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The Bat Scale Of Oddity

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Sleep is a heavy tide, pulling at my ankles. Walk along through the day, like a long stroll on a long beach under an overcast sky, strong water sucking the sand from underfoot. This anxiety fluttering inside is difficult to categorise. It reminds me of two things: stage fright, and larvae. It doesn’t stop me loving the first time I see Baby trying on my shoes- rainbowed sequined lace ups. She chews one cerise lace, admiring bumpy sparkles. We have lunch together, she practises her spoon work. She holds both ends to stop the food falling off. Back at Rosehill, the smoke alarms are going crazy. There is no smoke: the rats have stripped the wires causing short outs. Messages are dispatched to Farmer Landlord and the electrician. Annoying, but fairly average for a Rosehill drama. I can sit and write with a scarf wrapped over my ears. This anxious thing is my distraction. Once, not being particularly regular with my housekeeping, I swept the bedroom floor and found a dead bat under the

Epiphany In Blue

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A whiff of death has lingered in the downstairs bathroom since the rat in the roof space incident. We have not seen a rat since the first day of May. From the thickening of the scent it is feasible that another rat corpse reclines nearby. Not something I look forward to investigating. I’m here to climb around the brewing bins and squeeze under the shower, after checking that no spiders lurk in reach of drowning and no slugs are exploring my exfoliating gloves. Not adverse to the company of invertebrates, they just don’t make good shower companions.   The shampoo bottle pops open, foams up a nicer aroma. Fresh water has an agreeable fragrance. I think, plain water has a smell, doesn’t it, or is it that the nose detects a body of wet stuff and the brain registers this as a smell? Does this make sense, or have I been neglecting sleep in favour of espresso and writing sprees, to the deficit of my overall cognisance? Shut up brain. Slough off the dull layer of skin cells, with slu

About The Boy

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A momentous day for Boy. The Thursday that starts his exams. He opts for walking to school, maximising fresh-air time. ‘You’ve revised for this,’ says me, in pep talk mode, ‘you’ve trained, like Rocky, you can do this!’ He puts his fists up. He is ready. He goes out of the door, punching like a montage shot. This is mainly to humour his mother. When he was barely three, sat in an aeroplane, Mum showed him the white view from the lozenge shaped window. She tells him, perfectly straight faced, to look out for polar bears. ‘That’s not snow, Mum,’ says the Boy, carefully breaking news, ‘That’s cloud.’ Girl’s laughter bounces off the window, squeals round the plane like a tiny monkey. ‘I can do this!’ Punch, punch, smile hovering at the polite edge of patronising. Dog studies him, as this may be a new signal for imminent walk around fields. Clouds thicken, and if I were looking for a sign, this would not be ominous. 

Wednesday's Portrait

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I drive up to the supermarket with my sunglasses on, leave the car unlocked, bring some milk and pain au chocolat to the counter where the friendly lady sits to beep my items and exchange my coins for a listed receipt. Down the lane, out of gear, seat belt unbuckled, radio on, window open, singing to the sheep, moor and sky sprawled in clear view. Boy has time for second breakfast if I drive him to school, so I do, anticipating the view on the way back; it still makes me whoop. Breakfast outside; hot pain au chocolat, cold wedges of melon. Overhead is a lucid pool of sky. Dock leaves grow around the fire pit, brightly flaming green. Every bit of ground is sprouting exultant flowers. The washing machine gets on with cleaning our clothes, while I gather up pens and sketchbook. I put them on the table Mr made out of an old pallet. A whole illustration is marked out, shaded in painstaking dots. Between each stretch of concentration, details of the day filter in. Vietnamese coffee fills

Fox's Lunch

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Postman was right: this weather has the fidgets. Sun-bright 7am, wind-lashed 8am, the cloud has landed at 9am. Either smoke from a gorse fire or a wedge of mist lodges in a crook of moorland. Under scrutiny, it seems too immobile for smoke, unobserved, it seems to shift. Fact or fiction, fire or mist: definitely distracting. In the sun gap, I walk down and around the fields, smiling at Dog’s indulgent pursuit of uncatchable swallows. Or swifts or martins, I have never remembered yet. Split tails and dark wings, skimming over the grass. After lunch, the clouds look set to part. Washing is pegged to line. I return to the kitchen, thinking of sitting outside to sketch, and before the kettle has time to boil, bulbous raindrops are falling. I have a very rude word to say about that. However contrary the weather may be, not even randomly will it try caring what I think. Waterproofs are pulled on; I may as well clear my mind with a field walk. Dog supports this, actively. We scale the ga

Matisse On Monday

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This morning the sky is subdued, it droops over the moors, and rain fills the low gap between cloud and earth. Undeterred birds still sing. I sign for a parcel while the postman names the weather; ‘Unsettled.’  In the habit of revisiting books, seeking to turn out anything which has ceased to inspire; maybe I have outgrown it, or just absorbed it so much the original can carry its light to another shelf, I swoop a book as I pass through the front room; one I remember buying on another rainy day.  The colours drew me first; the words took me to the till with my rattling purse, tumbling pennies onto the counter. April ’93, I have written inside the cover.  Today also I seek colour; luminous, calm, luxurious colour. I think to scan the words. Instead I sit and read the whole book. Three quotes I pick out to share. Henri Matisse, son of a grain merchant, discovered his vocation by accident, given a gift of a paint set, whilst in convalescence from appendicitis. Paint on paper wak

Spider Quest

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This morning: I recall we have a shower, so I stand under it, foaming up shampoo and showery scrub things. There are three brewing bins to climb around, the floor is dank, and the room smells faintly of the long ago rat that died in the roof space.  Once the shower is cranked the water abundantly trickles out at a temperature somewhere above warm and below hot. Outside I sit with my paper, pens, coffee, sunglasses. My hair can dry in the sun. The arrival of Girl and Baby forms an impromptu picnic. Baby grubs in the mud, digging up some stones with my dinner fork. She has her first knee scuff. We try to keep a sunhat on her. This afternoon: Through the car window I observe the underside of the overhang of the garage roof, while Mr wanders in to the garage shop to pay for a bag of coal. The white plastic grooves above are ornate with darkly clogged web lines. In shades of dirty white, pockets of spider eggs inhabit the ninety degrees of angle between plastic and c

The Salad Snub Is Not Avenged

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

Gracious Acceptance Post

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

Irrepressible

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

Old Tree's Last Dance

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

Museum Of Curiosity

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

Egocentricity

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

Split Sky Morning

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

Wooden Windows

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

Composed, on Saturday

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

Friday Noir

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

The Day That Wasn't Hot

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

First Days Of May

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

This One Flame

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