‘We’ll have an Indian summer’ he tells me, all confidence and smiles, as the weatherman points out the weather band of rain and thunder storms still yet to reach these shores.
It’s raining again and the winter barley waits for a gap in the clouds and a call to the contractors, for a time slot three weeks in the future, not soon enough. And we will watch as the gap in the clouds rolls on past us onto different fields greyness in its wake as the heads droop and the stems crumple waiting for better weather.
I’ve entrusted my life into cardboard and granted each memory to strangers’ hands. Lined each box with walls of the memories strong enough to stand the test of time. I’ve traced my heartbeat across packing tape seals and closed up my world in anticipation of a new home. I have been through all of myself to find the treasures that I need to keep. This Friday I will be moving to a new home, so this inspiration call seemed particularly appropriate for this week. As always, feel free to jot down any thought and comments below! I do like to know I’m not waffling on to myself.
Staring at me, with a black flickered glare is an essay half done that I don’t want to finish. Filled with bullcrap ideas, half-arse quotations stagnated thoughts and mid-sentence endings I know the lambrini is not alone in the blame.
April brings storms that rattle and shudder against windows with winds that howl and whip past the trees. Pressed close enough cheeks can feel fingertips of something, someone not quite there. Pattering and scampering outside along the whirls in the glass traced on the lazy afternoons. In this room, in this house, all gods are welcome. With hands around latches there is no need of prayers to call them here. In the morning the carpets will be spongy, damp beneath feet, and the curtains slick to the touch. Tonight however, calls for bare faces turned upwards open to the skies.
I have a fear of heights but not just that, falling, edges, steep drops, most aspects of going downwards too quick, too fast. So I’m confused, as to why this new edge, this metaphorical one, leaves me so calm. I suppose you, might have something to do, with all this… tranquillity. It’s difficult to fear falling, when you’ve got use to being caught.
Grandma travelled the Sahara at eighteen, all she needed packed in two suitcases the one almost forgotten later on at an airport in Ciaro when a young man asked her name. At twenty-five she saw India, found a husband on the roads took her father’s disapproval, wrote a book Love In India Then lost him to the army and swore against rings on fingers till her last breath. Paris was calmer in her words. Less heat more classical sheik in restaurants, and a cafe. Sipping champagne on the Siene but thinking still in India of a man and a smile, of spices and music. Beirut was exciting. Claimed she met Philby, under the cover of darkness in a little bar off a corner. Claimed she kissed him, took his stutter in her mouth thought him very proper. In England she tried to settle, never married but lived with a man her father favoured once. A friend who thought her beautiful, gave her children and ears to tell stories. At ninety she left with a will …
Writing can take a hike. Just for a day or two. I’m keeping myself to myself, taking the time to wallow, to stew in all the things that will fill my pen come New Year.
“Call me Crazy!” I smiled, spitting out a new label for the next introduction in a room filled with names I’d never know. You grim ginned back at me. Tension lines draw just as tight into the cut of your jaw, and mind working out how to swallow dive through the conference room window five ‘networks’ away. “Call me Stark Raving,” you said hand still in mine this time reluctant to hear that bell. If anyone wants to give me some feedback I would love to hear it. Does it make sense? Is the length alright? Is the rhythm complete tosh? Anything people! Anything please! *Vanishes off into her own insanity.*
I have written poems for you that others will never see and you have heard poems I would never otherwise read. You have sat up late night half-asleep daring the early morning, to talk me through a final sentence. My poetry fluctuates. Today it may be meh, tomorrow good another day atrocious and you have never said “I like it” when the words were not true. You have always told me how you felt. So I’m inclined to believe it, when you say “I love you too.”