Nearly time

It's nearly May. THE BIG DAY is imminent. Soon, it will be time for the opening of the Disintegration Project bundles that have been hanging in trees, buried in gardens, held down by rocks....you name it, so that the elements can give a hand in shaping materials and artwork. 

Seth has posted some wonderful shots of the "befores" on his blog The Altered Page. So, before the adventure continues, you might like to take a look. It's a lovely collection of images. The piece I wrote about my bundle back in February is here. 

And over the weekend, I'll be posting about what I find inside my bundle.

Dylan

Writing in the park, in a flood of birdsong, another sound pushed in. A chocolate Labrador bounded towards me like I was his long lost pal. The whistle nearly gave me a heart attack. The dog froze mid flight and stopped his glorious adventure. His name was Gooooooood Booooooooy.

He's being trained hard. She-who-must-be-obeyed hardly gave the dog a moment's peace for all sorts of  wonderful sniffing and running opportunities. The peep peep nearly drove me insane. And I was tempted to ask her politely to remove her peeping from beside me. I didn't. Someone else told her in an outburst with lots of consonants in it, instead.

But the dog couldn't resist walking beside a tall guy who reminded my of Dylan from The Magic Roundabout. Guitar slung over his shoulder, bare feet, long dreads down his back. The dog walked to heel beside him towards the gate while the peeping caused uproar in the bird community.

Tonight, in Brighton, I'm playing a free set with Dave, one of my favourite people to play with. I know - free music isn't everyone's cup of tea. If there was an improv night to bring my Mum along to, this would probably be it as there is going to be a lovely mix of instruments.

Here in Mac land we are having huge problems with pasting and layout on this blog lately. All the details are on my gig list on my Myspace page should you be interested to come along. The link is over here in my sidebar in the Bees in my bonnet bit.

The Book and the Rose

What can I tell you.....it was a great day.

The sun shone. And after a lot of silly jokes about the jitters, and some fantastic organizing, I think we shone as well, most of us reading our work in public for the first time.

And a crowd came and all the seats were full. More people stood at the back when we began. We started with stories of dragons and ended with others about roses, and the words flowed and the crowd did something I wasn't expecting - they all stayed and listened.

I loved hearing the other pieces being brought to life right there beside me, and I loved hearing the responses of the audience as they enjoyed our work. Here's one of the pieces I read -

Talking books

The library is rarely silent. The humans make sure of that. But behind all this surface noise, another sound runs through as an endless thread, day and night, regardless. See, the books can't help it. They recite their favourite lines to each other.

Polite, taking it in turns, leaving appreciative silences between each quote, the books read to each other from the hidden darkness of their closed pages.

Sometimes, if you sit still long enough without a hundred thoughts racing through your head, you can catch the whispered lines of something you learnt by heart long ago, and still remember.

Sometimes, you get what you wanted and it turns out to be disappointing. Not so this time. This was such a lovely event to be part of. The comments I received on my previous post where a huge boost for me, so thanks to all of you who sent me a message. And of course, thanks to those of you who came along to support and cheer us on.

What I asked for

Tomorrow is my debut for reading my own writing in public. 

It's been an interesting week coming towards it. I've reassured my nerves by telling them that I've played thousands of (music) gigs over the years that have included some of my own music, and that this is just another sort of gig, with words instead of music and with the added attraction of there being no heavy gear to organise.

The day is called The Book and the Rose and celebrates St. George's Day, which is also the day Shakespeare died. It's a day to celebrate books and literature, so there are all sorts of events going on - 11am til 5pm, Jubilee Square outside the library. All free.

I got what I asked for. 

Last year, in my writing group, whenever we listed our top wants for the sessions, mine was always - Do a reading. No-one else shared my idea then. So, it's great that I will have some buddies to read alongside. And we will be reading very short stories of 100 words on the themes of St. George, roses, dragons, England and books.

If you are in Brighton, why not come and join us?

Floods

Daffodils next to the computer are flooding the room with their scent as I write. I just came in from a walk on the beach, followed a gutter trail of pale green confetti blossom up the hill home. It's tempting to keep my shades on inside the house as well as outside in the sunblast.

This shot I just uploaded is of my treasured old piece of shed roof, best seen against a deep blue sky beneath the twittering of birdsong in a hedge rather than on a computer screen. However, I have finally given it a thin layer of varnish in the hope that I can enjoy looking across the room at it for a few more months before the blooms of lichen flake away. By that time, I assume a new colony will have taken hold on the pristine new roof. Right now, the new roof reminds me of an empty airfield, looking up at the sky, waiting.

Last month, possessed by a story that needed to be written, my notebook led me to the park each day to spend my writing time sitting on an old gravestone covered in lichen. It also meant I was visited by every curious dog in the neighbourhood. My favourite was a Scottie dog with wonderful dark eyes and a lovely beard who came and sat by me every day as I scribbled away. He was a fabulous writing buddy. His owner did more walking than he did on those days and the dog had to be called many times over to go home instead of staying beside me. He had a smiling mongrel friend whose crazy paw prints run over several of my pages. This dog was a small force of Nature who couldn't help running over everything in sight, including me and my words.

Floods of different sorts seemed to converge on that spot, the bounding joy of the dog, the words running from my pen and the slow progress of the lichen across the stone.

Smiling is good for you

I looked ordinary in the reflection of her massive mirror shades. In the lunchtime sun, she was the coolest girl on the beach, looking like a model straight from a wacky fashion show. Floral mini sundress, yellow Converse and a Russian army hat complete with furry ear flaps. 

Everyone smiled at her, no matter what they thought about her dress sense. Outrageous, eccentric and somehow gorgeous in being herself.

On everyone's lips this week, is the name of another woman who has made people smile by being who she is. Susan Boyle has touched our hearts with her wonderful rendition of a song that speaks to all of us that have the desire to live our dreams. She couldn't have chosen a better song given her story. 

If you haven't seen it and don't know what all the fuss is about, play her YouTube clip where she sings "I dreamed a dream" and you'll get the picture. 

Whatever you think of it, it's bound to make you smile. 

You might shed a tear as well.

Trenches

Always a sign of Spring when I find little clumps of chalk grit on the carpet. Bare feet find them best, like tiny stones that resist crumbling under your steps. Of course, the chalky grit has come home with me from my allotment, stuck into the treads of shoes, in the creases of work jeans, clinging to the produce I bring home. 

When I shake it from my sleeves and it hits the damp of the washbasin, it creates moody charcoal landscapes, that cling onto the surface, that resist the water for as long as possible.

I always feel better once the potatoes are planted. This year, there's only going to be one variety - Pink Fir Apple - the bumpy salad one that doesn't appear in most shops. 

The onions, garlic and shallots look radiant after last week's rain, the greenest shoots on the plot. Pity a few monumental clumps of weeds look radiant after that rain as well. And there is new crop rhubarb that I can taste before I cook it. My last basket of produce had the most wonderful collection of colours - the pink and red of the rhubarb, pristine leeks, and shoots of purple broccoli with some of their lovely pink veined leaves. I know - I could have painted it. I ate it instead.

There's lots of writing on the go at the moment which feels great, but the happiest part of my week was digging the trenches for those potatoes and watching the last of the grit run down the plug hole.

Blue blue electric blue

Across the ceiling, I watched a drawing being made in sudden go-for-it bursts of blue. Between each set of impulsive bold marks, the 4am darkness was made darker by having seen these flashes of eye-awakening colour. 

Enough to make the windows shake, the thunder rumbles somewhere in my spine, like lazy percussion deep in the metal hull of an old rusting ship hitting against the hulk of a wooden dock, and I am waiting for the rain, remembering a David Bowie song.

The first traveller wheels a suitcase down the bumpy pavement towards the station, the sound of the wheels so different to those being dragged home and upwards. Out in the last hour of night, a blackbird is singing. In a improvisation of endless invention, all his joyous phrases are answered by a more distant bird.

There is no rain, there is no storm here, the blackbirds are still duetting.

This morning, I checked for blue lines on the ceiling.

Study in grey

The sea looks opaque. Shades of grey. Sky looms low, hugs in, brings a white horizon close to shore, presses the light down.

Her backstroke is effortless, in a red hat that looks like a marker buoy pulled along a taut thread, parallel to the dark shore. The tide plays with the final yard of sand, sweeping, rinsing. Keeps you guessing if you could walk there or not. 

The swell came sudden, threw itself in. No warning crest surging towards me. Just a heavy landing. Intent. 

Interesting to see how much water each shoe can hold, how much can be squeezed out of socks that cling to wet feet, how beautiful tide lines can be around the knees of jeans. I came up the hill home, too early for myself. I needed to get dry. I missed the precious early solitude of a holiday morning before the outdoor cafe made bacon sandwiches.

This morning, my shoes are still damp.

Felt

The downpour shushes through the soft felt of new leaves feeling rain for the first time. I put down the pen. Late. 

I've been sitting here, elsewhere, lost in a story that the words made while I was gone.

Wonderful to have had that experience. A little sad to be back.

After

Spring was even more vibrant

after

I cleaned the windows.

Hem

Above the place where the waves plunge into their final heave to shore, I sit on a high wall and look down. In the white noise of surround sound blast and stone chaos, I can taste the slight sweetness of spray on my lips. The sea is dark. The only crests are here right beneath me, where the light blinds with bright dazzle that surges whiter with every surging breaker. 

I love the parallels of the final rising combs as they race in above the tumbling surge, above the power of that laughing joyous lip. I love the circles and rounded squares that open up in the foam as the speed dies, right at the moment that the pull of the open sea takes hold and calls it back. It drags at the white, opens up speckled windows of greens and greys, like the catch in a stocking gives in to the stretch of a ladder. 

Before picking up my pen, I watch the lace making along the ragged hem of land as the waves cut in. Each surge sways into a tiny curved beach. Sculpting at the stones, unable to leave it alone, it knows that the morning's work is already finished.

Happy

Happy in the solitude of grey mediocre, hands in my pockets, strolling on a low tide beach sucked free of colour by a shawl of mist. Happy it has been sucked free of people by the hint of rain that will not come today. The stones have been swept back, neat, to leave patches of gritty sand. It makes an erratic wave shape to follow back towards home. My feet enjoy walking in a silent luxury rare on this shore.

Happy in the unremarkable of this monochrome, I sit down below the steepest banks of cliff carve, not quite warm enough, but not quite cold, count only three silhouette stick people and the scribble of a small running dog on the whole beach. A woman in a red jacket stands out by the waves alone, the only vertical. The red is a shot to the eye against the horizontals of wave white, the pale sand, the dark mottled carpet of stones, the blank canvas of mist matt.

Happy to hear the waves without the roar and hum of city racing towards the weekend, the mist is making this part of town serene between the breaths of the breakers that rise sudden and pause transparent, before their falling. That glassy jewel light in the final arching curve of surrender cuts into the crisp sound of collapse, like neat words that never finish in the letter s.

Purple patch

Yesterday, heaven came in a bowl - the first of the new season purple sprouting broccoli was ready. Stunning as it looked, there was no chance of admiring it's richness once it arrived home. Only one thing to do. 

It took about two minutes to steam, with the rich purple of the flowers cooking to a dark bright green and the water turning to the colour of magic broth. So tender. It took about two seconds to eat. 

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Last month, it was lovely to receive an Inspiration Award from Leanne - Mixed media martyr. I wrote about it in a previous post - 19th March and have finally got myself organized to pass it on. There were no exact rules for this award, but I want to share the award with four people whose blogs have inspired me many times over. Hope you might like to take a look at these blogs. You are in for a treat.

• Leslie at textures shapes color
• Jo at mystory
• Seth at the altered page                   
  
• Jeane at ARTIT

The award is in my sidebar so you can just drag it onto your desktop and then paste into your blog. Enjoy.