me by the way.)

So now I've bored you with that, I'm actually going to say that I've now decided I wouldn't use the money in the afore-mentioned way. For a few reasons - I'm nowhere near novel writing standard yet and I'm actually currently much more interested in poems! But also, I'm now working in a school for AimHigher and doing some part time Youth Work, and I want to give it a while at home to see how I go before I head off again. So then I thought, well hell, I could use the cash to fund several nice trips in my school holidays. Snowboarding in Canada at Easter, six weeks Yoga and hiking in India or snowboarding and wildlife spotting in South America in summer - perhaps a writing course squished in one half term?! Ahh, the luxury of it. Not to mention all the new kit to go with the trips. Sounds like heaven, and all for free! I could go parachuting, climbing and all that shizz on weekends. It'd make for an action packed 2010!

However I've finally realised what it is I'd really like to do with the pennies, if they are by some miracle awarded to me. I currently work for a local charity as a Youth Worker and this experience has been inspiring me more week by week. As I said before, I believe in DIY and would love to utilise my enthusiasm to set something up for the young 'uns - something involving adventure sports ideally, since we all know what valuable experiences these can offer for disaffected and/or disadvantaged individuals. I know the original idea of the giveaway was to give one person a giant leap forward in their chosen sport, but how about giving lots of young people a small but invaluable leap forward in theirs?

Not so long ago I heard about a charity in London that funds trips to the mountains for inner city kids, and I'm now dreaming about setting up something along those lines for kids from my (slightly grim - if you've got a neg head on!) Northern town! It rains, it pours, it's grey and there isn't alot of opportunity. Though the hills round these parts are beautiful, it's not that cool to a teenager and few of them are brought up in the outdoors. If you award me the 5K in the giveaway I would love to use it as the start up of a charity whose eventual aim is to send local Yorkshire youths on trips of a lifetime to learn to ski or snowboard in the mountains!! It wouldn't be easy (might even at times feel like boot camp), but it would be an amazing opportunity and learning curve for kids who might never otherwise have the opportunity.

I realise that this project would involve work for me (and even further fundraising for extra costs - travel and so on), but it's something I feel so passionate about. Inclusion and opportunity, fun and progression leading to self-belief through the great outdoors! Cheesy but I'm a huge believer. This 5K would enable me to start small, setting up trips to the Manchester climbing wall, windsurfing, hiking or parachuting for kids from the school and/or charity I work at. Perhaps three initial projects - one for the school, one for AimHigher aimed at raising aspirations, and one for Himmat which is the local charity I work for? It's all hypothetical right now, but I'm getting excited just thinking about it! Surely there can be no better use for the money than to give it to someone who will use it for the good of young people?! They are the future of adventure sports, as they are the future of everything.

I have my fingers and toes crossed that I will be given this chance to start something positive for my community. Even if it's only a short project for the duration of three trips, I think it would be so worthwhile. We could call it The Conch Project! It would generate interest in the media which would be beneficial for everyone involved. If you have any doubts about my abilities to follow through on this commitment, please check out my previous project (www.shestyles.co.uk ... google or facey us for further info). This was a not for profit event that was conceived of, organised and executed purely for the love of it. The event was hugely successful, professional and a credit to ourselves and our brand partners. This kind of mutually beneficial use of the cash is what I would like to see. I hope you share my vision!

With much love, peace and hope for the future of adventuring,

Izzy Brittain xxx
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Author
shestyles

Screen name
shestyles
Age
24 years old
Location
Halifax, United Kingdom

Tags

* adventure
* charity
* travel
* progression
* fun
* youths
* money
* enjoyment
* inclusion

http://blog.theconch.com/2010/01/28/we-have-a-winner/

pretty amazing eh?!

busrides and timeslides

2010-01-20T13:58:00.000-08:00

six solemn backs of heads

sit serene in solitude,

unique as antique plates

with chips, patterns and histories

but plates all the same.

dust coats my finger as

half-conscious, i collect muck;

a minor detail of matter.

here bus tickets lie like

scattered reminders of time.

the bus carries me to town

by hook or by crook,

and the clock stops as i travel.

there spiritual laws unravel

like knicker elastic,

in rare breaks between

time binding and surreal snakes

of tick-tock watching.

there is silence and potential

in this daily journey.

i gift the bus driver with

a wonky grin, an open-hearted wish,

then rub rank, velvet seats

that stink of piss

with my nail-less fingers.

le baiser

2010-01-19T13:22:00.000-08:00

One knelt,
Neck crooked at uneasy angle,
Expression angelic and
Sleeping face
Cradled in grasping hands
With pianist's fingers.

Autumn leaf hair
With flowers drifting
Amongst the nest,
Spiral pattern on golden cape
And a yellow aura
Draped.

Venetian glass again
With gold, the colour of love?
Can these metallic tones
Be symbolic
Of embrace
In the face of divinity?

I went for a massage
And drew a card:

It said I was 'motivated by love',
And there it was
The print that my family
Use to adorn walls
With ardent amour.
With hope and time it's truth

Shall seep into our rooms
And beds
We presume?
As we lay our heads
With whomever
We choose to rest this night.

numerology

2010-01-13T07:55:00.000-08:00

Life Path; This number represents who you are at birth and the native traits that you will carry with you through life. The most important number that will be discussed here is your Life Path number. The Life Path describes the nature of this journey through life.

4 (4, 13/4, 22/4, 31/4, 40/4)

The Life Path 4 suggests that you entered this plane with a natural genius for planning, fixing, building, and somehow, with practical application and cerebral excellence, making things work. You are one of the most trustworthy, practical, and down-to-earth of individuals; the cornerstone members of society. Indeed, as a Life Path 4, you are a builder of society. The cream of the crop in this Life Path can be a master builder in society. if you are among these highly talented people, you have an idealistic nature which is grounded in practical terms, allowing you to conceive grandiose, far-reaching schemes and carry them through to the end. If you desire and are willing to work for it, you can achieve enormous success, prestige, and fame. Obviously, everyone with a 4 Life Path does not become famous.

All with this Life Path have the ability to take orders and to carry them out with dedication and perseverance and many 4s live and work happily in this context. But so often, the 4 Life Path is the entrepreneur and manager in the community. In either role, you always demand as much from yourself as you do from others, and sometimes a lot more.

You have the kind of will power that is often mistaken for sheer stubbornness. You don't think of yourself as dogged, but your honest beliefs and that ever direct speech makes you come across as completely unremitting. Once a decision is made, it will be followed through to the conclusion, right, wrong, or indifferent. You are very set in your ways and determined to handle things the way you are so certain that they should be handled. Your tenacity of purpose and ability to get the job done borders on obsession. You are a wonderful manager with a great sense of how to get the job done.

You are an excellent organizer and planner because of your innate ability to view things in a very common sense and practical way. This stems from a strong desire to be a perfectionist in your labor. Planning is necessary to avoid errors. It's very likely that a 4 Life Path person invented the to-do list, because it is the rare Life Path 4 who doesn't have one by her side at all times. Your life is programed in an orderly fashion permitting you to catalog and manage the flow of ideas and activities that fill your day. Indeed, you seem to function best when you are under the gun and facing a tough set of problems.

Loyal and devoted, you make the best of your marriage, and you are always the good provider. Friends may be few in number, but you are very close to them and once friendships are made, they often last a lifetime.

The number 4 is solidly associated with the element of earth from which it gains its strength and utter sense of reality. You are one of the most dependable people you know. If patience and determination can ever win, you are sure to achieve great success in life. Often, you are called on to take care of others; to finish what they have started. It may not seem fair and probably isn't, but it may be the key to your accomplishment and reputation.

The negative side of the 4 can prove dogmatic to an excess, narrow-minded, and repressive. A lot of skin-deep people turn you off, and you lack the tact to keep your feelings from being totally clear to all around. Additionally, the negative 4 has a bad tendency to get caught up in the daily routine of affairs, missing the big picture and major opportunities that come along once in a while.

Life Path Periods; The life path has been discussed in very elementary details previously, and the life path period is an addition to this reading that should be taken into account. If we live long enough, we will experience three life path periods. As you progress into this page, think of the readings in terms of a modification or enhancement personalizing the life path reading. These readings do not replace the life path reading, but merely fine tune and customize it to the individual. Because life path periods can vary so widely, the life path we are on becomes complex and motley.

1st Period - Early years: The 6 period produces a need to be needed, and you probably want to help your parents or your brothers, sisters, and friends in whatever way you can. In some cases, this period is one in which the subject is required or somehow forced to take on more than a normal amount of responsibility at an early age. Generally, this early time in the life is marked by obvious attempts to be helpful and even nurturing to others. In early adulthood there is a strong sense of responsibility and caring.

2nd Period - Productive years (beginning in 2018): The 2 lifepath period suggests that you will profit from your ability to work together with others in harmony and cooperation. In these years your ability to use skills in diplomacy and mediation will be pronounced. The affairs of others and their success may be the key to your own advancement. Pushing your own agenda doesn't work as well now. The need is to control hyperactive emotions that may appear from time to time.

3rd Period - Later years: With the 5 period occurring late in life, be prepared for a never ending series of adventures and expansive travel so long as the resources hold out. Actually, however, many with a late life 5 period choose to continue to work because of the sense of freedom found in their endeavors now; so long as the work is not boring or routine, there may be no reason to quit. This influence will continue to send you off to find new challenges and try new things. You are never too old to learn.

2009 Personal Year 1. . . .A New Beginning In Your Life

The current year is the beginning of a new nine year cycle for you. It holds the promise of being an exciting new adventure, with life taking on new challenges that pave the way for the next cycle of nine years in your life. This is a time to clarify your goals and it is a time to act on them. Hard work may be necessary to get a new venture moving. Your physical strength will be up during this year, perhaps higher than it has been for some time, as you have some special needs for this extra energy. If you are unable or unwilling to answer the call to change and make the move in your life the appears necessary now, your prospects may be delayed until the next cycle begins in nine years. Because of this, you feel like an adventure, a major change in your life, something new. New goals should be clearly set and worked toward, as this is really a new beginning of a nine year cycle and it is best not to dwell on the past at this time. This will be fairly easy for you to do because most of the problems and disappointments of the past will tend to disappear, leaving the way open for these new challenges. This is a great time; use it to its full advantage.

2010 Personal Year 2. . . .Development, cooperation, and waiting

This is a number 2 personal year. A personal year 2 is a wait and see time; a year when you will find yourself in the background and very much in a stage of development. This is not a time to force the issue and try to move forward. It is a time for cooperation and building relationships that will benefit you in the future; a year for accumulating and collecting. Aggressiveness will cause problems now. You must be prepared for delays, detours, stoppages and you must be patient. This is a time of small contribution, of helping, and details must be taken care of when they come up. You may give time and effort to further another's work. This year may be a test to your self-control and emotional sensitivities. This is a time to improve your abilities to work with others in a productive way and this can be difficult for you if you have chiefly worked alone in the past. Keep calm, cool, and pleasant. You may experience a degree of nervous tension during this period; the two year brings a tendency to emotional extremes including depression. Very deep relationships with a person of the opposite sex (including marriage) may be more apt to occur during a 2 year. If married, there is apt to be a deepening of feeling in the relationship during a 2 year.

2011 Social Expansion and Creative Success (3)

2012 Hard Work, Slow and Steady Progress (4)

2013 Personal Year 5. . . . Feeling Loose and Free

This is a number 5 year, a year of major change in your life. Horizons are expanded and growth is less impeded. You are likely to make a number of new friends this year as social activities are expanded. This is a year that has brought/will bring excitement and adventure and a good deal more freedom than you have experienced in recent years. This is a time for feeling loose and free; for moving away from old routines in a constructive way. If you became bogged down during this past year, now is the time to seek out new directions.

The problem with a personal year 5 is the tendency to scatter energies in all directions. Your ability to do detail work is limited now and it will make you feel very confined. In all, this a free-wheeling year that is liable to bring major changes to your life; your career, your family situation, your residence.

2014 Love, Family, Home and Responsibility (6)

2015 Analysis and Understanding (7)

2016 Attainment and Gains (8)

2017 Reflection (9)

2018 Next Cycle (1)

Destiny; Destiny is a very descriptive word for the meaning of the this important core element. This is the number that describes the tasks that you must achieve in this lifetime using the name that was given to you by your parents.

The number 6 Destiny suggests that the direction of growth in your lifetime will be toward a greater sense of responsibility, love, and balance. Development in life must make you more helpful, conscientious, and capable of rectifying and balancing any sort of inharmonious situation. You must be a person very much inclined to give help and comfort to those in need. You have a natural penchant for working with the old, the young, the sick, or the underprivileged.

As the saying goes, charity begins at home, and the home is where you must be a special person. The qualities of the 6 make the finest and most concerned parent, and one who is often deeply involved in domestic activities. Openness and honesty is apparent in your approach to all relationships, particularly close family relationship. A happy home life is the goal of Destiny 6, and if you live up to the promises of this number, you will reap this reward most likely with some degree of luxury and grace.

Although you may have considerable creative and artistic talents, the chances are that you will devote yourself to an occupation that shows concern for the betterment of the home and of the community at large. The destiny of the 6 is often a career in medicine, welfare work, education, dealing in the arts, furniture, decorating, landscaping, home construction, religious endeavors, or scientific fields.

The positive side of the number 6 suggests that you are very loving, friendly, and appreciative of others. You have a depth of understanding that produces much sympathetic, kindness, and generosity.

If there is an excess of the number 6 in your makeup, you may exhibit some of the negative traits associated with this number. This can include stubbornness, self-righteousness, or dominance. There may be a tendency for you to be too exacting and demanding of yourself, too. In this regard, you may at times sacrifice yourself (or your loved ones) for the welfare of others. Many with the Destiny of the number 6 worry much too much. In some cases, the over zealous 6 has difficulty distinguishing helping from interfering.

Soul Urge; the heart's desire, is an important core influence in numerology. However, the Soul Urge falls well below the Lifepath (the birth date number) and Destiny (the full birth name) numbers in importance, because this is a number that you don't expose overtly to those around you. It is your inner cravings, likes and dislikes, which are usually kept rather private. This number denotes what you value most regardless of Life Path (what you are from birth) and expression (what you will become in life). This influence suggests the nature that drives you in your daily life. Satisfying the demands of the Soul Urge will give you a sense of inner peace and contentment.

7
With a 7 Soul Urge, you have a strong inner need to gain a spiritual sense about the world around you. You have an inborn appreciation for nature and the wonders of the world around you. Fulfillment comes with being able to spend time in solitude and in seeking wisdom.

Inner Dream; The sum of the consonants in your name relates a secret dream, your inner desires, or maybe even fantasies. As a modifier, this aspect of your chart may be considered less important than many of the others because often these remote and deep-seated dreams are never realized. Sometimes, however, when this number has a relationship to another core number, the dream can come true. Strangely, this number is also associated with your personality or how people see you on first meetings. This number may be so strong in your subconscious that you even project the trait as a personality mask.

8...You dream of success in the business or political world, of power and control of large material endeavors. You crave authority and recognition of executive skills. Your secret self may have very strong desire to become an entrepreneur.

Birthday Number; The birthday is a supporting influence added to the Life Path. Think of it as a modifier to the Life Path. These are traits that you brought into this life much as with the more important and dominating traits shown by the Life Path. Here is your birthday and the modifying traits shown by it:

Your birthday on the 29th adds a tone of idealism to your nature. You are imaginative and creative, but rather uncomfortable in the business world. You are very aware and sensitive, with outstanding intuitive skills and analytical abilities. The 29 reduces to 11, one of the master numbers which often produces much nervous tension. This is the birthday of the dreamer rather than the doer. You do, however, work very well with people.

Planes of Expression; The word expression used here really means activity or how we act. This determination of expression is a product of birth name.

Creative/Adaptable
The combination of most of the letters in the creative and Adaptable mode suggests that you are a person who is inclined toward constant activity, but this activity must provide variety and change. Your efforts are directed at the here and now, but decision-making can sometimes be a problem. You are likely to act immediately on issues that come to your attention, but not without paying attention to the lessons from the past. Sometimes, you may dwell on the past a little too long. Positively expressed, creative letters produce constructive initiative, while the Adaptable tone allows you to always be flexible. You are able to fit easily into most situations, and you produce results wherever you fit in. You are devoted rather than ambitious.

Grounded Absence
Because your chart is void or nearly void in Grounded letters, you may be better at starting things than finishing them. Either you become bored with something soon after beginning it, or you take on so much that you don't have the energy or focus to accomplish anything. You may have difficulty in various aspects of your life, frequently changing jobs, lovers, residences, and even your beliefs and ideas on many of life's weightier issues.

Emotional:
Strong:
The emotional plane is very strong in your makeup. Indeed, your point of view usually contains significant portions of emotion and imagination without much concern for the facts of the matter. It's easy for you to get carried away sometimes. You are very original and creative and you care deeply for causes you embrace. You are extremely sentimental, sympathetic and caring. Your direct expression of friendship, affections and love make it clear where you stand.

Physical:
Weak: Your name suggests that physical or material interests are not paramount in your makeup. You would never pride yourself as being a very practical person. Indeed, your behavior may be anything but realistic and you really don't care. You may actually lack a solid sense of physical discipline and tend to avoid tedious and repetitive work when you can. It's hard for you to turn your many ideas into hard reality. Playing the game and competing at any significant level may be foreign to your nature.

Mental:
Average: Your name shows substantial strength in the mental plane suggesting that you have the ability to think things through carefully before making a decision. You have little difficulty handling mental activities even when they become technical and complex. You are comfortable in a leadership role, but this may not necessarily be an essential to your well-being.

Intuitive:
Weak: Your name suggests that intuitional or spiritual interests are not paramount in your makeup. So called intuitive awareness, psychic or otherwise spiritual matters aren't of much interest to you as you go about your daily tasks. The idea of developing inwardly pretty much leaves you cold. If there is an inner voice, you don't have much trust in it.

Challenges; Life is not a bed of roses. There are hurdles to get over and mountains to climb. In numerology, the roadblocks faced in life is called the challenges. The Challenge is a weak point in our Life Path. It is the weak link in the chain of life which must be overcome for us to grow and develop properly. We learn by meeting the challenge, and dealing with it effectively. The nature of the challenge is shown in the Life Path.

The numbers behind the final challenge will each be a potential problem during half of the life. The first sub challenge during the first part of the life, and the second sub challenge during the second half of the life. The Final Challenge is a potential weakness and problem throughout the entire life.

Challenge 1: No. 4. The challenge of the number 4 suggests a difficulty with work. Either you simply don't like to work, don't like the work your are forced to do, or you have difficulty completing tasks and working efficiently. You may be careless and lack a sense of practicality. Often this challenge makes it hard to see the forest for the trees when it comes to work and obligations. It is important for you to learn patience, understanding and the practical, common sense way of dealing with mundane responsibilities. You may also need to learn the importance of working within the parameters of a time schedule.

Challenge 2: No. The challenge of the number 3 suggests a tendency to scatter talents and try to do too many things at once during this period of your life. You may have a fine imagination and a gift for words, but you find it hard to express yourself effectively. Though you know you should cultivate friends and be sociable, you tend to be somewhat reclusive and defensive. You may have a talent for writing, acting, or speaking, but you are reluctant to involve yourself with these sorts of activities because you do not like to face the prospects of criticism. You are expressing yourself with a negative emphasis, hiding your creative talents behind a wall of shyness. You must strive to develop yourself in a social and in a creative sense. It's hard to just relax and have a good time.

Challenge 3: No. 1. The challenge of the number 1 suggests you are likely to feel dominated by others with strong influence, probably parents or others with whom you compete. The challenge of the number 1 is avoidance of being dominated, but doing so in a fashion that does not impose upon or dominate others. With the challenge of the number 1 it's extremely important to control the ego, and avoid the negative aspect of individuality. False pride, pomposity, egotism are issues to be guarded against now. You are now in a period of learning about self-reliance and how to solve your own problems independently. Learn to rely on your wit and your intelligence, avoiding argumentation and resentfulness.

dream notes

2010-01-09T04:32:00.000-08:00

i don't dream very often. when i do dream, it's usually because there are problems i'm avoiding or escaping from during daylight hours. it's my sleeping mind trying to work out the problems of my consicous mind, so it helps to pay attention to what's going on in my dreams. recently, i've had two bizarre dreams which have woken me up and left me unsettled.

the first was on boxing day. i found the bag i'd lost (in 'reality') with a pair of someone else's dirty knickers in it. not particularly impressed. then the dream jumped to being in a large, ramshackle house which reminded me of himmat. it was a house, but also a curry house. myself and sian were eating there in a fairly cold, empty and bare room. we were aware that some kind of racial unrest was building outside the house and there was an unsettling atmosphere. when i went to the toilets, the toilet paper was that hard, tracing paper stuff that you get in primary school. there was an asian man sat on the next table with a laptop and phone. communication seemed highly relevant and slightly suspicious. he was an intimidating character. when we left the house we heard the sounds of civil unrest! it seemed like a riot was starting, and so we ducked into the house next door.

after this i couldn't get back to sleep at all. eventually i stood up and did some yoga in the dark to calm myself before nodding off again. key themes seemed to be (mis)communication, difference and conflict arising from this. methinks the racism in this dream suggests that i may have been judgemental or discriminatory against somebody - falsely judging somebody because of the way they appear. i am practising non-judgement in my every thought so this is very relevant. it also represents my struggle to communicate thoughts and feelings, my growing unease with technology and instant, electronic modes of communication. there was also an apocolyptic atmosphere in the dream.

the second dream was last night. i don't remember as much detail about this one, since i didn't write it down when i awoke. all i remember is i was at a huge dining table in a restaurant about to eat a big meal. i was with loads of good friends though i can't remember which ones. someone was there who i thought was ben but looked very different in terms of clothes, hair and superficial appearance. this person was lying across the laps of several people on the opposite side of the table, as though there weren't enough chairs (despite the fact that there actually were). then ben arrived in more natural state - but i noticed he was wearing socks and jesus sandals! this is something i can imagine ... At the end of the dream my memory is completely disjointed, but the next thing i knew, a cat jumped onto my shoulder and urinated on me! what the...?!

i think this dream was actually several dreams as i kept waking up and going back to sleep, perhaps this is why it's so disjointed. i'm sure much more happened than i can remember. key themes seemed to be friends, perception of others, relationships. i think the shifting perception of that person and the cat are the main key here. the cat symbolises femininity, sexuality, power and mystery. it represents my own wish to analyse someone who i find difficult to interpret - and the cat urinating on me tells me that i need to forego my wish to control, analyse and understand others! concentrate on my own feet.

this all ties in if you look at snippets of this email i sent recently ...

nice to hear your voice yesterday. struggled not hearing from you over the weekend but time and space to centre myself was much needed and very welcome in end. cheers! hence i shall be laying off the text messages for a bit... tip toes treading carefully and all that. i'm even now finding it difficult to talk on the phone, one day i'll get rid of it.

a few words which the universe drew my attention to at precise moment you contacted me earlier this week;

"the two worst strategic mistakes are acting prematurely or letting an opportunity slip; to avoid this, the warrior treats each situation as if it were unique and never resorts to formulae, recipes or other people's opinions" !!!

poised intently with patience and speed in their respective places - and remembering the book you told me about... the law of least effort and law of detachment! these are lessons i didn't want to learn but now engaged with. not much idea what's going on behind those navy blue eyes of yours but you've been a catalyst for me learning good things.

spiritual growth first and foremost, reminding myself to concentrate on my own feet as i walk...

you should read some krishnamurti, he nearly had me running for the hills again. i've borrowed a couple of his books (on relationship and on freedom) but most of his teachings are also online. have a read; http://www.jkrishnamurti.org/ i'd be really interested to hear what you reckon.

also, i wanted to ask you, remember that night when you were drunk and rambling a bit - when you said you pay more attention to your dreams than when you're awake, did you actually mean that and what exactly did you mean? surely it has to be a balance between your spiritual and physical self? you are placed here as a human being for some reason, no?

i'm seriously trying to rid myself of the smoking especially now... though if what krishnamurti talks about is possible i should be able to free myself of thought process by concentrating and being aware of the actual habit of smoking and so never do it again! just like that. magic. the unconditioned mind. also contemplating moving out, i'm getting too lazy and hemmed in here.

be glad to see you soon if that is what shall be.
love to you lovely xxx

and as a footnote ...

i tend to dream when i am distressed or when there's something i am not facing in my waking life. when i am calm and balanced i simply don't dream. perhaps this is not the case for everybody though? sian said she dreams only when content; that when she has problems she needs to sleep uninterrupted in order to face them in waking life. perhaps this is the difference - perhaps i will eventually find the same. when i am more fully self aware i shan't need to dream to uncover the solution to problems. this makes perfect sense.

L.O.V.E

2010-01-08T12:46:00.000-08:00

to touch your soul through navy blue pirate's eyes might be love?

however, beware conditional attachment. emotions still rife in a mind tethered to the new wisdom of uncertainty and love, by only the thinnest of silver thread. this could have culminated in a zahir but i nipped the poison ivy in the bud. i've said it before; i want to experience the energy of unconditioned love. where possession doesn't come into it - when you are me, i am you and the world is us. how can this come into it when it concerns floating around with only half a foot in this dimension? i'd be forever envious of the world aside ... and what an interesting mind you have! anyway, we all need to work from the inside outwards.

apparently alcohol exaggerates his neuroticism and confuses his sense of time. such a tenuous link that he can't stop walking, trudging onwards; shaking off the manifestations of negativisms. (sorry, he doesn't believe in isms and neither do i. scrap that, eject it and rewind). which brings me to my next point - i'd prefer not to have a phone, have parted ways with facebook. those are unrealities that are not always healthy. yet he once said he pays more attention to his dreams than his waking life a lot of the time ... i can't grasp this as true. drunk on rum at the time though, so perhaps it wasn't.

back to this boy and he is beautiful. delicate features with a transparency which tell you his heart is good. a good heart and a complex head. i have to decipher and decode a lot of the time, though it's probably me complicating matters equally. we're different coloured lights guiding each other in ways we don't quite understand. we present a challenge with our opposing shades but illuminate the things we need to work on individually. we're teaching and testing each other, this is a good thing so long as it is healthy for both. i keep reminding myself to give, but only where the giving is also increasing my own energy, rather than depleting it.

yesterday we walked in the snow. i was half an hour late due to a last minute dash to make soup and cobble together nourishment for the walk. i also mixed some oils to re-balance his throat chakra - shall be intriguing to see how it works! as we walked through, i was surprised to see hundreds of people out sledging at shibden. it made for a magical, snowy scene and i insisted upon a sledge, although he looked none too keen. good, pure childish fun! i even took off at one point, soaring through crisp air and crashing down on sheet ice. a lovely walk.

when we got to bradford his squat had been locked. a handle-less metal door over the actual door that once opened. he's homeless but seemed to take it in his stride. it's happened and everything in the universe is as it should be. faith, hope and love make me sure that he will find his path... i respect the ability to say 'no' to society. the world needs them desperately, since there are so many that, unquestionning, only ever say 'yes'.

as an afterthought, some inexplicable element of the last few weeks has made me want to read the zahir by paulo coelho again. i have a strange feeling that i'll find things in it that didn't appear to me the first time around. it's beautiful to know that my own soul is guiding me in this way. looking back over the book i am remembering to forget my personal history and connecting much of what he talks about to old krishnamurti. how do i spread the energy of pure love? my soul must be unblemished, despite the years of accumulated knowledge. i must tell my story in minute detail to go past the 'giving up point'. when we manage this, everything changes. there is much to learn in this world, but there is no better place to start 'unlearning' than with love.

on morning (number one)

2010-01-07T04:59:00.000-08:00

A faint line of orange glow
Illuminates fields, cars,
The snaking road on slight incline
And the snow above and below.
A monkey tree sections this,
Standing as a huge acorn
With pipe-cleaner branches
Wavering, hesitant, shifting and
Mutating in morning air
Before dry eyes.

Yet the mind is clear,
The silence of a snowy morning being golden
And everything touched with accumulated love
From the night before.
As I sit cross-legged and contemplative
I release my thoughts,
(The thinking woman's pose opposed?)
Breathe them out in unnecessary whirls
Which float towards the window ledge.

Outside, the tips of trees laden
With white dust are barely visible,
High as we are I hope that the thoughts
Will disperse having unhurt;
Ineffectual causes leaving simply
Pure, sweet air behind.
The solitary tweet of a bird
Clears cloudy eyes and I am glad
To witness the first signs of life today.

new year ramblings

2010-01-05T08:22:00.000-08:00

we grasped for sisterhood found amongst mountains; sighing to let go, embracing the present and each other. reconnecting through a shared affinity with the natural world, we enjoyed a muddy, wet walk and utilised instinct to guide us home via synchronicity of a circular route. with feet up by the fireside we also fired (down) real ale, hearty soup and steaming, spiced mulled wine.

i taste, touch and squeeze earthly pleasures and love the illusion.

later, physical bodies bumped in the night, two souls touching like a jeff buckley song. our childish subconscious brought simultaneous belief in everything and nothing - continue to write in the past tense and none are free. believe in anything and none are free, believe in everything and nothing maybe? think i may have been taking everything too literally, but no time will tell i'm afraid.

white birds of freedom

2010-01-02T15:11:00.000-08:00

subsidence and snow
could take me down to the
half frozen stream,
and no one would hear me scream
in this wilderness -
except that I would take you with me,
since your hand is outstretched
always ready to help.

here in secretive white, i sink
and arrive nowhere fast
but the solitary act is
excellent as mental exercise.
i remind myself, cautious,
to concentrate on my own trainers,
feet firmly on the path before
and one eye on the water.

the black choppy reservoir
peaks and troughs
like the top of the trifle
i half-made yesterday,
and white birds bob unsteadily
or perch on the outermost edge
with heads turned
imperiously away.

red wine

2009-12-26T08:46:00.000-08:00

A light red wine with
Raspberry overtures,
But not Rose, for God's sake!
I despise a dry throat
But don't hate
It.

Hate nothing,
Not even those bitter bores
Who cannot find the time or
Space of heart to enjoy
Enough
In this life.

spiritual revolution

2009-12-26T08:45:00.001-08:00

Is there?
Out there somewhere?
Here
Now
Presently
Eminent
And rearing it's pretty head
From the morass of deceit?

Come to think of it
Pretty is far from the word.
Is there any word?
Illuminating
Freeing
For seeing the world
As it really is
n't.

a short, festive thought

2009-12-26T08:28:00.000-08:00

I saw a little girl on Christmas day
Wearing a Cinderella dress with wellies
Almost tripping
But caught by a Grandparent.

I thought
Are spines made to be broken?
The spines of the books I love
Yet they're simply
Concoctions of words,
Collections of letters,
Frozen in time
Like this
Simple poem.

midwinter melodrama

2009-12-26T08:04:00.000-08:00

You might find me melodramatic
This midwinter night
In my navy, posh frock
With my magical moments
And flame-haired nonsense.

I digress and romanticise,
Express myself impulsively
Alongside evergreens,
Companionable fires and
illuminations.

Animal Collective
And sounds of Hejira
Remind me of you, with your
Walking boots and skew whiff
Pirate stance, lolloping into

Lamp-posts because part of you
Resides in 'an(other) dimension(s)'.
You confuse my senses,
It doesn't matter now if I write
With a nice pen or not.

Filled with warm fuzz in Narnia,
A sore hip and near-bust lip
Remind me of being a kid.
A nice, anti-traditionalist
Veggie dinner,

Pressies wrapped by Pops in
Recycled paper
And lovely as it is, I might just
Volunteer at a soup kitchen
Next winter.

Precious, bijoux gifts including
Sweet Music (oh Bijou!)
Garnet earrings and the romantic catalogue
Of an ended relationship
Through objects (ironic!)

Love notes, postcards,
Items of clothing, polaroids
And all the while
My brother catalogues
Lifetimes of song in decadagonal order,

Desiring to preserve the life of a dearly
Loved Dead-Head.
I also have recently rearranged my
Books according to Colour-
This therapy reigning order over chaos.

We're all obsessed with this in
Individual ways
But there were too many
Blacks and whites in the pile
To oppose the balance.

"It's just a book" representing a
Subjective collection of moments;
Separate lots of a life
Reflected in objects
To be viewed by collectors of detail.

I remember to avoid detail in life,
Concentrate on the same -
An album, a book, a poem, a photograph
Dedicated to love
Of the singular.

Should these islands of minds
Not be plural, please?
Connected by fluidity and sand
And yet, I fret
Not immediate contact.

Wavering, bonded, on a plateau
Below, my face like chalk to

Hide love's wings and

I jump at the noise

As lamp-light swims.

The residual spark,
The soot of contact, I envisage;
Foot to foot with those toes I love.
Dense hair on an open head
And sombre navy blue eyes,

Both dark and bright
Thus connected to life
By a solitary silver thread.
I dread the day you go away
But my arms encircle freedom.

I respect Your disregard for possession

In our recycled air.
Yes, You (and did You notice, You have
a capital letter?)
Even as I speak of removing possession.

Balance is key to all as I
Shake snow from the branches
Of trees like sprinkling dust,
Those symbols of solstice
Amongst frozen time and berry wine.

veggie-ism

2009-12-21T14:15:00.000-08:00

Once upon a time
We caught and KILLED our own food.
Wild, eh?
Blood and guts - survival,
Hunting - the hunted,
The food chain argument.

But if I could find alternative sustenance
I would not kill more than
A little fish
Or at a stretch, a chicken,
(Though apparently it's difficult to catch one,
Let alone KILL it).

I doubt Coelho's love to breastbone
Technique would work in this instance!

My Mum says she's not a hypocrite;
Knows where it's come from
And would kill it herself if need be.
I don't quite believe her
Which makes me think -

Perhaps we're getting
Softer and softer,
Nicer and nicer,
As a result of these negatives?
Battery farmed chickens
Paving the way
For future chickens and their
Long
Harmonious
Lives.

contents of my bag

2009-12-17T01:50:00.001-08:00

i'm rifling through a bottomless bag. it's paisley patterned, not carpeted - but almost mary poppins territory. the first thing i find is a blue leather wallet, filled with plastic oblongs and copper coins, a few notes if i'm lucky ... there's a poetry society membership card, a national insurance number and natwest (the fuckers). all clues to me, myself and i, or my identity anyway. the lavender roller ball is for dabbing on that delicate spot on the inner wrist at stressful moments. the grotty labello lip balm is almost empty, after fighting a raging battle with the winter's chapping effect.

i grip a phone (necessary evil, cheapest going, but still somehow i'm always texting like a fiend!) and also several books, which i love to love. there is a notebook and pen combined with the crackling of empty cigarette packet plastic. there's very rarely a lighter. often, there are several bus tickets, crumpled and scrunched, representing days of my life. there are always, always inhalers. i'm fearful of losing my breath as ever. and last of all come the keys. attached to plaited leather that's seen better days - and is long, so as not to lose them. jingling, jangling with the sound of home comforts; they take me to another door, another space to fill. i won't even get started on my bedroom.

isms of everything

2009-12-14T14:30:00.000-08:00

Sectarianism, Buddhism,
Yorkshireisms and Fascism.

Pescetarianism, Terrorism,
Anarchism and Absurdism.

Commercialism, Elitism,
Humanism and Antagonism.

And the showpiece; Antiferromagnetism,
Along with all the other anti-isms.

I could go on for quite some time since
We're so ism'd up to the eyeballs here!

But You say you don't believe in them
And I think I must concur.

an inflamed world

2009-12-10T02:33:00.000-08:00

it's hard to resist an inflamed world once in a while,

when the tip to base follicle of each single hair,
that's every hair has a feeling, wavy or straight,
attached to a thought directly in the brain.

when goose-pimples begin at the base of the neck
and transcend outwards in waves until they
combine with afore-mentioned hairs on end.

when skin like thick jelly is numb, and excess
is drawn until each pore is sore with feeling.

you may not feel the hands upon you, but you shall
feel a thousand hands in every spot of skinless space,
when your nose feels cut to the bone and cold.

historical fragments of alien substance psycho-act,
confuse time and space over years:

the gas van that sold ice cream,
the paralysing dreams,
the fingertips which painted
dancing patterns in air
and the restorative power of apricot juice
in france.

i remember vividly, the heart attack fears,
and the shearing of de-sensitisation
as hurricane katrina occurred.

when i think about it,
there were copious amounts of bonjela
smeared on moments of clarity,

but the blaring light of beauty
was clearer than ever, when sleepless
with our weakness exposed together.

and the chemical abates, pulse returns to normal,
pupils no longer dilated, experiment over for another night,
yet we repeat this with various concoctions -
like the play poison i buried in the garden sometimes.

always, lights rises, and ears ring as the song
of morning birds tempts motion back to swollen lips.
i remember a time my cheek looked like i'd been punched.

tramping streets flushed with morning,
away from peeling paint, unadorned floors
and dirt between some four vibrating walls,

i've felt faint often - dehydrated, i radiate heat,
then freeze, and always, the blankness of the bathroom
is dangerous/disorientating,

as you swipe away the grime with grim tuesdays,
loose haze and a lack of perspective,
for which you prescribe wine, chocolate and chinese.

but i'll always have such memories to thank
for some profound revelations,
their small release paving the way
for compassionate things.

it's hard to resist an inflamed world once in a while.
when the sigh of speedy heartbeat booms on chest,
and the gasps for breath just choke out quietly,

when we all want to swallow the whole world whole.

the current outlook

2009-12-10T02:21:00.000-08:00

"Ne'er fear man nor beast".

"Eager for the year ahead
And damn pleased",
I said, on this white, bright morning.

I believe every word
Conceivably. And reaching for
Meaning helps to ease my
Roaming soul.

As broken leaves limp down to the
Ground, I know that life will return.
New moons, new tunes
To dance to in the strangeness of all of this.

Untapped horizons which may
Mutate before my eyes
And cause another rotation.
Just as the world spins on it's axis,

I self-learnt didactically
Concurrent perspectives and the
Kaleidoscope of possibility.

A splattered mouse and I think of giving,
A raincloud and I know that seeds will sprout from this,
And the ending of a story brings only more in future for me.

Have I eaten too many bananas?
Overdosed on the Dalai lama?
For I am walking on nothing again -
Not road, not earth, not air, not feet,
But replete with love.

At home in the madness here,
Where the urge to flee flies overhead,
Even lands on occasion -
But I still have my own direction to tread.

Centred in the salt of the
Pit of my stomach,
I hope to have a good old Yorkshire soul.
Away with the faeries but
They'll always be Northern in nature.

Henceforth, I endorse the view
Of multiple everything;
Unsure smiles in the face of danger, and
Goodwill to all men (women and children).

on hearts everywhere

2009-12-10T02:09:00.000-08:00

my friendly heart knows not
it's own violent crimson.
my other self and her sly tactics
outflank, manoeuvre and double bluff,
using the heart as a red herring.

"when heart-broken please take care
to stitch back together,
slowly and delicately,
matching the seams exactly.
don't allow the vitriol to grow
but believe in your own lovely ventricles,
which go on pumping day after day
on earth, as we create our heaven".

but this earth is full to bursting, beware.
one slip, one tripped, lost beat
and we're out of here. our fragility
never ceases to amaze me.

and how many are underfoot?
ancestors jesting at our
lovesick looks, romantic woes
and waning appetites.

this ebb and flow is often all we know of love.

the blue room

2009-12-09T15:57:00.000-08:00

i stood in the middle of the empty room, a little girl lost, as i stared around at the four empty walls of my new home. the magnolia paint was flaky in places and punctured by marks from previous pins, which had probably once held in place some other inmate's attempt at decoration. not knowing what to do, i plonked down my suitcase and sat in the middle of the floor feeling bereft. glancing up, i fixated on the one adornment present on the walls. i stared at the clock with such intensity; i became almost positive for a moment that i could have made time slow, or even stop, had i really wanted it to. it was a thought that was both tempting and repellent, for here i was, poised at the cusp of a transformative period in life, the beginning of everything after the painful stasis of the last few months.

i counted down the minutes obsessively, clearing the thick, foggy mess inside my mind with structured sentences, viewing my predicament from the numerous perspectives which clamoured for attention there. the tick tock of the clock marched steadily onwards. it's repetitive rhythm comforted me, yet i no longer wished to see life through the frosted glass of hypnosis. i shook my head and refused to be drawn in, instead turning towards the large bay window. i dragged the heavy, solid, wooden chair from underneath the desk in search of the bright sunlight of the crisp autumn morning. the low grating noise of the chair making contact with the threadbare carpet irritated my frayed nerves, but again, i forced myself to ignore it. getting over these obsessive idiosyncrasies was necessary to lead a normal life, so i had been told.

as i squinted out across the posh, landscaped gardens, the ding dong of the doorbell shocked me back into the here and now. i whirled around. visitors. but I didn’t know anybody here? who could it be? opening the door, i stood face to face with a petite, dwarf-like girl wearing dramatic eye make-up and a long, flowing tie-dye skirt. she had the appearance of something magical. she grinned a wide, toothy smile and told me her name was ella. before i knew it, she had bounded past me towards the window, rabbiting incoherent sentences over her shoulder. squinting past both her and my green surroundings, i could just about make out manchester in the distance. the skyline betrayed the cities industrial history, now also joined by sleek, contemporary architecture. this was the same city in which i had begun university a year before. didn’t get very far, and somehow ended up here instead. looking back, it was doomed from the first.

the white room

2009-12-09T15:33:00.000-08:00

it was all enveloping, yet infecting so little of her senses that she could not be sure that it was actually there at all. once inside, it was impossible to tell if anything was real or not. even her thoughts became indistinguishable - were they her own, or was it all around her? in the whiteness, the blank buzz of noise dulled deafened ears further. she was suddenly afraid; terrified that she would be locked up in this box forever and eternity. 'the girl who got stuck', the headlines would blare, in an alternate universe. she had arrived here by strange chance and had no clue, as yet, to which yellow brick road her sparkling shoes had stepped upon. where, oh where on this godless earth was she?

it had occurred slowly, or quite suddenly; she couldn’t recall. but over time she became vacuous, as though a big, gaping crack had opened in the surface of her. ‘little girl lost’, she called herself, in recorded words and wondering, as she contemplated her surroundings. the girl was helpless as a fly, and squashed - that much was evident. flattened, almost eliminated, it was true that she had felt mildly invisible recently. she must have been slightly so - since though I can picture her right now, with hair the colour of autumn leaves and a wonky grin which did not betray her insides; i cannot for the life of me remember her name. jane doe was pale as a whisper, transparent as a shadow. a shell of her own delusional grand plans and technicolour dreams, perhaps?

one day, she went to the office as usual. for a few days prior, she had felt difficulty in drawing breath. it was as though a hand was applying a slight, yet constant pressure upon her throat, causing her to swallow repeatedly as she gasped, drowning. half-thinking it was asthma, she had ignored it thus far. but today was different. her cheeks ached with pressure and her vision was beginning to flicker indeterminately. she felt light, like a child at christmas, but without the pleasure, reminding herself of someone who had been on the waltzer too many times. something pounded in her throat (was it her heart – and what was it doing there, we wonder?), and in the end she dissolved. dissolved into a puddle of tears. a melancholy sight, on a bright summer morning in july. bundled into a car, she hardly felt the hands on her as they took her home.

sunday stories (number two)

2009-12-08T16:22:00.001-08:00

Discern the flannel shirt
Uncuffed, it flaps in friendly wind

(These waves of air
Will surely never hurt me?)

Behold the orange hat
Distracting warmth to mind to ears
And Why Oh Why
Would I roll it up to expose them?

Contemplate these feet
Be doused in peat and mud
Through weather, the moor and heather
(Each with two syllables, please).

And alive in our lollop together,

Accompanying bereaved dreams and
Splitting seams on this patchwork,
To rearrange in light of new beliefs

Our insides and surroundings.

A 'rustic' sarnie with smoked cheese
And beetroot. Attempt at detox
Always ends in beer here!

With frozen bones

When the flannel shirt no longer works

To discern anything.

And then a bus, chugging to

Soul trio, Bright Star or Bratfud -
Must I be so susceptible to direction?

Can truth be found here?
Amongst peeling paint, bare floors and
Dirt between these once redundant walls.

And You call me a filthy article!

All night I stretch out
Your solemn eyes gleam and grasp
Like half drowned trees underfoot of flood.
I want to experience unconditioned love.

But for what do I wish to analyse?
As Veronika Decides to Die each night
Somewhere. But not here, not now;
I won't be running for the hills for a little while yet.

kites and towels

2009-12-08T16:01:00.001-08:00

Absolve myself from absolutism;
Envision stinging skin, soft as a baby's bum
And fresh as a daisy at dawn,
Simply because I choose it to be.

Consequently and constantly
I'm in a state of Morning -
Those first few moments of the day
Being in essence, unaffectedness.

I skip along this yellow brick road
Each day, allowing Mythical creatures
To breach my unbelieving
Eyes.

And a towel is a Thing of Great Mystery
When I inhabit this space,
Post-wind chill on 'that there 'ill'
Where experimental theatre took place.

And everyday
Arising with fluffy, white fibrous material
Brings home to my self-starved persona
That we deserve to see the view like this again.

A view, not just for us
But filled with kites above
(Multi-coloured ones) which I prefer to believe
Would be there anyway.

midnight swimmer

2009-12-05T14:13:00.000-08:00

Torch-lit water illuminates
a chasm of hard darkness,
where killer sharks could likely lurk
in stark discord with quacking ducks
which scatter, scared
when artificial light flares.

The vast expanse of rippling blackness
is in shock, a delicate nervous system,
when you submerge, just for kicks.
Re-surfacing, (in)observing lacked light
and child-like tricks - is it a tall tree
at the water's edge or a monstrous, macabre 'Man'?

Oh man it's floor-less here and
the reservoir shore escapes you.
The cold ingratiates into bones and
you're searching, sightless, for something there.
Where oh where would you be
but here, at midnight?

Toying with the edge
in a sweaty and prurient palm,
relishing a drama played out deep down
in the submerged, underwater world.
Can you jump? Feet first and unafraid,
the silky chill of the night swim
draping shoulders, numbing limbs.

I've never ever seen the sight of night sky
from undercover of water;
I stand mesmerised as you emerge,
baptised and disguised as a mermaid.

not from a tap

2009-12-05T14:12:00.000-08:00

I rarely bathe,
All that sitting in your own
COLD WATER
With the music on, candle-lit
And tricked into thinking
It's relaxing.

It's taxing to wait in water like this!
Not wading through natural pools,
Young fool at my side
And playing at being water babies.
We're catching fat, full raindrops on
Tongues, and simultaneously
Swimming strong against
A tide of continuum.

sugar-shower

2009-12-05T14:09:00.000-08:00

A metal-edged and treacherous one
made reckless motions towards,
showering sleek cheek-kisses
(mwah! mwah!) and lovely exclamations
of exaggerated estimation
of our closeness,
our knowingness (of each other),
and the time that had lapsed
since we had last met.

Hot feet wish to flee
her glacial vacancy of face,
the sugary-plum dahlings and
oh-so tweety pie embrace.
Wrapped in tinkly tin foil, covering treats
for half-rotten teeth
she makes me feel foul;
sugar-coated and sticky,
like my mouth after coke.

Shaking free, testing no holes
have been singed in the soul of me,
I exit this vacuous acidity.
She genuinely scares - empty bird,
pecking away at the world!
Terrified and tired I lock the door,
pull the cord and raid the treasure trove I find here.

Lavender shower gel and running water,
(imagine, momentarily, digging a bore hole?)
Such products give way to a freshened smell.
Artificially cleansed, a vile smile;
"Well gee kids, isn't that swell!"

the devil and all his works

2009-11-29T07:40:00.000-08:00

I dare you to disturb me with Stigmata,
Martyr me to prove your existence.
Shadows, flies, the river of Hades,
Descending on me in purple dreams
Until I awake, choking on broken anti-belief,
A wreath of thorns upon rose red temples
And a stem of struggling distress
Fixing me, writhing, to the bed.

I dare you to do so.
I await the malevolent glow of the
Devil and all His Works -
But He will never show himself
(Living as He does, in us).

sundays stories (number one)

2009-11-29T07:23:00.000-08:00

Feeling fresh, I arose,
Kissing morning gladly
And the cool, windswept smoothness
Of stone on Ogden Moor ahead.

And goodbye to those
Remnants of green velveteen,
A plum-dream spleen over hills
From the night before.

I saw

The light-head giddiness
Of song along an open road,
and berry sneaks married timid feet
in autumn leaves.

I remembered

That razzle dazzle rosing
Had left me feeling grim.
Whiled away in the poverty of silence until

Too old for toadstools
And boggarts under bridges,
I resolved to take pictures instead.

Arguing writerly inspiration,
Amongst the twilit sight of tall
Trees slowly shorn from eyes by
Enveloped moon.

Wrap me in the cloak of a
Magical, enchanted wonderland
Like Alice, I begged ...

For there is no room for lazy footfall
Here, and you must stay near, little girl,
In this forest walk world.

chance encounter

2009-11-23T16:01:00.001-08:00

Boy in an army jacket
Who lives in a squat in Bradford
Of all places.

His face is causing a racket.
Can you stop it please, if I smile sweetly
Enough?

Ingredients being, one serious smile,
Thick head of buoyant hair atop
And that thing that I bump into everywhere

Footnote to a cut throat razor loss.

I observe that which accompanies
But I cannot comprehend
This suffering (having never had to).

A pillar of existence shot down
Leaving half-armed
With tinted windows, the three of them.

He is an opportunist
Who wants to visit India and
I want to go with him.

I've only met him twice, three times
But his fine, quiet featured gentleness
Is already inside,

And when I learn his Pirate name
It all
Falls further into place.

He travelled West Yorkshire
On a day rider for three months once.
This is impressive and an easy trick.

Does his shopping out the back of
Sainsbury's - their throw-aways
Indicative of collective waste.

He understands that possession
Is three-thirds of the law that
Keeps us residing in fear

And he reminds me of Into The Wild.
Listens to Joni Mitchell in the morning
And wants to go walking.

Yet meetings are skewed as afterwards,
Balanced in the tree position, I lean
Towards his sun.

It's tempting to jump headlong into a
Pool of him; spend hours meditating upon
Each other's lips, faces and fingers.

Quickly, redress this!
"Keep control of our own time and basic space -
Be cautious, as always", he suggests.

'Tis a special one though
The spiritual 6 in numerology,
United by words and books and worlds of thought,

By lands of home and lands apart

That time forgot - And I touch

His soul with my palm as we each stand alone.

a home inside my own

2009-11-23T15:22:00.003-08:00

place plush cushions on a couch
to soothe and ease The Ouch!
of a lost girl seeking a home.
i lay claim to eccentric comfort
now that i am loverless.

the roaring fire spits flames
silently and blue at the centre
battles windowpanes,
loose at the edge, allowing draft
from the ledge to escape.

scruffy floor-boards sing and shriek
as air envelops freezing feet
and cold toes tingle in the night.
i say i'll get slippers but never do;
do i really need an indoor shoe?

dusty bookshelves floor to ceiling
arranged by colour and expressing the feeling
of a thousand imagined characters,
often distracting me from the task at hand
with their mystical worlds.

i need to zoom in to drop out,
not multiply in the jumble sale brain
i sift through sometimes.
either way/i care not, and love them
individually and unequivocally, like unborn children.

the buddha is still in the corner stock-still
and from the stereo joni mitchell
sings a love song to california -
if i could sing,
i'd write a song like that.

the speckled bodies of venetian glass
obscure the key i have lost inside myself.
i don't want to make do with the
conditional arms of someone else:
though obviously it's a pleasure to lean/

i would cry to be a vile, blood-sucking creature,
strange deceiver at the door seeking warmth.
i yearn for the home inside my own -
the antithesis of pandora's box or i being odysseus
but better! no one-eyed monsters or kalypso
tar very much.

page closed, book shut
on a happy end would be satisfying.
but words aren't days and there is no close,
solely the onwards march, lonely soldiers in our lives,
battling ourselves most often.

there is a dark night or Hark!
a glorious day outside,
but if i remain here long enough
i'll forget to feel the sun shine
or the rain pouring long and fine.

paintings depict romantic destinations -
paris, prague, integrated into our own walls
of antique white. it's all mine by extension
and they are here intermittently;
between walks, too much work and worrying about us.

seasonal affective disorder

2009-11-23T01:06:00.001-08:00

Your family dropped like leaves
From an evergreen tree,
Slipping through long fingers
Into homelessness
Within your child-soul.

A patchwork square of you
Then flew away that day
In an origami dove,
With a message of peace inside
Written by the child.

Tinged at the edge with cold
Colour and inglorious
Knowingness, lips loaded,
Turned up at corners,
Folded down with mourning.

And a picture warns

Of the beloved, the beautiful deceased
As a twinkle breaks your eye -
Thick, loaded, brimming now,
Swimming with promises of patchy rain
Interspersed with sunshine, sporadically.

A storm brings gale force winds
In from the West,
And there is no time for sweet sleep
Or even a blissful rest
Amongst this.

little brother

2009-11-21T02:30:00.001-08:00

You own;
The entire collection of Radiohead albums,
A big arse! And generous arms.

"Surrounded by people
But I'm all alone",
Declared you once at 5am

And on the phone to me
In my then boyfriend's bed, in France -
Scared me witless, little Sam!

Manchester, not Melbourne,
Fool. (N.B. Please try to be sure
Of where you are in future).

Gulping goon surrounded by the swoons
Of girls my age (bleurgh)
Little brother got big
In the blink of an absent eye

And it's a great discovery of my time to find
That we siblings live in a pod of
Death-thinking and
Adventure seeking.

It's good to know that wherever we roam
We're two predictable peas set free,
(How strangely you know me).

And as you regard life with Student eyes
I curiously observe
The floppy locked little brother in them.

Yes YOU
Who I read like a book.
You are the second in a dynasty
After all,
Though it should've been a Trilogy.

And what other character could have been?
But that's another story
And there's no words anywhere
Which can tell it entirely.

So I won't try, just silently watch
You two love-birds,
Slit-eye to wide-eye and
Play-fighting like children
In the back of the car.

blue

2009-11-18T15:39:00.000-08:00

Lost and found all at the same time
With sounds of past
And winters future
On repeat inside,
(Please can you Delete (me), you sigh.

Pleasure elicited from thought
Brought suffering as loss and longing
Painted firm brush-strokes across
Your down-turned face,
Until Blue described your mood, aptly.

Distractedly stranded in Norweigan Wood,
Isolated, and questioning
Your own effectiveness
As a human being;
Were magical dreams made to be broken
Before you'd even spoken them?

But please don't moan!
A tear is formed for shedding and
Leaving a clear eye behind,
It's silver trails like slugs
In a tracked race down your neck, and
Away from the remnants of your bleak distress.

And a blue you chugs onwards
Slowly, towards the light at the end
And still later (stationary) on a train
You tug at your Blue, struggling
With a wayward brain:

It's a hard and vicious fight
On the commute home from work
Each anger-fuelled night.

There was a ring and it was Blue baby,
One day I asked if it was a mood
Ring - 'Sarcastic Fucker' was your reply.

to be queen

2009-11-16T05:08:00.000-08:00

I want to live in a Den of Iniquity,
All scarlet drapes
And sexual dissidents,
Intriguing strangers
With beguiling faces;
Gathered Together in My Name
From exotic, faraway places.

What girl has not dreamed
This scene? To be queen
Of all she surveys,
The Femme Fatale of a heart
Which is shrivelled, black
And gleams – from amongst her
hand-picked harem.

Can there be such thing as
Animalistic caress?
Agressively loving, possessive sex?
When sweat beads like
Blood diamonds on chest,
A chest undressed, disarmed even,
Like Samson by Delilah.

on waitressing

2009-11-16T02:42:00.000-08:00

I like the ritualistic restaurant;
The oddballs and miserable bastards
Whose order remains forever the same,
Week on week.

But to distribute
A basket full of steak knives
Still breaks my serving heart,
And plate upon plate of lasagne, seems cruel to the crab.

Drab life, they disregard, skimming specials vaguely,
But for me a certain satisfaction is found
In making round, circular movements
To polish glass -

Sticky and no longer see through
With over-fed fingers,
Betraying the greasy film of dining
And wining, week on week.

And I like to see those thick swirls
On the top
Of a good cup of coffee,
Served with a biscuit, a smile and drunk in unhurried time.

I love the lessons learned like selfish pearls,
The tiny, beautiful moments
Of altruism(?) and
The happiness of others:

Heavenly monkfish
In a huge and deep-set dish,
With chorizo, basil and cherry tomatoes,
Followed by
A hot, strong Irish coffee
And a cake, devilishly sweet and
Doused in cream.

winter approaching

2009-11-15T15:50:00.000-08:00

Soundscapes of a snowy landscape
Tinkling, rankling my mountain-less soul
As I long for the white, blank freedom
Of a blizzard, lost in this I imagine I'd feel
At home.

Yet this is no longer reality,
And I know there'll be future landscapes
I adore equally.

But discreetly I imagine;
Zee pain au chocolat,
Zee chair le poule,
Zee grumpy old men stood at the bar
Downing espressos and (when they could)
Chain smoking Marlboro Reds.

to my 16 year old self

2009-11-14T06:53:00.000-08:00

skinny limbed chicken
i find my former self,
scowling from the inside
out, scornful of the
fistfuls of joy and wanting 'only'
a pair of miss 60 jeans!

reading sophie's world cross-legged,
unfurling antelope limbs with
crushed grapes of pain
at the shins,
dimly aware of the world
outside my windowpane.

a rush of blood to the head
and crushing pain
in a motionless chest,
remnants of rebellion -
the night before and my
glorious escape, intoxication.

poems by my mum

2009-11-14T06:45:00.000-08:00

Numbed Limbs

Beside myself, sit I,
Numbed limbs,
There is a green hill far away,
A child's favourite hymn,
Back to front, Inside out,
A myth invisible,
Intransient,
Rooted/buried, heavy soil,
Forgive me/excuse me
Taunt and bemuse me,
Meaning/shining
Screaming unheard -
Certain sounds,
If I were a dog (polarity),
I might be dead,
Painless, quiet,
Memory,
Yours:

Bowled Over

Giant of a man - my stars predicted,
Giant of a man,
Do I have to be on another plane
To feel those arms enveloping, holding,
That tenderness, that trust,
So long, it's been so long,
So strong - those arms,
My face is wet
I can't express,
Cradled in a storm
By a giant of a man.

Movement

It touches me like a beam in Plato's Cave,
I don't mean my bowels
Or my house
When I say 'moved' ...
It moves me - you move me.

Distinguish

The general of our particulars
Only reflects our particular mood,
Thought, feeling - being
At one particular time - in general.

Is Vs Ought

I feel therefore I am,
I feel I should end on a happy note
Therefore, I will.

little girl lost

2009-11-12T01:12:00.000-08:00

She's got holes in the soul of her,
motion-ful but no eventual goal
forever and ever amen -
she's fatigued and yet,
drives onwards (brave little solider!)
prising moments of clarity and
a hard-won parity
from the fingertips of confusion.

Fighting long-held delusions daily,
and determinedly forging a path as she treads
cobbled crossroads, rutted dips and
mile after mile where she inelegantly trips
once in a while.

And it is then she sheds her second, third and fourth skins,
Her tallest, warmest skins, and smiles ...
Smiles skinless over the peaks and troughs of
all the possible, stony lanes that she could take
towards yonder, over the hill and far away
one day to the curious next.

There are multiple dimensions
to this flighty dissension,
causing holes in the soles
of her scruffy, worn shoes;
painter pumps, over-worked, much used
and then dumped in a dustbin
flecked with sauce, like blood,
but not quite as exciting.

Her voice hoarse, weary
with those dreary words,
oft-repeated and wished deleted
from her vocabulary,
and the servitude of days which are
waitressed away (but not really, please?)

Thoughts drop like pennies
in the expanse of a mind wide
with the throw of offbeat thoughts as dice,
She always has a notebook in her pocket
to document this with variable precision.
It's to you she writes
Mysterious animal, her own indecision.

poetry (on being here, now)

2009-11-11T02:25:00.000-08:00

From:	Isabel Brittain (@hotmail.com)
Sent:	11 November 2009 10:25:32
To:	Sian Lucas (@yahoo.co.uk)

Good Morning Siany! How are you on this fine November day? It's a drizzly one but I'm feeling good...! Think my feet are returning to the ground after recently losing my perspective a little.

You asked me on Friday night what I think makes a good poem and it really got me thinking. Not only about that particular question, but also contemplating why I discovered an appreciation for poetry at this particular point in my life. I've always loved literature, and the occasional poem, but I never really went out of my way for it - and I only rarely attempted to write it. Now I can't get enough of the stuff! And I think I've worked out why.

Poetry is a metaphor for the outlook on life that I now aspire to. Poetry teaches us to appreciate the smallest details in life; be they conventionally beautiful, tragic or simply somewhat innocuous on first sight. There is actually poetry in each day of our life, in everything we see and do - if only we pay attention and engage with it in a way that allows us to fully appreciate it. It's all part of an over-arching process that is an ongoing journey through life. Each tiny patch of the quilt is worthwhile. This is how I'm trying to live, and poetry is a great reminder of this truth.

The best of poems express this universal truth, whilst also being extremely personal. Poetry is therefore a written reminder of the search for 'the middle way', as I keep rabbiting on about. A balance between the universal and the personal - living with your own importance and unimportance simultaneously. Living 'in the moment' and making plans simutaneously. Remaining flexible and inquisitive, with a child-like appreciation for the world. Finding a way to live your life in harmony with your surroundings (whether people, places, things, your own messy mind...) By extension and by virtue of it's personal nature, poetry also comments upon the way in which we inwardly paint the world around us according to our subjective viewpoint.

The complexity of poetry teaches delayed pleasure as opposed to instant gratification, something which I'm struggling to internalise and absorb into my own life day by day. Poetry is like plodding onwards, through highs and lows, just soaking it all in and appreciating everything. Realising how lucky we are for each and every moment, and always remembering how little we actually 'know' about anything. That poetry is so personal, allows the reader to embrace this unknowing - we know enough when we are aware of this.

So a good poem teaches all of this. It's a shame that due to language barriers poetry cannot be entirely universal, though when translated it should still be, regardless of era, subject or how personal it is simultaneously. The rhyme and rhythm of poetry is essential, adds a certain beauty and imprints the words upon your mind. How much easier it is to learn lines of poetry or song than standard sentences? Therefore the rolling rhythm of poetry is a huge factor in what I take to be a good poem, and I prefer poems packed full of this, rather than the abstract verse of some contemporary poetry. To me, poetry is supposed to be read out loud wherever possible.

My favourite poets at the moment seem to be Tony Harrison, Sylvia Plath, Emily Dickinson and Blake. Personally, I like a bit of narrative to my poem and sparse, uncluttered language. I can't quite work out why this is, but there is something quite satisfyingly round about a good poem, you are left with the sense of having gone full circle - despite not always completely understanding the circle's mysteries.

I value a bit of black humour or the juxtaposition of beauty with disgust in a poem quite highly! For example V by Tony Harrison, Blue by John Siddique, Mirror by Sylvia Plath ... These are two factors which are intrinsic to the human condition; laughter and appreciation of beauty in the most unexpected of places. What brilliant abilities! It restores your faith in the human race.

Sorry to go on. Are you going to Leeds Film fest tonight? Drop me a text if so.

Love xxx

house on a hill

2009-11-07T02:27:00.000-08:00

the whispering swish of the wind in trees
sounds like the sea to me,
for I live land-locked and dropped
in the centre of God's own country.

it's to the hills i turn
to feel free; inviting mounds of
mossy green with blobs of autumn mustard,
scattered over lumps and bumps

that cry out to be discovered,
covered in boot-clad feet
made for walking in peat-bogs.
i want to know these here hills like
the back of my hand.

i stride out above
to escape this strandedness,
feet moving, regardless
of my twitching head.

instead i see the run-down mill,
the field upon field and farmyards,
the friendly sight of future hills rising
and the manure which fills

my nostrils with beautiful disgust.
i meditate upon the rust of
a broken-down tractor,
there's an aged house just here on the hill;

it has painfully small windows
for such an extravagant view,
a whole green valley below
is carpeted just for you.

overrun with spiders and the
creaks of multiple toes and feet,
and how many toes does a
person love in a lifetime?
there's an aged house here on the hill,
and one day i might
live here please.

wanderlust and romanticism

2009-11-06T05:02:00.000-08:00

i want to go travelling. i want to experience different cultures, landscapes, people. all the different sights and sounds of a 'full' life. i want to sit in a rocking chair when i am old and grey - regaling my grandchildren with fantastical stories of my experiences. the things i have seen and done, the crazy situations i have found myself in, the vast kaleidoscopic multitude of variety within my long and chequered history. i would like to have such a life story to tell.

i want to know that i have given life everything i can. that my interests have been varied, because only boring people say 'i'm bored'. how right my mum was on that one. i'd like to have at least one great love. despite two four year relationships, i don't think i have experienced this yet, though the second one was a hell of a lot more on the right track! i would like it to be somebody who shares my love for the arts and for nature. somebody with their head in the clouds and their feet in the earth, like me. someone who wants to walk over ogden moor, travel the world, but most of all, somebody with whom i can simply be me. does this kind of relationship exist, or is it a fairy tale?

my mum reckons she's had one such relationship. but that he was too unstable so she knew it would never last, because she wanted a stable family for her children. (ha, she didn't get that either!) how strange it is how life turns out. you really can't plan it. but it would be nice to experience something like that i think. i never knew i was such a romantic.

anyway, for now i am enjoying being on my own too much. i'm learning lots every day. this single time really was way overdue. i find that i can think more clearly about what i want. it's such a relief after so long of living under a haze. it's also nice being home, enjoying the yorkshire-ness and spending some quality time with the family and old friends. i feel that i need to be fully at home here again, and also at home in my independence again, before i even consider the alternative. so that's where i'm at right now.

the comfort zone

2009-11-06T04:57:00.000-08:00

i like to be inside in a safe place when i require warmth and comfort. but sometimes, i require danger. the confusing and scary world outside and forays into unknown territory. it's a worry to step outside of my comfort zone, but necessary. we all have to face the truth sometimes, and we all have to do it alone in the end. much as a childish part of me would like to stay huddled in my cosy home forever, surrounded by familiar things - there is also a larger part that yearns for big adventures, new and exciting landscapes, and the growth that ensues as a result of this. this tension can be called fear, anxiety or apprehension - it is inseparable from what we call the unknown. it also relates closely to excitement, which is the other side of this particular coin.

a picture-perfect protest

2009-11-06T04:54:00.000-08:00

I am at a protest,
Smiling, happy and free,
Filled with the joys of freedom of speech,
And simultaneously aware that a conclusion
Will probably never be reached,
But allowing myself the pleasant delusion
That I can make a small change
In this deranged world.

I was an idealistic child,
Kind, big dreams
And nurtured always,
Picked up when I was falling,
Cuddled when I was ill,
For these reasons, I still
Possess ideals, and I am smiling
Here, happy and free.

my indian blanket

2009-11-06T04:37:00.000-08:00

my blanket is made from a coarse, thick, scratchy material. not classic blanket material, by any stretch of the imagination. it is roughly a small single bed size, and mainly consists of a light beige background covered in a mossy green checked pattern. the edges however, are much more detailed; bringing in blues, lime green and hot pink in a mish mash of patterning which appears aztec in influence.

at tip and tail of the blanket are the requisite tassels and further detail. the edging is pillarbox red, and if my memory serves me correctly, there's also a sunshine yellow somewhere in there. it shouldn't all work together, but it does. the effect is interesting and unusual, but not classically beautiful, and the blanket is warm, but not remotely comfortable!

so why do i love this oddity of a blanket so much? oh, one complex father/daughter relationship is to bame. when i was about 10, my parents split up. it was the biggest drama of my young life, and afterwards, i was distraught to realise i could no longer count on my dad. visits to his house would be cancelled, when we arrived to find the door locked and dad absent (probably in the pub).

i gave up on him, i came to almost hate him, in that strange, vicious teenage way we reserve only for our parents. he was never there, and he can be a frsutrating character at the best of times. around this time, the poor sod got made redundant. and what did he do but bugger off to india to relive his youth in a mountain village in the himalayas.

he had lived there previously in his 20's. in six months all i got was the odd postcard featuring a religious festival and a huge description on the back that didn't remotely interest my 14 year old self. when he returned, the blanket was amongst my presents. woven by the women of that himalayan village, i was distinctly unimpressed! it bore no relation to my life or experiences, and i thought my dad was an arse, quite frankly.

time and distance have softened the blow of all this, but until very recently, i still associated this blanket with these feelings of abandonment. now that i accept my dad for what he is, we have our own semblance of a unique father/daughter relationship. i have let go of the bitterness, deep down in my soul. i find it interesting to note that it was around the same time i let go of my relationship at the time, that i also found that these feelings towards my dad had dissolved. perhaps i was holding on to something that was over as a result of these unresolved emotions? writing as therapy, who knows?!

i now realise that my dad has also taught me many positive things; tolerance, independence and peacefulness amongst them. my interest in travel, books, music, yoga (and all things indian!) has come in part, from him. the blanket, and my love for it, represents my love for him; all this and more.