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August 29 Lost in musicLost in music. Feeling the thrill of the beat, words that wrap around my mind. Taking me to a place where dreams can come true, painfully aware of feelings that are bruised, or wonderfully alive with excitement. Fate will happen. It is already wrote. The moments I suspend time, and lose myself in music are stepping stones from one thread of life- to the next. I am listening to music to distract me, I feel there is something in the air, I sense change. I am hovering on the edge of something, but I don't know what it is yet. Seeking something that is just out of reach, but that will soon be at my finger tips. Its been a while that I have been living inside my head, I should peel the layers back, and open my eyes to what is going on outside it. My mind lifts above the music, my body moves to the tune, the words reverberate inside my head- but they are mere pictures. The taste of paint is faint, I need the richness of oils to bring a vivid rush of colour to my world. Too much thinking, too lost in thought. Caught up in the notes, murmuring and alive with sound. Fate will collect me tomorrow, tonight I will go back to meandering down its rhythmic lanes. August 27 Books: Harems and prostitution.A couple of books to add to my collection of those those I really enjoyed. I found them unputadownable...From first to last page. The first was The Gilded Chamber by Rebecca Kohn. The story of Ester from the bible. I got the book and didn't even realise it was based from biblical text. I love stories about strong women, and she was a mere girl when she was abducted and put into the kings harem. From a concubine to a queen, and to have brains enough to outwit a king and his court, and survive-wow fact or fiction, its riveting stuff.
http://www.rebeccakohn.com/gildedchamber.html The second was In the Company of the Courtesan by Sarah Dunant. This was recommended to me ages ago, and I've just got around to reading it. No need to figure what it is about, but it surprised me, in that it was told through the eyes of a dwarf, who was her manager and friend. I loved the writing, it was lush and vivid, and it made me want to be there in Venice, though not in the poor area. Her writing is very descriptive, when she said Venice was smelly and seedy etc, you actually where there. She took inspiration from Titian's portrait that has come to be known as ”the Venus of Urbino”
August 26 Kissy stuff of my own...I would like to kiss him. She held the thought to herself, imagining for a moment that she was actually kissing him. Lips on lips, feeling the intensity and emotion that it would bring. But reality isn't like that, her lips were the only pair around. So she kept the thought to herself and carried on with her day. Evening time. Too much time, she thought to herself. And she knew if she wasn't careful, she would be dreaming about kissing and such things again. So she telephoned her friend, and what did her friend spend the whole time talking about? but men and kissing! are we all obsessed with the kissy stuff, she thought. Time for bed. She became absorbed in her book, chocolate a poor substitute for that moreish feeling of lip things. Well maybe not such a poor substitute... Fast asleep. Woken by the sound of something, someone. Wishing she hadn't read the horror book before bed. The house seemed so big, and she was so alone. No thoughts of kissing now. She couldn't stay in bed and hide, not when there could be a mad axe murderer downstairs. So she pulled pyjamas on, then a dressing gown. The less flesh, the less to tempt-irrational thoughts didn't dwell in her just now. Movements, sounds, and was that really someone singing? She hovered at the top of the stairs, listening. She didn't dare turn the light on. The cat- her cat squealed. That was it, no one hurt her cat! She stormed down the stairs. Her feet tangled in the fleeing cat as it shot upstairs, ensuring she got down quicker than walking. In a sprawl at the bottom of the stairs, she hurt. Sparks flashed before her eyes. The cat had left her. To face the faceless monster, alone and injured. Her back was scraped, and her foot hurt with a pain unfelt before. She honestly didn't care if he chopped her into little pieces. Damn it-help! she thought, as she heard footsteps approaching. Her partner's concerned face loomed over her. Tears of relief ran down her face, but she was angry too. Her injuries were superficial, though painful. He should have let her know he was on his way home, back early from his work contract. He lay her gently on the bed, and kissed her on her forehead. She felt herself melting as she always did. Then he settled his perfect lips softly on hers. It seemed her wish had come true, and it was certain that she would have her own kissy stuff to tell her friend tomorrow... August 25 sprites are too much !!So there I was absolutely buzzing with the thrill that my effervescent, golden sprite fizzled into me, and damn if it didn't cause my brain to ignite and send fizzles of vivid bright lights to flash within my head! That exciting little sprite was too much for me, I wound up with migraine. Now I am calm and composed, and with anything resembling a fritz pushed far from me. Serenity is my friend for tonight. And so I have spent the bank holiday, doing quiet and contemplative things. August 24 Fighting the grey devilIts difficult sometimes to find that something in a day to make you smile, especially if you have the grey devil sitting on your shoulder. He's a devious little bugger, he nibbles at your ear and whispers how wonderful it is to be sad. To brood and dwell in the single moment from the many millions that have happened to you, to embrace the one that made you sink. He laughs as the good, the happy, and the positive ones fall from your mind, or are simply discarded as you dwell in the divine of dark, depressive emotions. Today my grey devil is stuck in a chest, wrapped and bound in leather, then sealed in lead and placed in a special room in my mind. So now the little golden sprite sits on my shoulder. She oozes with exuberance, while whispering only positive things in my mind. I feel her tickle me if I falter and begin to seek grey. August 22 My dayToday It was my day, I had a sleep in, and then lazily had breakfast in bed. I read, then had a super long bath, and shopped for makeup online, before finalising my Avon order. I ate chocolate, but not too much, and watched the last episode of Rome series2. I thought about changing my life, mapped out the main ideas to achieve this. Realised it is not an overnight thing, but that it will be a mere thought, unless I make it real. Things need motion to happen, or they remain stagnant and die. So I mixed in with my day, a short period spent on my exercise bike. I looked out of the kitchen window, yes my bike moves rooms, and now is in the kitchen. I switch my radio on and look out and imagine I am anywhere but there. Then talked for ages to my sister on the phone, then came online and did the surfing thing. My day is far from over, Tudors on TV, Law & order- SVU, & then my book about Queen Esther-the concubine who ended up a queen. It hasn't been a wildly exciting day, but I realise it has been a good day. August 21 Rainy daysWet outside, dreary and grey- though the blue peeking through dark clouds made it worthwhile having to go outside. It was strangely warm, and my walking coat kept me dry. Everywhere looked shiny and polished, though wet. With fallen leaves a sign of the next season to come. Before this though, talking to my daughter on the telephone (who now lives a couple of miles away) it was dry if not sunshiny. The rain hit her before it found its way to me. Serve me right I thought , I had put off collecting my Avon brochures- weak excuses now ensured a soaking. Not a very glamorous woman who collected said brochures, though the feel of fresh air on my face and the excitement of orders made it all worth while. My headaches are still playing hide and seek, and they find me no matter how I try and avoid them. Real life rarely meets the excitement of fiction, and the living of it is sometimes monotonous. But a day without a headache is a blessing, a day with a mind that is able to see the blue sky from the grey is doubly so. Feeling grey today. Shift the thoughts that threaten to descend, trying to hold on to those little flashes of expectation. Orders mean commission, which means makeup for me. See good out of bad...and the certainty that tomorrow will be an even better day. August 16 Migraine times, must be the haircut!I have a poorly head today, in fact, today and yesterday. So I am hoping tomorrow is a new day, complete with a new head! Migraine has been plaguing me again, so to anyone I have dared comment on, or written to, excuse the awful spellings. Ok they are even worse than my spelling mistakes usually are :) So here it is Saturday night, my head is eased for now and I am taking a moment to check things up on here. I am quite happy to be doing nothing, and at the moment, there is no room in my head to make stories up. I have been checking my Avon out, lots of goodies in there. It is a bit alarming though to think I have most of the makeup now. But I do have a boots voucher (b-day pressy) and so I will have to spend it of course. I had my hair cut, seemed pointless putting another picture on here as its a similar haircut to the one I always have done, though Its a bit shorter than usual. To my neck, and layered to within an inch of its life, I fell into a hairdresser with snip-happy scissors! Still it will grow, I realise I always say that... Looking at boots I think I may just colour my hair, red-redder or even redder? Lots of shades of auburn to play with. So all I need now is my head to behave, and then I can play paint-box with my hair as well as with my makeup... August 14 lovingAnticipation, wondering, expectation, a rush of excitement as I think of what will be. Knowing, in spite of feeling the cold, the warmth of night will soon comfort me. Waiting, wishing, hoping-he will come, knowing he will be here. Sighing- soon... Taking control, holding me, loving me, wanting me- heat and passion- perfection.
Friendship, laughter, a melting of moments. Renewed joy, realising it didn't needed renewal. Love, deep, breathless with the feeling- not physical, no touching- important or not important. Passion, remembered. Lust now- immediate. Physical, aching with need. Skin needing skin. Familiarity, eyes closed but seeing, touch renewed. Knowing, but new, an urgency to feel again and again.
History, longevity, hurting-forgiveness, infallible. Vulnerable, human. A deeper loving. Realisation that love is changeable, unreasoning, belief- eternal and hopeful. But so very fragile in form. Warmth, security. Heat with fire, desire and want. Cherished, needed. But above all- Loved. Time building sensations, the rush and gentle hush of what is, rather than what will be. August 07 The big bad wolf.Innocence and disbelief, alive. I was told to watch out for the big bad wolf, beware him, for he is everywhere and yet no where. He preys on unsuspecting girls, he tears them apart with his big teeth, and cruel claws. He knows no pity, and listens to no one but himself-he is the only reasoning he understands. He is a danger to children, boys and girls alike. But his delight is for someone full grown, then the challenge is true. Through the forest the prowls, he is unseen. He loves the game of she sees me-she sees me not. A glance, a glimpse, "is someone there?" The question makes him laugh, would he answer, of course not. He kills, he plays with his prey, he stalks, and loves to terrify, too easily caught and the feeling is green. He needs it to be golden, or vivid red, a worthy opponent, a chase to tax him. To make him sweat. A green canopy, hides the blue sky from her. A red cape, a slash of colour flitting between trees. She doesn't believe in fairy tales. She carries a basket, tempting fate some would say. She is lost as she wanders through the woodland, without a care in the world, she steps free. Time has no meaning, she smells the musky scent of an animal, the sweat of sodden fur. She smiles, she walks and waits, and knows that soon he will appear... pt 2 Death, unrest of a soul I am the green of the tree, the blue of the sky, the pink of the blossoms, I am unseen, this woodland is my place. Once upon a time, I lived, I breathed, I loved and laughter was my friend, until I forgot to listen, and to beware. I walked, I waited for my own true love, he was late, I met my fate that day-too late now to say what if! So now I watch, it hurts that I know. I smell him, I feel him, and though my scream carries on the wind, I know it's in vain. And so the circle is set, the wolf, the woman, and the ghost.The place they dwell is deep within the soul of the wood. The scene has been replayed throughout time, but still the ending is always the same. Round it goes, until end meets end. Mystery, excitement, then misery and murder- all come together to help create the myth. I sleep now, woken by what I do not know. I hear the beats of a heart, the whispers from frozen lips, the spill of blood as it hits the floor.I see red, it flows and is fluid, it moves enticing where ever it touches, beads of red hit fallen boughs, colouring the green. The scent is irresistible, I hear the howl, I hear his greed, he wonders why the woman in red bleeds for him. He is cautious, he lies low, she laughs, puts her basket down and calls to him. This spectral form that I inhabit, I hate. I'm insubstantial and though I try to help, I am impotent. My warnings fall upon deaf ears. Why doesn't she fear, why does she wear red? something here is not right, my worry is in vain, unneeded and so for once I watch-curious. The girl, a cloak and magic She is alive, but an air of otherworldliness surrounds her. A sense of sadness, of revenge, of pain that needs to be swathed flows from her. The red calls as a red cloak to a bull, she is aware of the danger, uncaring of it. A long time has passed, nights of questions, days of pleading, days and nights of learning. Until now. She takes a bottle from the basket, dark blue-it glows with an incandescent light. The shock of colour, the twist and swirl of purple as she throws a powder so fine, it throws a circle around her, unbroken now it flows burning into the ground, reaching roots, and rock and finally the secret depths of this land. The blue bottle in her hands again, words whispered as she opens the lid. Unseen to human eyes, but visible to me, a blue vapour flows out. It moves and weaves, it twists around boughs, tempers leaves. It forms a trail from the bottle to the the depths of the wood. Tantalising, tempting nothing could resist it, or at least nothing that has a taste for blood. She stands silent, the glow of red, and the sheen of blue smoke, within the burnt circle she waits. Soon he will come, he can't resist, soon he will be here. pt3 The big bad wolf I am he that is primitive, born of something ancient. I live by my own creed, my rules are simple, I follow my need and the pull of fate. I am powerful, with a strength that grows with each kill. This is my nature, to seek, to hunt, and crush that which is needy and weak. The hunt is my climax- the kill, satiates me but does not end the need, nor lessen the pull of that something- irresistible. The chase of a worthy opponent, the challenge of a force stronger than mine- I bleed with its need. The loamy, earthy smell of the earth, the heady rush of green, the scent of blood, the smell of fear tantalises me. In dark days, bare days of cold and wet, and ice, I lie underground, my heart slowing down to the thrum of those simple creatures that rest with me. To the beat of the lunar cycle. In full moon I twitch and moan, yet sleep keeps its hold on me. But the feel of the earth warming around me, the roots thick with greed, instinctively I wake. I hear footsteps, small, rustling's of creatures unworthy of me. Spirits of my ancestors sing to me, their call renews my rebirth yet again. I forget my kills, the chase, the thrill is all. That I steal life is unimportant, their blood, meat and bone nourishes me and feeds the earth upon which I dwell. Sometimes in my sleep I sense the touch of something. But as I don't possess a conscience, and I don't know of spectres of the dark, its an itch that annoys, but nothing more. Now, an impulse drives me to that hateful colour-to red, to tear it to shreds. But my fur ruffles, it rises on hackles, wait it says. A scent, a whisper of it calls, teases, but I stay. My limbs twitch with an energy, my claws viciously tear the tree, deep grooves line its form, but something holds me here... pt4 The circle is broken She is safe within the purple circle, it could have been white-for the purity of salt. But she added her own special concoction. Her red cloak a beacon amid the green. She senses him, he approaches, he disdains his instincts, he is there outside the circle. Prowling, giant paws hitting the ground silently. He touches the circle edge and his howl is heard far away. He steps back, his jaws huge- open menacing-the promise within his eyes and teeth. The trees seem to reach inwards, the gap shrinking, a clearing no more. He prowls again, scents her, scents more but his understanding is limited. His eyes speak of an intelligence, his body instinctively animalistic. She fears him, but a hand raises towards him, a pull to stroke that rough fur. She pulls back. He begins a gentle growl, low in his throat. His paws dig down, but the barrier is far reaching. She whispers words, joins his growl with a chanting of her own. The sound of night a rhythm in the background as she attempts to communicate with him. Her hand reaches inside her cloak, takes the silver knife. A wisp of something begins to materialise, a form takes shape. She feels hate, the wolf is tormented, but the ghostly form cries to the them both. They are drawn to her, she has similar features to the girl- One word, a heart rending cry- mother! I will avenge! She steps over the line, reaches towards the ethereal image of her mother, tears fall. The wolf howls with joy as it leaps towards the red cloak. She unclasps it, throws it over the wolf in one fluid movement, the wolf stops, a memory of someone, the pause is enough for the girl to drive the knife into the side of the wolf, through the red cloth. It drops, the spectral form of her mother pulls the cloak from it. Fur peels back, the thing that was wolf sinks into the ground. A body of a man, the sigh from the ghost, hands joined. The girl is left alone, the things she brought with her, fallen and broken scattered around her, the circle gone. The trees move with a gentle breeze, the feeling of something dark gone. So why does she feel so sad, so bereft. Her tears fall, she should feel satisfied, she killed the big bad wolf and set her mothers spirit free, so why did she feel so sad? The knife glints, silver in the moonlight. A feeling of emptiness fills her. The feel of hate and revenge had been her meaning of life for so long. She picked the knife up, tilted her head, heard something, listening to it, feeling it fill her soul, casting out the emptiness. The knife entering her is quick, she gasps, a mere moment of regret then nothing. That, that was the wolf is now her. She wakes, the scent of something so strong, so delicious, so compelling. Her eyes take in the wood, black and white is all she sees. The feel of the wind ruffles her fur, her ears hear sounds far away, sounds unheard before. The breath of creatures, the rush of water. the cacophony of nature. Images and memories slip from her as she becomes her new form. She is now primitive, ancient and feels a deep urge to hunt. Her nose scents something, black and white around her, then a flash of red. She is moving fast, soon upon the unsuspecting couple. The man wears a red t-shirt, he is first. The woman attempts to run, but cannot out run this beast. They leave a child behind, orphaned now but one day, she will be filled with thoughts of hate and revenge. Soon the circle is complete yet again, the woman, the ghost and the wolf. August 05 Less is moreargghh thats exactly what i am feeling just now. I love things to excess, things that are rich and lush. I want to drown myself in words, in thoughts and ideas. But the swapping of these from my mind to paper, or in this case typed words, is so damn hard.
I know that less is more, and that sometimes one word can convey something so much clearer, and more potently, than an outpouring of sentences. But it feels like throwing part of what i created away. The creating of something, to me doesnt matter if its good, bad, or great- in the moment its magic...
yes i know to others it is less so :)
So it is late now and my book calls, i have tweaked good in bad & my lion cub, but they are not what i originally started out with.
I am finding the art of changing one simple word, can alter the whole meaning of something.
So i say arrggghgghhhhhh again, and now i take pleasure in someone elses hard work- my book and the words of another. August 04 Good in bad-My lion cubGOOD IN BAD
It's easy to get trapped in the dark, think sad thoughts, seek all that is bleak.
Hate and jealousy, defeated and worn. Without hope.
Longing for something, anything, to break the circle, that life has become.
A thought, a word, a stone dropping in an ocean of fear.
The knowledge, simple really, teased from memory or newly born.
The answer to what is sought. Is to seek the light.
And to look for the good, and know the good that is in the bad.
MY LION CUB
My little lion cub is so cute, I feel a rush of pure happiness, contented- this feeling is sublime
I hold his tiny little body within my arms, feel his head resting on my shoulder, his silent breath on my neck.
For a moment the stillness scares me so, but then a sigh, and a snuffle, and I can hardly breathe the feeling is so...
No lover, no dream, just a sweet thought, a tiny glimmer of white night.
A moment of recall, as he snuggles further into me.
Protective, I would let no one harm this tiny, precious thing.
He mewled at me, a slight growl, sweet now but a precurser of what he would be.
Tawny-brown, fire-angry red. I stroke his fur, smell the animal smell that only a baby lion can have.
A need to nurture, to cuddle, and a strong urge to keep him safe.
It's love, innocent love, cherished and nourished but one day he will be grown.
One day his small claws will tear my skin to shreds.
The tearing of this bond, fragile and twisted, but still an unbreakable thing.
But for now, I banish thoughts of leaving, of growing, of learning and his nature to be.
I move him gently from my neck . It aches me so. I sit on the sofa, his body become heavy.
He cries as I move him, this tiny lion cub of mine.
Nestled sleepily against my leg. He is happy once again and I feel the glow, an insight of the lion I know he will become.
August 03 A poem to break your heart by Pablo nerudaI seem to have been in a place of no thoughts, i've enjoyed even loved things, been amazed and astonished at others. But nothing seems to have been able to penetrate my heart, or tweak my soul until I read these words.
Another poem to add to my favourites, how i wish i could write something like this. It actually made me cry, I thought age had made me less emotional, but i'm still as sentimental as i ever was. This didn't just tweak my soul, i felt a deep tear as i read the words.
So here it is...
TONIGHT I CAN WRITE
Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
Write, for example, 'The night is shattered and the blue stars shiver in the distance.'
The night wind revolves in the sky and sings.
Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.
Through nights like this one I held her in my arms.
I kissed her again and again under the endless sky.
She loved me, sometimes I loved her too.
How could one not have loved her great still eyes.
Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
To think that I do not have her. To feel that I have
lost her.
To hear the immense night, still more immense
without her.
And the verse falls to the soul like dew to the pasture.
What does it matter that my love could not keep her.
The night is shattered and she is not with me.
This is all. In the distance someone is singing. In the
distance.
My soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.
My sight searches for her as though to go to her.
My heart looks for her, and she is not with me.
The same night whitening the same trees.
we, of that time, are no longer the same.
I no longer love her, that's certain, but how I loved her.
My voice tried to find the wind to touch her hearing.
Another's. She will be another's. Like my kisses before.
Her voice, her bright body. Her infinite eyes.
I no longer love her, thats certain, but maybe I love her.
Love is so short, forgetting is so long.
Because through nights like this one I held her in
my arms
my soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.
Though this be the last pain that she makes me suffer
and these the last verses that I write for her.
By Pablo Neruda 1904-1973
Trans.W.S. Merwin |
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