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A journal always seemed like a good idea...... |
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I have promised myself that I will write it all out, for myself, principally. I need to declutter, to generate space for memories to stretch themslevesand so that optimism, that smallest of seeds, can germinate. By writing my life down I will allow fresh air to reach the corners that are camouflaged by cobwebs and dust, dirt and decay, lost buttons and scraps. It is an unremarkable life, but maybe upon examination I will find a treasure or two. If nothing else I can lay out events and clear space for what is still to come. I cannot imagine that it will emerge in any sort of order for there is so much that it will spill from me like jumble from an overstuffed cupboard. Maybe the sorting will come later, but then again, maybe not. This is not therapy, merely housekeeping - an exercise in de-fragging my hard drive. |
| There are days when I have nothing to say. No thoughts manage to make their way intact from subconscious to consciousness. It is as if there is a strike somewhere on the line and there are no service buses to carry anything forward. Today is such a day. My thoughts are lost in grey mist to match the weather outside. Words drip and suspend like the drops of Autumn mist that has no right to be blanking out my garden in August. Today I cannot write |
| Invasion (A sonnet to M.E*.) You miserable worm, you wriggled in, shrouded, cloaked by a simple virus. A sly, insatiable, masked assassin, writhing , twisting , feeding with a callous indifference, violating my words, thoughts energy, intellect, desire. You leave behind a ramshackle woman, distraught, grieving for a self too lost to retrieve. But you, worm, beware, I have explored deep within my ruined self. I have your measure. For each joy you consume, each hurt you heap I’ll fill with calm, find new life to treasure. I’ll learn to listen, to write, paint. Somehow worm, I will win. I vow - this rape stops now. *Myalgic Encephalomyelitis - a persistent debilitating disease. One way to attack back is to visualise the disease as an entity and to make its life hell. |
| A familiar fragrance tickles my nose, a mingled perfume of old wool and dry rose petals wafting up on the flecks of dust the float around as I lift the lid of the old box in the attic. Immediately I can see her, Grandma Alice, sitting by the window rummaging around in the depths of this simple wooden box, smiling quietly to herself as she searches for something. A needle maybe, or some thread of just the right colour – clearly I visualise her squinting up to the light, holding a length of wool to a holey sock to see if it matches before she starting to darn, or tugging at a length of elastic to free it from the other tangles inside the murky depths of the box. She and her sewing box, seldom were the two far apart, both a fixture of my early childhood. I remember Alice sitting in a patch of late afternoon sun by her window fingers busy with knitting or crochet, or maybe she would be darning. Whatever she was doing it would always be something useful – a scarf for me to wear to school perhaps, or another school jumper because my brother had outgrown his. I would be engrossed in a book or lost in some distant daydream maybe, but if I became restless Grandma Alice would let me tidy her sewing box. I loved to do this – matching the colours; sorting the needles into sizes; putting wools with wools, sorting colours from light grey, through navy to black, and placing the reels of thread into neat lines. The order of it pleased the six year old me. We were comfortable together, my Grandmother and I. My mother, a spikey, darting sort of person would say we were like icebergs - most of what we were could not be seen as it lurked beneath the surface. Now I lift the lid of the box fully, I peer inside at the wools and threads – sensible grey and navy, brown and black. Little bundles of wool on one side, tidy rows of thread on the other, with needles sensibly stuck through a piece of paper to keep them tidy. A thimble – I try it on my finger but it is too small; her scissors – not the little embroidery ones, but a pair of a sensible, practical size. All exactly as I would have tidied it fifty years ago. I poke about and notice a dark, worn loop of leather that seems to be attached to the bottom of the box. Carefully I thread my finger into it and pull. I notice there are two layers to the box. Odd that I had never seen this before, I am sure that I should have remembered – perhaps not, maybe that detail has faded with the passing years, or maybe, as a child, I was satisfied with what was plainly in view. I lift out the base and peer into the hidden compartment, my eyes opening wide in surprise as a piece of bright purple fabric springs free. I see a puddle of scarlet and yellow and green; shimmering tangles of silky fabrics, knots of rainbow coloured thread woven about with ribbons of gold and silver, plaits of silks in peacock colours. I sink my fingers into the depths of the box, freeing yet another attar breeze. Breathing in the scent I slide my fingertips though the riot of Alice’s secrets. I delight in the slip of the satin, the slide of the silk. Wrapping a stream of multicoloured threads around my palm, I lift it to my cheek and smile. If my mother could see me now I know she would say that I look just like my Grandmother. Again the picture of Alice rummaging in her box wanders into my mind and it’s as if her quiet smile stretches through the years to explain what only she had seen then – the explosion of colour that can be concealed beneath the sensible grey and navy sea of the everyday world. Sallyj |
| After weeks of July rain and cloud, unfamiliar morning sun flashes across my rear view mirror. Instead of cars behind, I stare at glints of grey that unseasonable murk has camouflaged. A full inch of badger coat has invaded my dark hairline, unobserved until highlighted by late summer sunlight. Mentally I add hair dye to my virtual shopping list. |
| There will be rumours, unease in the quiet rural area where you live. A feeling of disquiet at dusk. Strange noises after dark, a stray footstep, the quiet snick of a gate in late night silence, the rattle of a dog chain through gloved fingers. Do you still have a dog? If not, I wonder how you manage to patrol secret corners at the dead of night, drawn like a moth, to lighted windows, hoping that curtains don’t quite meet. No-one will recall that this dis-ease dates back to your incoming to the village. It will have crept inexorably into the air, trickling here and there, hovering and moving on. There will be no one place that can be said to be haunted, or dangerous. No particular lane for lone walkers to avoid, no single path for children to be forbidden to use. It will be the topic of lively discussion in the one local pub on summer evenings, related with humour to amuse the tourists, passed off as local folklore, added colour to entice another round of drinks from gullible visitors, flattered to feel included in this area of mist, myth and multi-syllable, unpronounceable ancient language. They may climb the ancient staircase to their rooms with a delicious chill at their back, not thinking of the need for care, the need to close their curtains tight. They will see knotholes in ancient boards, not spy holes. The soft footfall and sigh of breath in their ears as they prepare for bed, tipsy and glowing with the warmth of hospitality, will be ignored as imagination, or thought to be the retiring of an ancient building to rest for the night. Summer visitors leave. That is what keeps them safe. Hopefully they only carry with them rum tales from a wild landscape. Though there will be some, a few who took a glance too far, who sought adventure, and found it, not recognising that the price must be paid. And yet, they too serve their purpose, for their bruises will fade, their memories are brief and make great dinner talk of dangers faced, monsters vanquished, and no-one cares that the balance is massaged in the telling, and candlelight hides the fleck of fear that will never quite disappear. They will heed the warning, and more, they ease the burden of those who cannot leave that place. The out of season bar is a darker place, though the lights still shine, the log fire is lit, community is shared, lilting language songs sung of valleys and mountains, love and dragons, the green grass of home, the beautiful, unconscious harmony masking the disharmony and ugliness that lurks in their midst. Which side of the bar do you sit I wonder? Who will it be tonight? Maybe no one. Maybe tonight your appetite can range no further than the wife in your bed, the children in theirs. No, surely no. Your ancient mother in hers must be safe. Not even you would do that, would you? Is your wife’s hand shaking as she pours, washes, wipes. Or is she sighing in relief as she sees your eyes light, ice cold, on another. Or is she just blind. Exhausted and blind. Does she know yet, do they? Maybe she is too firmly cocooned in the daily toil of children, mother-in-law and the provision of hostelry. Does she know yet to toe-tip carefully around the sudden outburst of frustrated temper, or is she still brave enough to face it down, match cruel words with accusations, flying fists with kicking feet? Has she associated late night walks with whispers? Do her scars show yet? And them. I hope they still think that hide and seek is a game, stalking is the way to creep up on shy wildlife, that secrets are meant to be shared. I can spare them little, these victims I only imagine. Precious little was left afterwards and all I have I need, to wrap around myself and mine. But this I promise. If ever I know for sure, if ever I hear that it has gone too far, as one day it must, as far as death I think. Then I will talk. I will tell. I will accuse. I will find the words. Sallyj |
| Birth Day The day of my sister’s birth I was trapped by the miserable midwife In my bedroom. I cried. My Dad rescued me when he heard And lifted me out through the window On to the pavement. I laughed. My hand in his we went shopping, I was wearing my slippers Avoiding the puddles. He smiled We paced up the High Street to Woolworths. On tip toes, I could just see the toys. He counted his coins. I waited. He bought a figure of eight race track Of metal, two cars, one yellow, one red. A key wound it up. I danced. Home now the fuss is all over, My sister is very important I play on my own. I tremble. Birthday Years pass slowly and Childhood happiness Skips across a smooth Sea of calm Yet beneath the mirrored Surface, resentment builds Until I can contain it No more. Dawn is reluctant On this, my sister’s birthday I watch light banish dark From the sky. But my heart stays black As the depths of winter night As I move, calm, unhurried To her room. I stand above her body Scarlet chain begems her neck In one hand I hold The gleaming knife. In the other hand I cradle A pair of metal cars Tiny, rusted, red and yellow. My heart sings. Sallyj |
| I am wearing my vest, pants, socks and shoes. They are all white. I am sitting on a brown wooden chair and my feet don't reach the floor. My bed is made, the counterpane stretched tight and its edge nearly, so nearly touches the floor. I can just see the black space that is beneath my bed. I still do not know what would happen if I bounced on my bed hard enough for it to move. I imagine it, would be would disappear into the hole, and I would disappear with it. I always lie straight and still in bed, just in case. I never sit on it, even during the day. Today there are two white dresses laid side by side on the bed. hat is surprising. What is more astonishing is that I am allowed to choose which one I will wear. The only difference between them is the colour of the flower shaped buttons that march down the bodice of each. I hear the snick of the garden gate and turn my head to look out of the enormous bay window . I see my father bouncing up the brick edged path with a suitcase in each hand. They look small from here. Not big enough to hold enough clothes for a long stay. I begin to feel sad , but the, behind him I glimpse two very short people. my heart soars. I choose yellow buttons. I wriggle down from the chair and walk towards the bed, stopping when I am an arm's length away. Bending forward I snatch up the dress.I know it will slip over my head so I can put it on with no help. I twirl once to see the skirt spin, then put on my 'Mother' face, demure and serious.Inside I can hear the soft whisper of my Great Grandmother's voice. I hear the words she will say and I hug them deep inside me. I slip into the hallway. She holds out her pumpkin arms, "Hello my little lover." I disappear into her arms and wriggle until I am surrounded by her wide, black dress. My three year old head is level with her wide waist. I smell her appley scent and am happy. Sallyj |
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