Record

2008. The ones that got away.

Many photographs never made it to the blog at the time they were taken. I am drawn to those taken in the colder half of this year. The clean lines. The light.



December. Christmas decorations. Taken in a local cafe.



December. London dawn. Awake early in a strange bed.



December. A commuter on the Tube leaning against a glass partition immediately to my right. If I were a palmist, he would have been offering up his life up for my inspection.



October. The neighbour's cat and the aloe plant.



November. Winter beans. Now sprouting.



October. Reflections, Durham.



February. Local park. Fog. Emptiness. Silence.



February. Detail. Water of Life Fountain by Stephen Broadbent, Chester Cathedral.


****

When we met, Relatively Retiring and I spoke about our respective travels. Did you keep a journal, she asked. No. And that is sad. In those days I relied on an excellent memory and an unreliable camera. Twenty five years on I understand that the former is neither trustworthy nor time-proof and that uncared for physical photographs eventually fade, are mislaid or you spill coffee on them.

And now I have a blog. It is a record, of a kind. Blogging has shown me the extraordinariness of the ordinary and the value of naming what is there. And that the quest for perfection is pointless if it leads to paralysis. There are times when you just have to shrug and press Publish and move on. It's still worth doing.

It is.

Happy New Year!

Red kite

Mobbed by crows,
rising high,
high,
out of danger
effortless,
wings invincible,
wide as the world,
and silent,
riding an invisible wind
floating in blue.

On the other side
of the valley,
watching,
I drink tea
from the flask.
I eat my sandwich
then the banana,
carefully packing up
the rubbish
to take home.

Deo gratias.

Solstice

Too many people on the bus from the airport
Too many holes in the crust of the earth
The planet groans
Every time it registers another birth

But among the reeds and rushes
A baby girl was found
Her eyes as clear as centuries
Her silky hair was brown

Paul Simon
Born at the Right Time

The birth of a child. I'm from a branch of family which is disappearing. No babies. No children. No nephews or neices.

The Winter Solstice, the pagan festival, comes closer. The red of the holly berry on the winter wreath. Pale green hyacinth bud. The joking and banter at the checkout at the local mini-market. Even the office jollifications on Friday. Celebration. Light.

Feeling my way this holiday season with, by choice, far fewer plans than usual. People are coming by but I am not sure who or when. Volunteered for the soup kitchen but they have all the helpers they need. Today I cycle to a solstice celebration in a village hall in the middle of nowhere. The places I go, the people I meet. All new. Everything at the moment is untried. Everything ahead unknown and not without risk and danger. But there are always possibilities.

Solstice. The Sun stands still. Have a blessed and joyful time.

****

I have Something Understood, on the radio as I awoke, to thank for the reminder of this gem by Paul Simon. Eminently danceable. The complete lyrics are here.

Passing

Tube

Impressions

The scale and grandeur of the buildings, public and private. The pillars and porticos, the flights of high stone steps. The relentless hardness and shine of the marble. Left overs from the days of empire or steel and concrete temples to Mammon, so plentiful I barely noticed them when I lived here. After two years away, a surprise, a shock even. Acres of concrete. Scurrying people. Flocks of men in suits. Christmas muzak. Icy, grey dampness as we walk across Albert Bridge and P, always upbeat, says that Monet would have painted the view with its diffused, nebulous light. The dawn chorus of mobile phones and switched on laptops on the train that had carried me back to the capital that morning. The cough that I couldn't stifle. Buses. Trains. High prices. Noise.

Being greeted with such unexpected, tentative warmth by H it brought tears to my eyes. Realising that I am an uneasy houseguest as I hate to be beholden, but I make a huge effort not to let it show. Understanding that it is wise not to accompany P on her shopping trips - much better to arrange to meet at the coffee shop afterwards. Saying goodbye to P, hugging, then breaking free, then thinking of something else to say, three times before I make it through the ticket barrier to catch the train home.

London and me. So long together, reunited again for a few, short days.

Survival

Running down. Tired. Days till I leave work. Days till Christmas. The cat's special diet for failing kidneys is out of stock till the New Year. The vet and I are working out what to feed him till then. It's OK. We'll manage.

This winter is desperate. No snow but a insistent , threatening cold that we rarely experienced in the city. Heavy frost. Ice that doesn't melt. A sense that darkness and death are not too far away. If the gas and electricity as well as the cat food supplies failed, for example. I live in a modern-ish house with no fireplace. Build a fire in the garden with newspaper and branches foraged from nearby fields and woods. Dismantle the washing machine. No use for it without electricity. We walk a narrow line in the developed world.

The inner drums make excellent braziers. I know someone who has several.

Create

For his cut-outs he used paper that had been hand-painted with gouache, laid down in abstract or figurative patterns: 'the paper cut-out allows me to draw in the colour... Instead of drawing the outline and putting the colour inside it... I draw straight into the colour'. The colours he used were so strong that he was advised by his doctor to wear dark glasses.

Drawing with Scissors


Decision made. The week goes on. A sense that things will work out, better perhaps than can be imagined.

The Matisse touring exhibition Drawing with Scissors is in town. Lucky us.

In the local museum the lithographs on the wall glow, vibrant and joyous. Red. Blue. Yellow. Flowers. Leaves. Women. The art of an elderly man (Matisse started working with gouaches découpés or cut-outs late in life) in a wheelchair, eventually bed-ridden, using a pair of scissors and coloured paper to create. Assistants would prepare the paper and pin the cut-outs on the wall for him. The imperative was so powerful.

Outside, the winter sky a deep, intense blue. Like one of his nudes. Evening now and the mental image remains of the old artist sitting up in bed, cutting shapes from sheets of paper.

Strong colours, bright and clear and true.

December 2

Beans

A cluster of flowerpots on the window sill next to the Christmas cactus, seemingly full of nothing but bare earth.

Blogger’s block. When all else fails, I’ve been told, write about what’s in front of you.

Fair enough.

R gave me some winter beans. Dry, hard and brown. Plant them in pots, she said, and keep them in a coolish room. Once they have sprouted - probably in December or January - replant them outside. The beans will be ready to eat by spring and the plants are chockfull of nitrogen to feed the soil.

The soil needs it. The prospective vegetable patch used to be lawn until a few weeks ago and is littered with pebbles and broken bricks. As neolithic remains have been found just a few hundred yards away I peer at each spadeful of earth as I dig in the hope of discovering some human artefact, more out of a desire for a link across the millenia with my predecessors on this plot than acquisitiveness. No luck.

As with gardening so in life. Planting seeds in a cold, seemingly barren time with no guarantee of a successful outcome. (After last year’s abortive attempt at growing carrots the fantasy that I am naturally green-fingered has perished). Earlier this week, following six months of dithering, I declined an invitation to join the permanent staff at the day job. It seems the right thing to do.

In mid-January I step back and become a floater, covering for sickness and holiday absence and in the market for massage work. I haven’t done any massage since October due to lack of time and energy and I miss it, badly. And I will turn my hand to anything else that comes along. Much better in all sorts of ways but not the most obvious choice in an economic downturn.

The business cards are printed. A massage client is booked in for this coming weekend. The beans will act as a serviceable reminder. They need care, water, light. I hope they grow.

****

On the subject of faith, Zhoen and Dale recently put up truly excellent posts on their personal stances vis a vis signing up to an organised religion. Worth a read, both of them.