The well has been dry for days, if not decades.
Where are my inner-picture galleries? Has someone stolen them? Or did I forget to create them?
This well of mine - deep and narrow and dark; plunging into depths unknown: I'm trying to find water. I've been thirsty for years; I'm tired of wallking on my knees, for hundreds of miles, through the desert, repenting, (Sorry Mary Oliver, I haven't got there yet!).
I don't even know what I'm repenting for. But my knees are sore, my throat is sand-paper, my eyes can no longer see and the sun has stung my back with lashes that don't seem to heal.
I dream of waterfalls: of standing in swallow-lakes, with streaming falls of misty water, whilst sun glides over smooth surfaces and creates diamond ripples; fragments of rainbows half form and disappear and transcend; the dirt and pain is cleansed, my body feels renewed; I drink and drink and drink.
And I accept this gift of life, as it silks my throat and balances my solar plexus; my head clears for the first time in years, as clear as a Malvern sky, which touches the earth with wool-softness.
The water washes clean the dried blood, the scars, washes the grit, the turmoil, the hardness away; sprinkles my hair with dew as if I was the first grass the dawn timidly kissed.
And my laughter bubbles up, raspy at first, then tinkly, then belly-full and earth-deep: blue birds, robins, blue tits and great tits, dippers and herons fly out of the nearest Disney version of 'Cinderella/Snow White/Sleeping Beauty' to join me in my long awaited celebration.
Yet there's something Disney missed. The unseen black hole. The well. It's not been forgotten. It has not been left behind.
The water touches me; yes; the water trickles in and blesses me with flower-rich images of the intimacy and intricacy of Georgia O'Keeffe's brush, but doesn't fill me. It cannot carry away all the heartache. The residue, apparently is important, important that it stays; so the pain and the pleasure can embrace, unite and meet without judgment or condemnation.
Where the dark and the light meet - is it painful? Is it healing? Is it both? Or do we just dance between the two - always seeking; always trying to give up this everlasting bad habit of repenting?
The water softens my skin, my mind, but the darkness still burns within, like a black star.
All is not quite well: but perhaps tomorrow I will write.
Monday, 9 April 2012
Day 5
The alphabet swam away in the soup and the words scattered to monkey minds!
Where's my inner-Shakespeare when I need him?
Where's my inner-Shakespeare when I need him?
Tuesday, 3 April 2012
Day 3
It was the tissue paper that did it. That was the unravelling of it all. And why no writing happened.
There was something about its strong fragility - how it softened and moulded to the edges of the writing book, and simultaneously protected it.
There was something in its light crinkle that stormed through the silence and made ears retreat into themselves.
There was something about the creases (which reminded me of Alison Watt's huge white folds of paintings) in which could never be ironed - the creases were an intricate part of its life story. To iron them out would be to destroy and obliterate the story.
There was something in the defiance of gravity, as its corners pyramided into the air, and yet; and yet, they breathed softly at the slightest breeze.
The strength and fragility of tissue paper: its purpose being to protect something of more robustness than itself. It could easily be screwed up into a ball or torn to shreds. The book could not. It could easily burn at the touch of a single match, the book could not. And yet, as protector, to esnure the book's edges were not dimpled and its corners not knocked; to ensure that the squares of coloured material on the front were not punctured or marked in any way.
The book may go on to tell many lies and stories, but the tissue paper would always remain sincere in its paradoxes; innocent.
The tissue paper evoked remembrances of the scene in 'American Beauty' of a film reel being shown to a private audience, of a plastic bag being buffeted by the wind - divorced from its purpose of protection; in the penultimate paragraph of its short life, it takes on a new role; one it does not naturally inhabit - that of Art.
Words written: 0
Time spent with tissue paper: 115 mins.
All is well: perhaps tomorrow I'll write.
There was something about its strong fragility - how it softened and moulded to the edges of the writing book, and simultaneously protected it.
There was something in its light crinkle that stormed through the silence and made ears retreat into themselves.
There was something about the creases (which reminded me of Alison Watt's huge white folds of paintings) in which could never be ironed - the creases were an intricate part of its life story. To iron them out would be to destroy and obliterate the story.
There was something in the defiance of gravity, as its corners pyramided into the air, and yet; and yet, they breathed softly at the slightest breeze.
The strength and fragility of tissue paper: its purpose being to protect something of more robustness than itself. It could easily be screwed up into a ball or torn to shreds. The book could not. It could easily burn at the touch of a single match, the book could not. And yet, as protector, to esnure the book's edges were not dimpled and its corners not knocked; to ensure that the squares of coloured material on the front were not punctured or marked in any way.
The book may go on to tell many lies and stories, but the tissue paper would always remain sincere in its paradoxes; innocent.
The tissue paper evoked remembrances of the scene in 'American Beauty' of a film reel being shown to a private audience, of a plastic bag being buffeted by the wind - divorced from its purpose of protection; in the penultimate paragraph of its short life, it takes on a new role; one it does not naturally inhabit - that of Art.
Words written: 0
Time spent with tissue paper: 115 mins.
All is well: perhaps tomorrow I'll write.
Monday, 2 April 2012
Day 2
Today I visited one of those gift shops which sell worry beads, djembe drums, fairy lights, cushions hand-made in India, rainsticks. There was no incense burning though, or African songs rain-pattering through hidden speakers. There was a 'Sunday-Girl', as she referred to herself. A woman really. Late forties. Dark sheen of shoulder length hair and Mediterranean eyes with an easy smile.
I usually hate going into these small and unusual gift shops, beacuse I always end up feeling guilty for spending hours smelling the scented candles; admiring their tapestried rugs, imagining a big beautiful rustic house that they would hang in; playing with the rain sticks, imagining the rain dripping down the eaves of a thatched roof, somewhere tropical; then deciding that everything is out of my price range and so walk out empty-handed, but purse-happy.
Today was an exception. I was preparing to be a writer. And when I'd passed the shop window last Sunday morning, I'd fallen in love with hard-backed writing pad, somewhere between A5 and A4 size, hand-sewn, multi-coloured squares and rectangles of material with sequins and beads attached.
I had to have it.
So, this Sunday, I was on a mission. Gorgeous, hand-made, exotic notebook, ready and willing to accept my ink, and display the liquid wonders of my unstoppable pourings of poetic masterpieces.
Still, determined writer that I am, I was then faced with a dilemma; within the shop, on top of the eye-height wooden slat shelves were no less than three of these beauties in different colours: which would be the best buy? One explored the variations of majestic purples, one highlighted the blues, greens and turquoises of an idyllic holiday, and the other blossomed the pinks of spring. They all looked glorious.
I picked each one up in turn. Their spines were all about 3 cm thick, they all carried canvas-thick white and brown speckled pulped paper, they all smelt of the promise of faraway lands and cultures.
I normally match colour to mood. And I was definitely in a purple mood; the shadow side of pink; that darker edge to life. There was one particular square that fashioned a silkier material than the others, and boasted golden embroidered, tiny flowers.
But the turquoise one looked so happy and inviting: skinny-dipping warm seas, tequila shots with paper parasols. And the pink one was so frivolous and fun, like eating a 99 ice-cream whilst walking along the smooth sands of Aberdovey.
How could I possibly decide?
I may want to write comedy sketches and humorous plays in pink, or heartwarming romantic novels in turquoise, or poems that portrayed the inner psyche of a deranged artist.
They were rather an exorbitant price - could I justify such a purchase? But a writer must pride herself in her work, honour the privilege of writing, and invite the muse to play amidst beauty.
So, I bought all three.
My purse now feels guilty and bare. But my stationery needs were fulfilled. I couldn't wait to get the three tissue wrapped empty volumes home, to gaze at them, feel the bobble of the beads under my fingers, try not to pick off the sequins, trace the outlines of each segmented garden, feel the satin-sexiness of the back cover, weigh the expectancy of the bound pages in my palms. And one day, fifty years from now, they'll be sold at auction for thousands of pounds, as the notes and initial drafts of the most famous author ever to grace the land.
Dreams and fantasies: 12
Books to write in: 3
Words written: 0
All is well in the world: perhaps tomorrow I'll write.
I usually hate going into these small and unusual gift shops, beacuse I always end up feeling guilty for spending hours smelling the scented candles; admiring their tapestried rugs, imagining a big beautiful rustic house that they would hang in; playing with the rain sticks, imagining the rain dripping down the eaves of a thatched roof, somewhere tropical; then deciding that everything is out of my price range and so walk out empty-handed, but purse-happy.
Today was an exception. I was preparing to be a writer. And when I'd passed the shop window last Sunday morning, I'd fallen in love with hard-backed writing pad, somewhere between A5 and A4 size, hand-sewn, multi-coloured squares and rectangles of material with sequins and beads attached.
I had to have it.
So, this Sunday, I was on a mission. Gorgeous, hand-made, exotic notebook, ready and willing to accept my ink, and display the liquid wonders of my unstoppable pourings of poetic masterpieces.
Still, determined writer that I am, I was then faced with a dilemma; within the shop, on top of the eye-height wooden slat shelves were no less than three of these beauties in different colours: which would be the best buy? One explored the variations of majestic purples, one highlighted the blues, greens and turquoises of an idyllic holiday, and the other blossomed the pinks of spring. They all looked glorious.
I picked each one up in turn. Their spines were all about 3 cm thick, they all carried canvas-thick white and brown speckled pulped paper, they all smelt of the promise of faraway lands and cultures.
I normally match colour to mood. And I was definitely in a purple mood; the shadow side of pink; that darker edge to life. There was one particular square that fashioned a silkier material than the others, and boasted golden embroidered, tiny flowers.
But the turquoise one looked so happy and inviting: skinny-dipping warm seas, tequila shots with paper parasols. And the pink one was so frivolous and fun, like eating a 99 ice-cream whilst walking along the smooth sands of Aberdovey.
How could I possibly decide?
I may want to write comedy sketches and humorous plays in pink, or heartwarming romantic novels in turquoise, or poems that portrayed the inner psyche of a deranged artist.
They were rather an exorbitant price - could I justify such a purchase? But a writer must pride herself in her work, honour the privilege of writing, and invite the muse to play amidst beauty.
So, I bought all three.
My purse now feels guilty and bare. But my stationery needs were fulfilled. I couldn't wait to get the three tissue wrapped empty volumes home, to gaze at them, feel the bobble of the beads under my fingers, try not to pick off the sequins, trace the outlines of each segmented garden, feel the satin-sexiness of the back cover, weigh the expectancy of the bound pages in my palms. And one day, fifty years from now, they'll be sold at auction for thousands of pounds, as the notes and initial drafts of the most famous author ever to grace the land.
Dreams and fantasies: 12
Books to write in: 3
Words written: 0
All is well in the world: perhaps tomorrow I'll write.
Saturday, 31 March 2012
Day One
Words written today: zero. (How very Bridget Jones of me!)
That approximation is not entirely accurate in its description. I have written words today, with a pen, onto paper. But they don't count. Not really. They were notes made during a training session.
All those words belong to other people. I quoted, paraphrased, edited, but I didn't create them; they didn't originate from the assimilation and experience of thirty years on this planet, as lived in the form of Zabby.
So, creative words written: zero.
How does that make one feel, when one is supposed to be a writer? Futile? Redundant? Useless? Mierable? Laissez-faire? Joyful? Peaceful? Accepting? All of the above?
I added the positive adjectives, not because I genuinely feel them, but for the sake of variety. They are possibilities - just not ones I'm currently inhabiting.
I take great comfort from the fact that I remember reading somewhere (possibly from one of the invaluable aids written by Natalie Goldberg) that a writer never really leaves square one; I concur, in many respects, that I have in fact found this to be the case.
Words: zero. Square: one.
All is well in the world: perhaps tomorrow I'll write.
That approximation is not entirely accurate in its description. I have written words today, with a pen, onto paper. But they don't count. Not really. They were notes made during a training session.
All those words belong to other people. I quoted, paraphrased, edited, but I didn't create them; they didn't originate from the assimilation and experience of thirty years on this planet, as lived in the form of Zabby.
So, creative words written: zero.
How does that make one feel, when one is supposed to be a writer? Futile? Redundant? Useless? Mierable? Laissez-faire? Joyful? Peaceful? Accepting? All of the above?
I added the positive adjectives, not because I genuinely feel them, but for the sake of variety. They are possibilities - just not ones I'm currently inhabiting.
I take great comfort from the fact that I remember reading somewhere (possibly from one of the invaluable aids written by Natalie Goldberg) that a writer never really leaves square one; I concur, in many respects, that I have in fact found this to be the case.
Words: zero. Square: one.
All is well in the world: perhaps tomorrow I'll write.
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