Tracing Flight

Tea with Cleo and Henry

2010-11-06T09:57:00.000Z

Richard was out on a house call leaving Claire sitting up in bed reading her book before settling down to sleep. But though she was following the words across the page she wasn’t seeing them, her mind was elsewhere, at Cleo’s house and the extraordinary hour she’d spent there that afternoon. She’d wanted to tell Richard all about it but he’d come in after a long busy day but almost as he’d finished his dinner he’d gone straight back out on an emergency call. The life of a local GP and that of his family was anything but regular!
So Claire was left with all her thoughts jangling around in her mind leaving no space for reading, all she could think about was ………………..

‘Ouch!’ Claire whirled round, her hand went straight to her bum where she had just felt as she’d been pinched. But there was no-one behind her. Cleo was coming through the door carrying a tray with of tea and biscuits which she proceeded to try and put down on the coffee table that was covered with papers, books, pens etc. ‘did I just hear you say ouch?’ she said. As Claire nodded while making space on the table Cleo carried on, ‘I guess you’ve just met Henry, don’t worry, he’s harmless, just a little mischievous when I have visitors. Henry, behave yourself or you’ll frighten Claire away. She’s a friend and you must be nice to her’. Turning back to Claire she said, ‘help yourself to sugar and biscuits’, as if nothing was at all odd!
‘Thank you. Er, who’s Henry and er, where is he? I can’t see anyone, haven’t seen anyone.’ Claire helped herself to a cup of rather strong looking tea adding a spoonful of sugar to help with the taste, she didn’t normally drink tea or take sugar in her drinks but if offered tea and especially strong tea it was more palatable with a little sugar.
‘Oh you won’t see him, Henry’s a ghost, he lives here in the metre cupboard,’ Cleo said pointing to a little cupboard low down on the wall to the side of the fireplace.
Claire’s eyes followed the pointing finger. A ghost, a ghost named Henry who pinched bottoms. Mmmm.
‘Er, how long,’ she cleared her throat, ‘how long has er, have you er………….,’
‘how long have I lived with Henry? Is that what you’re asking? Most of my life. I was born here and Henrys’ been here ever since I can remember. I was an only child so Henry was my playmate when I was growing up.’
This was becoming more surreal by the minute. A ghost called Henry who pinched bottoms, lived in the metre cupboard and had been a lifelong friend. She began to wonder at Cleo’s mental state!
‘Can you see him? What does he look like?’
‘Oh no, I’ve never seen him’.
‘well how do you know when he’s, when he’s er, in the room with you?’ Claire was having great difficulty asking any questions and indeed felt a little nosey doing so but she was strangely fascinated by what was happening. Nothing felt real.
‘I can smell him’, replied Cleo. ‘he’s not too fond of soap and water, I have told him about it, that he’s got BO’, Cleo whispered the last bit as if it would embarrass Henry to have everyone knowing.
A ghost called Henry who pinches bottoms, lives in the metre cupboard and smells because he never washes! Claire could feel the giggle deep down inside getting stronger that was now in danger of bursting out throwing her good manners to the wind. This was too much, Cleo was winding her up, playing a practical joke and she was very good at it. Her face was as open and honest as ever, she was quite relaxed which was more than Claire was.
She’d felt from the start that Cleo was a ‘bit of a character’, all those beads and bangles, the kaftans and scarves, a colourful character who had brought a breath of fresh air to Claire’s life since the day she had walked into the village hall to join the art group.
That first session had been spent firstly drawing circles freehand to loosen them up and to see that it was impossible and not necessary anyway to draw a perfect circle. They had then progressed to apples. Claire had started looking at apples differently since that day, not one was perfectly round, they were all sorts of shapes on a roundish base and she noticed the colours too. She’d always looked at apples as either red or green but now she saw other colours too as well as the blemishes, the shadows, the dip in the top and the stalk. Over the weeks of that first couple of months she’d started looking at everything differently, noticing colours, trees, flowers, buildings in a way she’d never noticed them before and she’d lived in the town all her life.
‘He’s been a very good friend to me has Henry and great fun to be with. He’s made you smile, and a proper smile too, the first I’ve seen since we met’.
Claire must have looked puzzled at that because Cleo went on to say
‘true, you smile but never with your eyes, until now. Henry might be rather a naughty boy but he brought a smile to your eyes.

Sitting in bed with the unread book on her lap Claire mulled over Cleo’s words. It was true she realised. Since Bentley had died she’d lived in a bit of a bubble of grief. Since she’d started the art group and met Cleo she’d gradually stopped thinking of Bentley every hour of the day, in fact she hadn’t thought of him for a few days now and when she did the pain in the pit of her stomach was not there now. She could think of him without feeling teary. And yes, she could again smile and do it with her eyes.

Rowan trees

2010-10-29T20:38:00.000+01:00

Gethin turned on the main light to check his appearance in the wardrobe mirror before leaving for work. The late afternoon sun would have come streaming through his window if he hadn’t fitted blackout blinds. He would replace them with the net curtains his mother preferred once his memories of sniper attacks on the Forward Operating Base went away. She would open the blinds and the window once he had left the house, and would then close them again when she went to bed, well before he returned.

He had been meticulous over his appearance in the Army, and had carried this over to his civilian life. For him it was a mark of both professionalism and respect. The Army had taken a rough lad from a mining valley and made a soldier of him, but had not prepared him for the return to civilian life. Before he joined up, he had been a trainee motor mechanic. Now he was a qualified driver of heavily armoured, mine-resistant, wheeled patrol vehicles. After an exciting and dangerous four years in Afghanistan as part of a tight and highly motivated fighting group, the thought of returning to his old job left him cold. He moved back in with his mother and started looking for work.

It had not been going well, and he seemed to be just drifting when an adviser at the Job Centre came up with a new idea – what about a job as a Nightclub Door Supervisor, a ‘Bouncer’? He had the physical presence needed, and had plenty of experience of defusing confrontations in the Army, but more to the point it paid comfortably more than his Jobseeker’s Allowance, and would give him time during his daylight hours to explore other possibilities. All he needed, said the adviser, was a Security Industry Authority certificate. Four days of study and two exams, and there would be no problem finding a job. She was right: he was successful at his first interview and started work that evening.

He had chosen his new ‘uniform’ with care. Black trousers and polo neck sweater, both designer fashion but he had carefully removed the labels. Dr Marten’s executive leather safety shoes with steel inner toecaps that would withstand stiletto heels and deliver a kick if needed. A smart black overcoat for chilly nights. And under his polo neck sweater, the gold chain which Lizzie had given him before he left for Afghanistan - under the sweater because otherwise it could give an assailant something to grab if it were to come to a scuffle. Lizzie. She had a new boyfriend now. Gethin had not been one for writing letters or long phone calls, and they had drifted apart while he was away. He still had the chain, though. While he was away on service, he had left it with his grandmother for safekeeping, and now he wore it every day. It reminded him of their happy days together before he grew up and became a man. Happy days would come again with another partner, maybe marriage and kids, but he was in no hurry.

Tomorrow, he planned a day out. He would drive north into the hills and take a run in the forest. In the heat and dust, he had often dreamed of doing this again, though before his Army training it would have been a stroll rather than a run. He felt the energy coiled up inside him and needed to let it release. His job was stressful though it didn’t get on top of him. Sometimes he had to hold himself in when he had to bar drunken cocky youngsters at the door, but it was a lot easier than driving an armoured vehicle under fire watching out for signs of remotely-controlled mines in the road. So far, he had not needed to use force in the new job – his height, physique and spiky short black hair were enough to earn him respect before it came to that.

His shift over, he walked back to his mother’s house and let himself in quietly. He had a shower and shave – he never left the house unshaven – and changed into his off-road running gear and a tracksuit. He laid the gold chain back in its leather case and put it away in a drawer. Breakfast was microwaved porridge with fruit and yoghurt; he put a thermos of coffee and a bottle of water into a backpack and was ready to go.

The car had been his father’s, and Gethin had kept it in showroom condition for him. Since his father’s death, his mother had kept it in their garage even though she couldn’t drive. Gethin was determined that she should learn, if only to visit his grandma up in the valley he was now heading towards. Twenty minutes door-to-door in a car. Two hours or more by public transport. He thought of the families he had seen in the Afghan countryside, three generations, maybe more, all living apparently happily together. That was how it had been when his grandma was a child on the family farm before spoil tips from the mine covered it. Now the mine had closed, exhausted, and the spoil tips were disguised with trees and grass, but the farm had gone forever except in Grandma’s memory. He would call in and see her after his run and maybe get invited to an early lunch. He had some carefully selected pictures from Afghanistan to show her. Families sitting together outside their houses, wild and domestic animals and birds, irrigated green fields surrounded by dry land and scrub, his fellow soldiers and their armoured vehicles, the little patch of salad vegetables they kept alive with wastewater from the cookhouse. There was no need to show her the ‘horror of war’ pictures. She knew all about that from his grandfather’s stories of the First World War and his father’s from the Second. He would have his stories to tell too, but not yet.

As he drove past the sleeping houses, he wondered whether soldiering was in the family’s genes. Would his son, assuming he had one, choose to be a soldier too? Perish the thought! His father and grandfather had both volunteered, but would have been conscripted anyway if they hadn’t done so. He had chosen to join up to get away from a boring job and learn a trade. He had left school with no qualifications and the recruiting posters made the Army seem the obvious solution. Now he would like his children to have more choice; if they really wanted to join the forces then they should get the right qualifications to enter Officer Training at the start. He laughed at himself - here he was making plans for his children, and he hadn’t met their mother yet.

The road began to rise along the valley, and there were soon trees on either side. Trees always brought him peace. Trees and a mountain stream brought bliss. Today, he was going to follow a track he hadn’t used before, because according to the map it crossed a stream near a ruined building. A good place to bring his thoughts together.

He pulled off the road into the Forestry Commission car park. There was a recent scar along one edge of the parking area; someone had driven up the track from the road at high speed and failed to control the car in time to avoid hitting the bank. The car had gone, but a sapling little more than a metre high lay on top of the bank, battered and with most of its roots out of the soil. Gethin grew angry. He had seen armoured vehicles driven across ditches and crops when there was no need, mindlessly damaging the farmers' land, and he knew what had happened to the local farms under the mine waste tips. He realised that his reaction was out of proportion. After all, it was just one sapling of hundreds in the area, but somehow it mattered. What had happened to it shouldn’t have happened – it was the result of human stupidity and lack of care for the world around us, but at least he could put this bit right.

He found a plastic carrier bag blown into a bush and carefully eased the tree into it, with as much soil around the roots as possible. He could see from the now wilting leaves that it was a Rowan Tree, and he had vague memories of his grandma laughing that they used to have a Rowan Tree in the old farmyard but it hadn’t helped when the mine owner wanted to dump spoil on their land. He placed the tree in its bag in his backpack and started his run, not yet knowing what he was going to do with it. He had more of a jog than a run but eventually he reached the ruin by the stream. It had been a cottage with two outhouses, and the outline of a garden or vegetable patch was still visible. Now it was surrounded by the Sitka Spruce of the Forestry Plantation and felt unreal.

Gethin decided that this was where his Rowan tree should live – the creamy white flowers would bring light in the spring, and the red berries would feed the birds in the autumn and winter. The soil in the garden patch was still good, and with a broken tree branch he scooped out a hole in a corner where it should get sun for at least part of the day. With the sapling in position, he looked for a way to bring water to it from the stream. The carrier bag was useless – too many holes – but he did have his water bottle, and with several trips to the stream he was happy that ‘his’ sapling would have a chance of survival. He scattered small flat pebbles from the stream over the surface of the soil; they would let the rain through and delay drying out by protecting the soil from the sun. He washed his hands in the stream, sat on a rock in the sun and enjoyed his coffee.

His grandma was delighted to see him as always, and wanted all his news as she prepared them caws pobi, Welsh Rarebit, for lunch.

‘Why did you used to say that the Rowan at the farm didn’t save the farm from the waste tips, Nan?’

‘Well, in the old days it was supposed to be magic, bringing good fairies and protecting the family from bad ones. Let me show you something.’

She went across the room and opened a linen chest, which Gethin remembered from childhood. She felt around under the clothes and brought out a stick of polished wood about a metre long.

‘This was my grandma’s wand, and she told me it was made of Rowan. She never told me what she used it for nor where she got it, but she did say that anyone who planted a Rowan would get good luck from the fairies.’

‘I could use some of that. No sense of direction at the moment.’

‘Ah, you should have stuck with Lizzie. Nice girl, that.’

‘But she has another bloke now.’

‘You should stay in touch better. He didn’t last a month that one, and they do say she misses her soldier boy still.’

‘Nan, I don’t believe in fairies, I don’t believe in magic, I think the Rowan is just a beautiful tree, but when I go back home tonight I’m thinking of calling Lizzie and she’s got every right to bite my head off.’

‘Well, maybe I should see if I can cast a spell or two before you do that. Now shall we have some fruit loaf before you go?’

Gethin drove away, confused and excited. Had he really made that decision at last?

His grandma picked up the phone and dialled.

‘Hello, Lizzie dear, it’s me. You may get a call tonight...’

An Honorary Swan

2010-10-03T18:36:00.000+01:00

Oh no, the back tyre’s flat, drat. It’s such a nice day, the sun’s shining, the smell of autumn is in the air, a perfect day for a cycle ride along by the river making the most of the opportunity before the dismal damp days to come and I have a puncture. Grrr, I flapped my arms in despair and frustration and ……………and my feet leave the ground! I need to see a shrink, I’m having delusions, I’m sure I’m floating, nay flying, that’s my house down there, my garden, my car and that’s……..and……….and ………wow!!

Effortlessly floating around now I can look down on the whole neighbourhood, is that a removal van outside number seventeen, come to think of it I haven’t seen Trevor for some time, have we lost another of the residents who was here when we moved in? Like the others has he quietly gone and no-one has noticed?

The starlings on the aerial fly off squawking alarmed at the sight of a large spectacled featherless creature that’s just a bit too close for comfort but the magpie on the neighbouring roof shouts a warning, he stands firm, he’s not scared.

At the end of the road I fly over the steep bank alongside the railway line, that’s where a glacier came to a stop in the last ice age – or so I’ve been told by one of the allotment gardeners who lectures in geology. (I like to keep good company). Several gardeners are out making the most of the warm dry day to get on with the autumn tidy-up and the autumn planting. There’s my plot, wow, how different it looks from up here! On the whole, mmm, pretty good, certainly much better than when I took it on, but lets face it, it couldn’t have looked much worse! I must get on with my autumn chores but not today, there’s somewhere I have to be that’s as much a passion as my gardening.

The sun is hot on my back but as I glide along the current of air cools me; I close my eyes and fill my lungs with the cool clear air, how wonderful and free this feels, the air glides over me as smooth and as luxurious as the most elegant, the sofest of silk dresses. I can float, glide, swoop and soar, roll over, loop the loop, weeee, look, no strings! This is the most fantastic thing ever.

I dive down out of the way of the air ambulance letting it noisily pass over me on it’s urgent way. Lower down now my heart thudding from the fright I glide along following the course of the river as it winds its way through the trees and thunders over the weir with it’s new improved salmon run. I pause in my journey to watch the salmon attempting to jump this enormous wall of water to fulfil their destiny. What a marvel they are, never giving up. A stately heron stands on a rock on the lookout for an unwary fish, he’s still as the rock he stands on except for his eyes, alert and focused, he doesn’t miss a thing. A fisherman casts his line into the fast-flowing water competing with the heron in his clumsy human way.

Approaching the new footbridge I’m no longer alone, a pair of beautiful white swans have joined me. One either side of me we fly along in perfect unison performing an aerial ballet. This is so much fun, up up up we soar, down we dive, it the right, to the left, glide awhile, I’m an honorary swan. But as we fly over the castle I signal farewell to my regal friends, the end of my journey is in sight and I head for that other feature of our skyline, the Friary Tower block.

We’re back in our old room on the fourth floor, ‘we’re home’ I say to everyone as I enter the room and head for the seat closest to where I always used to sit. Funny, so do the others, we’re more or less sat in the same old places!

‘The exercise today is one we’ve all done before, the journey into class’. Oh no I groan inwardly, I always find this exercise a challenging one. As ever I can’t actually remember my journey in and it won’t matter how long I sit here with my eyes closed. I never notice anything as I’m travelling.

And as if to confirm my lack of observation I fail to notice the pure white feather on the floor beside me.

(writing on a character over the summer)

2010-10-03T18:01:00.002+01:00

he felt a familiar surge of irritation flaring up but then paused and for the first time allowed himself to realise what had caused it. She was not perfect he suddenly realised and he had been expecting perfection. He sat soberly reflecting on his thoughts. Yet again he had put her up there on the pedestal of supposed perfection and then she had slipped off as always happened. He knew all too well that he himself was not perfect but had the realisation that if she was not perfect either then maybe just maybe he did not have to feel so lowly and inferior and downright guilty for letting her down. Maybe they were not so very different from each other after all ? He sat back in his armchair and a smile developed slowly as he felt the immense relief of the burden he had been carrying for years. He began to think of how they could both be and realised they could both be as snappy with each other and both had moods of chattyness or quietness. He felt himself begin to relax. In fact he thought she could be quite selfish in the relationship and quite demanding. If they had been spending a lot of time together he felt drained and less of his whole self and he realised that to his amazement he was actually quite easy going and amenable. he often went along with her plans because it seemed fair enough and he wanted to please her and have her happy. he rarely demanded they did a certain thing or tried to persuade her to do things he wanted for himself. It was a new wonderful feeling and he felt the beginnings of being set free from guilt and self dislike. Maybe just maybe he was kinder and less selfish in the relationship than he had feared and this new thought gave him a feeling of release and genuine pleasure. One thing he began to feel strongly about was to gradually chage the perceived dynamics as she sometimes referred to his irritability or snappiness as if it was a thing he alone was guilty of but thinking in the honest way he was allowing himself he realised this was decidedly lopsided and unfair. Since she had stopped work she had been much more over sensitive and likely to have her own way of retroting sharply to him and it was something he had begun to do less so the supposed truth between them that he was the only one ever to be unreasonable should not stand unchallenged any more. Maybe he need feel less over apologetic so much of the time. It occurred to him for the very first time ever that not only could he be hard to have a relationship with but that so could she. maybe it was not abnormal that he could feel so drained by their time together? Maybe it was not it was not just him being funny that way? Maybe she actually was hard to have a relationship with simply because everyone can be and close human relationships can be hard work. What if everyone enjoys a break from each other now and then and it was not a failing of his that he felt as every other human felt ? These questions flooded his mind rapidly as he allowed himself to see things from a new angle. He sat quietly for a while and in some way wanted to share his new truth with someone but did not know anyone that well so sat some more in hopeful contemplation. He realised he had expected perfection from himself and had been trying to be the perfect partner to her which he now realised was totally impossible. But too maybe he could work on expecting less perfection from other people then he would not feel let down or upset or irritated ? Maybe all in all he could relax ? He began then to feel some new freedom opening up in front of him and some of the guilt and shame he had been carrying for years of not being somehow ''good enough'' for her or for any of his friendships began to ease slightly. He thought back to his parents when they had been alive - he almost laughed at the obvious cliche but he had somehow never felt ''good enough'' for them either not ever. He had been in fear of them hating him and abandoning him for their dislike and his failure to please them enough. He felt sad in someways now but also some sense of hope arising that if he had made these realisations maybe he could begin to change his patterns of thinking and relating to people and some of his behaviour ? He sat deep in thought for ages as he contemplated possible changes ahead. He realised how much he had been comparing himself to others. he used to feel he was less critical and sharp in tongue than his mother but much nastier potentially than his wife but maybe now he could be himself and view himself not only as reasonably ok but as acceptable ?

penarth

2010-05-13T19:41:00.002+01:00

waters edge
calm
rythmical
uncomplicated
imagining the scene
flat warm sand
water slightly warmed by the sun
shallow slow steady waves
quiet trickle as the wave subsides
calming down
head emptied
consumed by the scene
movement back and forth

empty your mind
replay the pictures
smile - calming down - relieved

leaving the beach i always turned to encapsulate the scene and store it away for restless nights or sad days

quiet
focus
hear the peaceful lapping of the waves
stilling the internal choas
breathe quietly
relax

Time to Spare?

2010-04-29T12:58:00.001+01:00

The ironing is done
Its all put away
What shall I do with
The rest of my day?
The dinner’s prepared
The cats have been fed
All left to do is
Go make the bed.
I want to get changed
Put my gardening garb on
But its raining outside
The sunshine has gone.
I know what I’ll do
I’ll go make a list
Of things I can do
On a day such as this!

The Invisibles

2010-03-31T11:43:00.002+01:00

The Culture of the Invisibles, doubt you’ve ever heard of us. It’s a section of society that is very unusual, a society full of members who don’t actually know each other. Probably the vast majority reckon/believe that they are the only member of this particular club. Everyone knows someone who is a member. Think about it. You know someone who is shy, quiet, uncomplaining, endlessly patient, will queue without sighing, put up with impossible situations (that make them very unhappy). Many of the members of this club are the people you can always rely on to help out whether it’s in a crisis or just to wash up all the coffee mugs in the staffroom. The person that always has a plaster, knows the phone number of a plumber in an emergency, will water your plants/feed your cats while you’re away.
Have you ever stopped to think about this person? Really think? Why is this person always so quietly willing to help, do routine chores no-one else will do, put up with unpleasantness, be so reliable? You may think ‘well, they’re shy, lacking self-confidence, is actually a bit of a doormat, never really thought about it, who did you say ……………
Do you think this person is happy?
I’ll let you into a little secret. Happiness doesn’t come into it. There are many reasons and yes some are content to be as they are but for every one that is I would be willing to bet that there are several who aren’t. It’s quite horrid being invisible. One has to live with the feeling of always being puzzled, of feeling stupid, of not belonging, not fitting in anywhere. How come everyone else knows what you don’t know, where did they learn the secret of how to be a part of life?
The very worst part of being a member of the Invisible Club is the loneliness. You feel desperate to be a part of the ‘normal’ world but given the chance you would be gripped by such an overwhelming feeling of fear, would smile a little smile and politely and quietly decline but all the time inside your head you’re screaming ‘yes please, I would love to be with you all, I don’t want to be on my own.’ But always the fear wins and you remain one of the Invisibles.

A Letter to my Sixteen Year Old Self

2010-03-27T20:06:00.001Z

Dear me at sixteen,
I know you are feeling miserable and have no idea why but its not you but an illness called depression. No-one recognises that teenagers can get it, they all think you are a moody difficult young person. But you’re not, you’re actually quite ill. I’d recommend you see a doctor but that would be a waste of time as the doctors don’t recognise it either. What I will advise you is not to make any big decisions like what you’re going to do/be for the rest of your life. You really do have time on your side though I know you can’t see it. You think – and probably because of your teachers and parents are putting pressure on you to make a decision – that you really have to decide now but you don’t and anyway you can always change your mind. Whatever you do decide now is no more than a stepping stone and there’ll be many many more of those over the years. Stop being so afraid of everything, it really will all work out in time and time is something you have a lot of. Opportunities will arise. Take your time. You’re not happy in school so leave, get a job, you can always take up your education later on when you’re ready. You’re not ready now that’s a fact. You’re too unwell to make any lifelong decision, get a job that will give you something to do and some money to live on and then just take it all one day at a time. Don’t pin yourself down with anything, you’re too young and far from ready for anything like that. Yes, life at home is miserable right now but none of it is your fault. Your dad, he’s ill too with the depression, he can’t help the way he is any more than you can. Get out as much as you can, have as much fun as you can.
I know your mother wasn’t the most tactful person when you came home with your ‘o’ level results saying you could have done better. We both know that it was a miracle you did as well as you did. Don’t blame her though, she’s just inherently tactless and is also totally unaware of it. Look at the things that are going well for you and at the talents you do have. You have grandparents who are always pleased to see you, you can sew beautifully oh and so much more. Never mind about that lot at school, once you leave you’ll never see them again.
Remember you were born on a Thursday and Thursdays child has far to go. you may not think it now but the possibility of seeing the world is there so keep that dream of travel there and be ready.
Love from Me much later in life.

2010-03-27T18:55:00.002Z

I found this on the Grandparent site I belong to. I thought you might find it particularly interesting Michael.
.Home
Learn to write and tell stories with Bookbite
Nancy Duin 4 February 2010
Hobbies for grandparentsNew-bornPre-schoolPrimary schoolGrowing upPre-teensTeensPrinter-friendlySend to friendPDF
Want to take up writing, research your family tree or learn how to tell stories to your grandchildren? Here's a new way to help you start.

Kate Kinsella (right) – grandmother of nine and great-grandmother of five – published her autobiography at the age of 85. Writing has always been a passion for the retired nurse, but it wasn't until she was 70 that she wrote her first life story – of a friend. To make her writing more satisfying, she signed up for a computer course at an Open Age Centre in London, where she lives, and now visits her local UK online centre twice a week, emailing friends and family abroad.

According to Booktrust, the independent reading charity, many people over 60 are, like Kate, keen to write their memoirs or write fiction or research their family tree but are unsure where to start. They also, say Booktrust, feel that they haven't got the skills or confidence to use computers and explore writing and reading possibilities online.

Bookbite
So Booktrust have come up with a project that they hope will change all this: Bookbite. Through this, they want to encourage England's over-60s to discover new authors and genres, try a range of creative writing activities and interact with others online to share stories and book reviews.

The free Bookbite magazine is available, in England only, from more than 175 organisations (including Age Concern), libraries and UK online centres. It can also be downloaded from the Bookbite website (see below). Celebrated writers such as TV and radio poet Pam Ayres, former poet laureate Andrew Motion and crime writer Val McDermid have contributed stories and poems, and there's lots of useful advice, support and competitions.

And of particular interest to grandparents, the magazine contains an article giving story-telling tips to help you share stories with children.

A useful BeGrand.net link
You and your family history – pass it on
In her blog, Keri tells how she wrote her life story for the two twin granddaughters she's raising

Some useful websites
Bookbite
www.bookbite.org.uk
Includes short stories, poetry, an online writing club and a reading group, book lists, 'How to' guides, downloadable activity sheets, competitions and an online writer in residence.

Digital Unite – home tutors
http://tutors.digitalunite.com/
Sends professional computer tutors to your home to help you learn on your own computer. The service isn't usually free (but investigate Get Digital if you or a learner you know lives in sheltered housing and may qualify for free tutoring).

UK online centres
www.ukonlinecentres.com
The more than 6,000 UK online centres provide people with access to computers and the internet, together with help and advice on how to use them.

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Undoing the shackles

2010-03-22T23:22:00.007Z

Over the last few weeks, I've been putting some concentrated effort into finding a way to break non-productive links to the past, corners I've painted myself into, and I've just found a helpful poem by Mary Oliver:

The Journey:

One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice----
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
"Mend my life!"
each voice cried.
But you didn’t stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world
determined to do
the only thing you could do----
determined to save
the only life you could save.

This and more of Mary Oliver's work are in her collection, Dream Work.

A Day Out?

2010-03-16T19:43:00.003Z

Where does one go, what does one do with the unexpected opportunity for a day out?
There are so many decisions to make it’s an indecisive person’s nightmare.
First of all is there enough money to go anywhere at all? If not then that limits the outing to somewhere local, within walking distance, in theory that should make the decision a bit easier. A walk in the park or the local nature reserve, visit the library or maybe walk along streets you don’t normally use and examine other peoples house fronts and gardens. You could give them points out of ten for attractiveness, good taste, tidiness, cleanliness etc knocking points off for 'needs a coat of paint.' 'not enough flowers,' I’m sure you can think of better ideas than I have!
It gets much more difficult if there is some money to spend. Is it enough to get you somewhere AND to buy a drink and/or a meal at the other end or would you need to take a picnic? You decide on a picnic but have you enough food in the cupboard – suitable food – for a picnic? Where did you store that flask and picnic bag?
You’ve make some sarnies, added some fruit and made some coffee (you found the flask and the picnic bag at the back of the cubby hole under the stairs under the camping equipment and sleeping bags), you pile into the car with umbrella – just in case – camera, binoculars, rucksack for the above, warm coat, sun lotion – just in case – bite cream and mossie spray. Now where do you go?
Where’s the map? In the boot under the picnic bag, spare boots, warm coat ………………
You find the map, open it up, close your eyes and stab the page with your index finger. Oh. Mmm. This is going to much easier than you thought.
You unpack the flask, the picnic bag, umbrella, sun tan lotion, bite cream, mossie spray, camera and binoculars, pour yourself a drink from the flask, open your packet of sandwiches, get your book and settle down in comfort on the sofa.
A picnic at home, what a novel idea!

ReWriting - Guest Post by Aggie Villanueva

2010-03-01T10:39:00.001Z

Guest Post by Aggie Villanueva

Possibilities we hover on the edge of?

2010-02-28T10:48:00.011Z

I always enjoy reading Jo Bell's blog, and this post is worth visiting if only for the photo of the signpost!

How Tea Can Improve Your Writing

2009-06-18T12:17:00.015+01:00

http://peterfinchpoet.blogspot.com/2009/06/how-tea-can-improve-your-writing.html
How Tea Can Improve Your Writing - Peter Finch
A version of the above appeared as: The Insider - Western Mail 13.06.09

Article on literary readings in South Wales (includes Tracing Flight Readings & review) @ Waterloo Gardens Teahouse directed / facilitated by Juliette Llewellyn ).

Le Salon Sessions

2009-06-01T14:01:00.020+01:00

Juliette Llewellyn Nokia Silver Slide

Tracing Flight Individual & Collective Writing Sessions
@ Le Salon, The Garage, Chapter Arts Centre. May 09

Lantern shines
perfectly,
lights
Arabic circular
patterns.
Notes travel
through an old garage
in Canton.
Shape of East
contained.
Lantern hung
bold yellow orange,
against patterned flowers.

Will I travel to Africa
again?
Unlikely.
The thought of its
roughness
dirt track roads
frightens my fragile form.
Yet my spirit still
remembers
an experience
where I grew
beyond the person
I was.
That time I walked
Mount Sinai in the early hours.

Juliette Llewellyn May 09

Juliette Llewellyn: Dusk

2009-04-28T13:29:00.000+01:00

Juliette Llewellyn: Dusk

In a coffee break

2009-04-21T15:34:00.002+01:00

Sun through my window
Blank paper awaits my words
Gets only shadows

Tracing Flight Readings

2009-04-07T11:08:00.006+01:00

Tracing Flight Readings - April 2nd
Waterloo Gardens Teahouse

Photos: Rebecca Brynolf

Courtesy of Rebecca Brynolf & BUZZ Magazine

Tracing Flight Readings

2009-04-04T09:04:00.010+01:00

Review of our first Readings event held last Thursday April 2nd at Waterloo Gardens Teahouse, Penylan, Cardiff. We'll be posting more photo's from the evening up here soon.

BUZZ Magazine: http://buzzmagazine.wordpress.com/2009/04/03/tea-and-writing-tracing-flight-readings/

BIG THANKS TO ALL THOSE WHO ATTENDED AND TO ALL WHO CONTRIBUTED TO THE SUCCESS OF THE EVENING!

Juliette Llewellyn: Winged Migration

2009-03-24T11:31:00.000Z

Juliette Llewellyn: Winged Migration

Juliette Llewellyn: Close Your Eyes And Fly

2008-11-12T19:42:00.000Z

Juliette Llewellyn: Close Your Eyes And Fly

Three Beautiful Things

2008-10-25T19:58:00.004+01:00

We know that we should do some writing every day but sometimes the words are reluctant to appear. I've just found a blog where the writer, Clare Grant, has set herself the target of writing three beautiful things every day, and a lot of other bloggers have picked up the idea - see her "Roll of Honour" (unfortunately some of the links don't seem to work).

Clare's entries are very much in the style of Sei Shonagon's lists but here are more beautiful things from an anonymous writer in New Zealand, which read like journal entries.

How about this as a way of getting those blogging fingers working?

Jerome Lawrence Quotes

2008-10-13T21:04:00.001+01:00

A neurotic is a man who builds a castle in the air.
A psychotic is the man who lives in it.
A psychiatrist is the man who collects the rent.

Must be right - Jerome Lawrence was a playwright and author!

More quotations here.

Life is dots, not a journey!

2008-09-16T23:31:00.006+01:00

Does that sound even more crazy than usual?

I just read it on one of my favourite blogs, GoodlifeZEN, and I find it a very calming idea.

Have a look and see what you think. The cartoon link is fun as well, and all too true.

Coffee and more from Cardigan Bay

2008-07-31T15:46:00.004+01:00

To keep the summer moving - here's where I've been surfing...

‘One body of work, all figures are different.'

2008-06-24T23:06:00.005+01:00

Orange tunic to purple
Trousers to green dress
We talk, we join
We breathe
Together
Whole
On our Planet
We combine

Dark skin, arm outstretched
Indian sari swathes woman’s body
Wooden stick clasped
In mans hand
Blonde long hair, arms folded
Small child, sitting cross legged
Red shirt
Together we exist
Touching, needing each other
To know who we are
Embracing humanity
Diverse yet sharing
The same needs
Food
Shelter
Love

Busy
Colourful
Complicated
Canvas contains glimpses
Of our world
We spill over the edges

All races, creeds and colours span the breadth of the white wall. Neatly placed, row upon row, line upon line, Contained in squares, sequences. Sitting on chairs, facing us. Pink sari on dark hair, lilac trousers to turquoise dress. Blonde hair falling on shoulders. Batman. Our worlds collide. In order. Artist traces the shape of our lives, of us. Our reasons for being. Individuals yet part of the whole.

Intercultural mix of nations. Hoping for understanding, tolerance. ‘When I spoke to you I learnt something about your world, different to mine. We grew’. She holds her baby. He spins yarn on a wheel. She carries sticks high on her head. She carries a black case. He has white angel wings.

‘This artist is really interested in people’, as the indigo shirt on a dark skin leads to a maroon swathed grey haired older woman to a naked bearded cross legged yogi.

Awaking to live another day. We watch the sun rise, breathe in unison, shop, be of use to others, giving and receiving. Line upon line, row upon row. Barefooted, wrapped in white cloth, sky blue t shirt. Superman.

‘Have you seen the 101 Dalmatians up there? Jackie Chan down there? Might recognise this person over here? You may have heard about him, Damien Hurst?’ Museum Guide speaks as two little girls in flower pink dresses stand.

‘Is it real though?’ little girl with the lilac shoes asks.

Juliette Llewellyn
24.06.2008

Artes Mundi 2008: Artist - N S Harsha

The package

2008-06-12T13:05:00.010+01:00

(Twenty minute writing exercise from a far country)

With the brown parcel paper removed, I can see it isn't a book, my usual parcel. There is gold-crusted red paper, red ribbon with gold edges. My name but no sender.

It sits on the table while I think. Who is it from? Why has it come? Not my birthday, not my namesday, no anniversary I can remember.

OK, boot up the computer, check my journal for this date plus or minus a week or so over the last few years.

Nothing.

Sit looking at it again. Maybe it was delivered to the wrong apartment? No, it's my name, an unusual one, and... Wait a minute - it has my middle name in full. A clue?

Who knows my middle name? Who knows?! That doesn't narrow it down. Or does it? Come at it again. Who would use my middle name on a package like this and know where I live?

Rules out my American friends, because they would use just the middle initial. Rules out my Scandinavian friends, because they would ignore the middle name if it wasn't tied to the first with a hyphen. So...

Ah, could it be from my distant past in Spain? What clues might it then hold? I pick it up again, checking for perfume. It was a long, long time ago, but the nose has a wonderful memory.

Britt-Marie, the tall blonde I met in Madrid, didn't use scent, but I remember well her golden skin with the memory of an after-exercise spray. Her raven-haired friend Isabel, on the other hand, knew all the ways to impress her memory on a man's mind.

Yes, more likely Isabel, but what might she have sent me after all these years?

Shifting Space: Are You In Toxic Relationships?

2008-05-30T17:44:00.000+01:00

Shifting Space: Are You In Toxic Relationships?

Writing triggered

2008-05-28T20:07:00.005+01:00

A haiku a day
Quite a challenge - seventeen
steps to perfection

Inspired by visiting Stacy's blog at Life in Seventeen Syllables, where I found this delightful one:

I growl at the screen
Simmering rage boils over
CONTROL, ALT, DELETE!

Know the feeling?

Keeping sane in an insane world

2008-05-21T22:22:00.004+01:00

There's a post about Gwyneth Lewis's talk today here:
Keeping sane in an insane world
Gwyneth certainly knows how to hit the depression nail on the head. We've often talked in the group about the positive things that can come from depression, such as seeing things realistically and being very sensitive to other people's feelings, maybe over-sensitive on down days, but we haven't yet gone as far as to say that the definition of good health should be extended to include depression. But she's right, I reckon!

Shifting Space: Hope & Faith Change The Brain

2008-05-19T12:14:00.000+01:00

Shifting Space: Hope & Faith Change The Brain

An outlet for writing what we know

2008-05-15T11:57:00.003+01:00

Our Creative Writing group has achieved wonders under Briony's inspirational guidance, and most weeks we each manage to produce and share some enjoyable and often uplifting work, often surprising ourselves with what appears on the blank white pages after the initial feeling of panic.

It struck me though that there is a whole load of writing we could be doing that isn't really relevant to the group or this blog. We each have some area of expertise, experience, opinion or even gossip which we could write up for our own satisfaction and to share to a wider audience. Anything from coping with panic attacks through favourite recipes to digging ancestors out of the 1841 Census!

A website and directory to do just this has been launched at Qassia. (Yes, there really isn't a U after the Q!). The idea is to build up a new type of searchable directory with bits and pieces of information (or 'Intel') provided by real people, like us. They accept that some of it may be 'bad' intel (not accurate) but there is a feedback option for other readers to comment on this so the post can be improved. Unlike Wikipedia, only the original author can modify the original Intel.

As you can see from my page, I have gone public with who I am, but that isn't necessary. I chose to do it as part of a recovery plan to come out from my chair in the corner, but if it causes problems in the future I can retire behind a pseudonym and change the photo!

One of the nice things about Qassia, once it takes off properly, is that it will generate some income from advertising, and writers will get a proportion of that depending on how often their articles are read. It's not likely to be a significant income for most of us, but the principle is good! It is also designed to give quality links to writers' websites, again based on how popular their contributions are.

I thought I might start with a piece about Cardiff as a fun venue...

Shifting Space: How many of us belong to just one culture?

2008-05-03T17:25:00.000+01:00

Shifting Space: How many of us belong to just one culture?

2008-04-30T08:20:00.005+01:00

'I like to reminisce with people I don't know.' 
Steven Wright

thought it was relevant to yesterday's class X

The wise man in the green chair

2008-04-22T18:02:00.002+01:00

There is a green chair and facing it is another green chair. On one side sits a very wise man and he is smart and clever at what he does. For five years he has met once a week with the woman sitting in the other chair. At first she was reluctant to talk to him about the inner most things and they fenced backwards and forwards until at last she began to trust him. That was a long slow process but he was patient as he had seen this process many times and that was part of what made him wise because he could see she was frightened. Once she started to talk about the deepest and darkest feelings he could shake them out carefully in the sunlight that slatted in through the dusty blind and they examined the various ideas and feelings. She talked of times in the past that were murky but when they were shown up to the sunlight they lost some of their ferocity and she grew calmer. They were not always strictly speaking alone in the small room as shadows and spectres joined them from times gone by. After a while she began to know that anything could be examined and the clutter of her mind began to ease and her fears to grow less. The spectres of others spoke too in their own way and their ways had seemed cruel and thoughtless but those too in the sunlight had meaning and they shared those meanings and both began to understand. She would always arrive half an hour before they were due to meet to compose herself in readiness and prepare to make the most of the sixty whole minutes. Often she would shift on the green chair upset at what was hovering between them - the unspoken that had been given words and although at first it frightened her the very wise man sat strong and patient and did not let anything phase him. At first he was strong enough for the both of them but over the five years she began to see the power in her own strengths and to trust in herself. At first he talked of boundaries and containment and she felt boxed in like a wild thing but as he trusted in her so she could trust in herself. Slowly she saw an emerging wisdom in herself and she began to dare to have hope. This did not seem to be misplaced and over time things shifted both inside her head and outside in her world and she began to share the world with others not cower inside the prison of her own mind. When he said he was leaving she did not panic and did not thrash around in misery but they accepted the ending together and turned to face it knowing she could now continue to learn alone and when he had gone she did so and she continued to choose to move forwards and onwards. She chose the strength of the light and not the fearsome darkness. Because he had been such a very wise man she continued to thrive and he had done his work well. She bumped into him years later and suddenly he seemed small and almost defenceless and although he was still wise she could see his humanity and out of his green chair he seemed more or less on the same level as she was and she marvelled at how that could be so. She smiled to tell him how well she was doing and then they went their separate ways to their separate lives.

Choka

2008-04-07T22:50:00.002+01:00

Contribute to the worlds longest poem:
http://chokaonit.com/

Where to find a dark sky?

2008-04-04T23:28:00.004+01:00

Juliette's post on National Dark Sky Week reminded me of the visit of Comet Hale-Bopp back in 1997.

I was living near Pontypool at the time, and could just see the comet out of my back door, a slightly elongated vague smudge in the blurry orange night sky. This was nothing like the pictures on the television, so I got in my car and drove to the top of the nearest almost-a-mountain to get away from the sodium glare, pulled off the road onto the sheep-tracked moorland, pointed the car in the direction of the comet and sat back to enjoy it. And it was indeed much better than from the town - it clearly was a comet. I tilted back my car seat, opened the windows, unwrapped the fish and chips I had bought on the way up the hill, and pushed the radio button.

It was pretuned to Radio Sweden (surprise?!) and there was a programme about the break-up of Abba, and specifically the subsequent career and life of Anni-Frid (Frida). So I sat there enjoying my meal, watching the comet, and reminiscing about life in Sweden. Abba was big when my daughters were little, and of course at home they sang in Swedish, not Ameringlish.

But the real point of this story is that a couple of days later I visited friends near Llangranog, on Cardigan Bay, where the wind blows straight in from the Atlantic. No factory chimneys between there and Newfoundland. And the view of the comet over the sea was stunning, spreading in an arc across the night sky, a whole life removed from my view while listening to Abba.

And that's what the Week is all about. It is impossible to describe such a magnificent night sky - you must be there and experience it. And with the muck we pump into the air and the totally unnecessary upward light pollution from our towns, houses, offices, roads and factories, most people will never have the chance of that experience.

Grab it while it is still there! A comet isn't necessary - there is more than enough magic and beauty in the Milky Way. Enjoy!

Shifting Space: National Dark Sky Week

2008-04-03T16:34:00.000+01:00

Shifting Space: National Dark Sky Week

Our Favourite Place

2008-04-01T22:46:00.007+01:00

Brazil Coffee - Church St
29.03.08 CF
Juliette Llewellyn Sony Erickson Mobile

The Getting Of Wisdom & Good Companions

2008-03-31T12:38:00.005+01:00

The Getting of Wisdom - The Guardian 26.03.08
Article on a Lorna Martin who documented her Therapy in the Newspaper and some interesting Therapy memoirs at the end of the Article
http://books.guardian.co.uk/departments/healthmindandbody/story/0,,2268066,00.html

Good Companions - The Guardian 26.03.08
Befriending Scheme for adults recovering from mental health issues
http://www.guardian.co.uk/society/2008/mar/26/mentalhealth

Earth Hour 2008

2008-03-29T23:47:00.005Z

Well, Cardiff announced that it was supporting tonight's Earth Hour. I wondered whether to go into town to see the effect, but then I read that they were marking it by turning off all non-essential lighting in their offices. Well, those open between 8 and 9pm anyway, so I decided the effect might be less than spectacular. Good for them for signing up, though. Not many cities have yet.

So instead of walking in to see the unbright lights of the city, I turned off my own lights (two 7 watt low energy bulbs) and the computer (probably the larger contribution - must remember to look at the rating plate once I switch it off), poured myself a glass of wine (enough light in the kitchen from the street lights to see to do that), lit three candles and settled down with a book for an hour.

It would be nice if the energy saving propagandists would occasionally point out that some of us are already doing our bit, rather than tar the whole nation with the same brush. Even if one of our contributing factors is insufficient income to be profligate!

Anyway, I enjoyed reading by candlelight. Used to be a more frequent event out in the wilds of Ceredigion. But I wondered just how many other people were sitting at home in the same way. Next year, let's get together and bring some friends as well and have a candle-lit Earth Hour party. We needn't limit it to the hour, of course!

The Real Alternative Therapy

2008-03-28T16:22:00.009Z

I enjoyed the Kathy Sykes program on Reflexology. Fascinating that she couldn't find any scientific basis for the undoubted success of the therapy, but like a dog with a bone kept gnawing away until she came up with the conclusion, obvious in hindsight, that what we miss is the touch of another human being, and reflexology and massage give that in spades.

However, reflexology and massage come in specifically defined chunks of time, unless one is fortunate enough to live with the practioner. What happens in the gaps between? Our need for that touch, even just a quick hug, can come unbidden at any time. Especially when going to bed at night and on waking up in the morning, in my experience.

The lovely Professor Sykes took it a stage further and joined a 'cuddle party' in Los Angeles. From her face when she was describing it afterwards, she was rather bemused but clearly enjoyed it!

There has been a lot of negative reaction to the program by self-appointed sceptics and assorted besserwissers. I don't want to argue with them until they have lived in a pokey hole somewhere for a couple of years or more, each alone except for the constant nagging of clinical depression. Then we can talk, if they still haven't seen the light.

But I'm left with a thought - instead of spending fortunes on drugs and CBT, mightn't it be better to set up a nationwide network of introduction counsellors whose remit is to help depressed people get out of failed relationships and into loving, cuddling ones? Maybe for a short time to see if the new relationship works, with no criticism if it doesn't?

Or why not keep it simple and just train a nationwide army of Cuddle Party facilitators?

Ugh - the unlikeliness of Brown or Campbell signing up to that is bringing another bout of depression on. Maybe Nick Clegg would, though.

Me blog.

2008-03-23T12:37:00.002Z

Being appropriate for today, I have posted the lyrics to Tom Waits' Chocolate Jesus on my (shh!) blog. Beware if you are someone who takes your Jesus seriously. Tom Waits, apparently, takes his with ice-cream.

Happy Easter!

Would you believe me if I told that you I didn't eat chocolate very often?

2008-03-22T13:55:00.011Z

Chocolate. So many people, hopped-up on the sweet, mythical clay. Augustus Gloops, pulled back from the brink, now grown up. I've seen them, slumped on sofas, coming down from the high of a cacao spree. Twitching like dope fiends. Some go for the cheap stuff - get that slant-caffeine into the bloodstream, quick. For others, it is far more serious: they refer to their dealers as Chocolatiers; they put trays of exquisite bronze globes on a par with symphonies due to the practitioner's mastery of the ingredients - all in accord, rising to a crescendo of flavour once placed on the tongue.

I knew someone who used to put packets of chocolate buttons on the radiator, and when it had begun to wobble she would cut the corner, tilt with glee, and drink the contents. I would sit and watch, amused, sipping tea, smoking umpteen cigarettes, thinking, 'You've got a problem.'

On Sunday, when the day draws to a close, there will be thousands of giddy kids, overfull with cut-price, oversized chocolate eggs.

And the parents will be left with carpets of foil and walls of tiny eyes, fizzing with mischief.

Sun, snow and chocolate

2008-03-19T11:45:00.005Z

Imagine a sunny day in the Sierra de Guadarrama, north of Madrid, early in the summer so the stream we picnic by is still rushing the melt water from the snow further up in the hills to the river below. Imagine jumping into a pool in the water - too shallow to dive - and splashing around like children, trying to catch the trout around our feet. Then before the cold of the water chills us to the bone, climbing out onto the bank and stretching out on a smooth rock in the sun to bake dry. Repeat several times, and it is a taste of heaven.

But the real taste of heaven came later, after the sun went down. At that time of year in the mountains, once the sun goes in the air grows chilly as it drifts down from the snowline. So we drifted down too, in the car, to an inn at the roadside where we sat under the pine trees drinking cups of steaming chocolate, rough woollen blankets supplied by the inn around our shoulders.

Whenever I see stars through pine branches, it takes me back to that night. Rough blankets, hot chocolate, stars and my love... Heaven indeed.

Good UK Site for writers

2008-03-17T16:52:00.004Z

Browsing around, I came across explorewriting.co.uk, which claims to tell you How to Write Almost Anything. I haven't been able to check their claim exhaustively, but there is indeed a load of good stuff there both for beginners and for established writers, and no adverts!

The picture, The Bibliophile, has nothing to do with exploring writing, but how would the poor chap fill his time if there hadn't been armies of writers producing all those books...

Can Blogging Boost Your Social Life?

2008-03-08T20:27:00.006Z

Researchers at Swinburne University of Technology in Melbourne, Australia, looked into the psychological benefits of blogging and found that bloggers tend to feel a greater sense of connectedness to a particular community.

And some bloggers feel that they have a larger social support system behind them than those who do not blog.

The researchers also found that using social networks such as MySpace and Facebook, "lifted the mood of all participants (of the study) in some way."

So maybe we really can blog away the blues!

An Average Night

2008-03-02T15:15:00.004Z

Had a good day. Stories in the Millennium Centre, Breton dancers, relaxed time with good friends, brisk walk home to read a little more of Writing Down the Bones before cooking a (very) late lunch. After an evening pottering, I was in bed by 10:30, aware that the wind was picking up.

Couldn't get off to sleep but too whacked to get up, I eventually stretched out an arm and felt for the radio button. The Shipping forecast was just beginning:

There are warnings of gales in Viking, North Utsire, South Utsire, Tyne, Dogger, Fisher, German Bight, Humber, Thames, Dover, Wight, Portland, Plymouth, Fitzroy, Sole, Lundy, Fastnet, Irish Sea, Shannon, Rockall, Malin, Hebrides, Bailey, Fair Isle, Faeroes and Southeast Iceland.

What a list!

Vaguely wondering how Cromarty, Forth and Forties were missing out, I dozed off. It was, after all, a familiar bedtime story and I was under a duvet, warm and dry. I crossed the North Sea in a storm Force 10 once, and I didn't want to think of what they might be going through out there. I dozed off again.

Some while later, I woke with a jump to the sound of a whistling kettle in the bedroom. I don't have one, especially in the bedroom. It was the gales. They had reached Splott at just the right angle to whistle through the frames of my double-glazed draught proof windows. If I had left one open as usual, it would have been torn off its hinges.. OK, lift the eyeshield and take a quick peek at the clock. Ugh. 3:15. So I went into meditation mode to slip under the whistling, and dozed off again.

Until about 5, when a freight train passed along the track at the bottom of the garden. I don't normally notice them, but this one had a sticking brake or something that clanked as it rolled. In fact, it was quite pleasant lying there hearing the clanks gradually getting louder as it approached, then fading into nothingness as it receded. But 5am! Neither one thing nor the other. I adjusted the eye shield to total blackness and lay there debating whether to get up.

Success at last! While debating, I went into a proper sleep and when I woke up at 8:30 the sun was streaming into the room. So, ten hours in bed and I woke exhausted but lying in the sun, thinking that a whistling kettle in the bedroom mightn't be such a bad idea, if I had a box of teabags and a mug...

Global Warming may have plus points

2008-02-15T12:12:00.003Z

It's hardly Ikebana, but it was fun to be able to go out into my garden on St Valentine's Day and pick both a red rose and a bunch of snowdrops. When I lived near Aberystwyth some years back, there was an annual discussion about whether we would get daffodils flowering locally in time for Gŵyl Dewi on March 1st or would have to import them from foreign climes like Pembrokeshire or even Cornwall. However, when I made a foray to the National Library two weeks ago, the gardens there had at least one clump of daffodils in full flower, so well advanced that they will probably be over before the day comes. Plenty more on the way, though.

Book Clubs are good for you

2008-02-07T23:26:00.000Z

OK, I admit it. The picture isn't actually from our reconnaissance at Borders, but we did have fun.

Sarah, Mike and I turned up as agreed, then discovered somehow that the theoretical start time was 7:00 rather than the 6:30 we were psyched up for. By 7:15 still nothing was happening and Sarah went into masterful mode - most impressively - and stalked off to find out why. It seems that the Book Club idea had been set up by the manager, who then went off sick without informing the deputies this was the night...

In the meanwhile, one other potential member, Adam, decided that we looked like a Book Club, so came over and introduced himself. A quick check of the other drinkers in Starbucks produced two more, Kate and another Sarah, so we were six and decided to go ahead with or without Borders.

We were lucky that we clicked immediately with the other three, and we began to discuss what on earth a Book Club was and how we would run ours! At this stage, a Borders manager came over with serious apologies for the confusion and collected our email addresses so that his boss could get in touch personally.

We got back to discussing books. How we are going to run it is still up in the air a bit, because with any luck new members will join and make your/their contribution - and if they are like the initial six, then it will to be a 'safe' and welcoming environment. (First Thursday of the month, 6:30pm in the Starbucks coffee bar at the back of Borders first floor!)

We agreed our interests were in reading both current and classical fiction, but we would not decide on titles too far in advance. People suggested possibilities, and the delight of meeting in a bookshop was that we could pick them off the shelves and discuss them! We came up pretty quickly with a short-list of six, but it could easily have been longer.

Our agreed first choice for this month became Daphne du Maurier's Jamaica Inn, with the back-up of Maggie O'Farrell's The Vanishing Act of Esme Lennox for fast readers. 'The other Sarah' is a librarian, and a fount of knowledge on what books people are reading and enjoying, and she suggested the Maggie O'Farrell.

So, all in all an enjoyable evening and I'm looking forward to the next one. Our new friends were very interested to know that we are in a creative writing group, but we ducked telling them why they probably wouldn't qualify for ours!

Haiku for frustrated Computer Users

2008-01-30T12:18:00.000Z

They are quoted by Gillie Bolton in a book I’m reading - someone sent them to her anonymously - what a delight!

Chaos reigns within
Reflect, repent, and reboot
Order shall return

Yesterday it worked
Today it is not working
Windows is like that

With searching comes loss
and the presence of absence
‘My Novel’ not found

The New Year....

2008-01-14T19:30:00.000Z

'January is a wonderful time to connect fully with your core purpose, your vision and your plans for the year.

The energy of the new year can inspire you to see with 'new eyes' as you decide on what is truly important for you in the coming months.

This is quite different from the process of setting 'New Year's Resolutions' which can end up being half-hearted attempts to introduce change without the commitment and clarity required for that change to happen!

So as 2008 gets into full swing, I invite you to reflect upon:

what's really important to you about writing?
how crucial is it for you to discover your voice and see your work in print?
what are you really aiming for and what difference will it make to your life once you have achieved your goals?

When you're clear about what really matters, the next step is to make a plan that will show you how you can make steady progress towards the results you are looking for.

Be specific with your plan and literally schedule time into your diary for all that you want to achieve with your writing - and in general - this year.

I also recommend that you allow a good amount of time and space for spontaneity and the 'unexpected' ...

These are crucial ingredients along any path to creative fulfilment and finding the right balance between holding to your plan and being open to new possibilities will lead you to the greatest joy and success.'

Julia McCutcheon
The Writers Journey - From Inspiration To Publication

I am on Julia McCutcheon's newsletter list and was sent this. Thought this tied in a little with our class last Tuesday & may be helpful. She was a publisher but now she helps others find their writers voice and helps get their work in to print.

Tales of the unexpected | Society | The Guardian

2008-01-04T00:30:00.000Z

Tales of the unexpected | Society | The Guardian

Another Creative Writing group getting results...

Shifting Space: What's your wish for 2008?

2007-12-31T12:54:00.001Z

Shifting Space: What's your wish for 2008?

Shifting Space: New Year....#links

2007-12-31T12:54:00.000Z

Shifting Space: New Year....#links

Shifting Space: Nadolig Llawen! Or a Happy Christmas!#links

2007-12-23T12:21:00.000Z

Shifting Space: Nadolig Llawen! Or a Happy Christmas!#links

It's that time of year again.

2007-12-15T11:53:00.000Z

Life goes up and down from day to day and week to week and often there is a feeling that it is going nowhere. So once a year I sit right down and write myself a letter.

It starts with everything I don't feel good about. Health, finance, relationships, ongoing worries and outstanding problems, things I want to do but haven't managed to get round to, as well as new problems which came up in the year but have already been dealt with. My Grandmother used to say that people under the weather need a "good dose of opening medicine", though that was for the bowels rather than the brain. Opening medicine for the brain has just as good an effect. Just dump it all onto the keyboard or paper, and feel a great sense of relief.

The next stage is to write down, under the same headings, all the things that are going well, that I can (or should) feel good about, and examples of the things I've enjoyed during the year. Strangely enough, it is often harder to be honest in this section than in the previous one, because that niggling little devil on my shoulder mocks "You're fooling yourself, it'll go nowhere". Ignore it! It knows nothing! Write down the good stuff, however tenuous!

I've reversed the traditional annual review order of "what's gone well, what's gone not so well", because I found that when I looked at my situation that way round the negatives were shouting at me while I was trying to be positive. Now I get them out of the way first with that satisfying great dump with the mental 'opening medicine', and the positives can come out from the undergrowth, some shyly, some confidently, some triumphantly.

Next comes my forward look. What would I like to achieve in the coming twelve months? NOT goals or targets, because for someone with a tendency to depression specific goals and targets can be counter-productive. The little devil on the shoulder has real fun with them - "Who are you kidding? You'll never make that!", and if they are missed, " Yah, told you so, you'll never get anywhere!". When working on this part, I inflate a meditation bubble around me which pushes the devil off my shoulder onto the floor, where I can't hear it anymore. This is positive me-time! Rather than specific measurable goals which I can beat myself up over if I miss them, I look for things that will make me feel better, with confidence that the universe will bring them. Two wonderful and totally unexpected examples from the last twelve months are this blog and our evening forays into poetry readings and story telling.

OK, we're not there yet! I print out what I have written so far, sit down with a cup of coffee and read it again and think about it. Positively. Then I go and collect the letter I wrote to myself last year (several years of them live locked away from one year's end to the next) and read through that one again. This is the magic moment, the reason for the whole exercise, because every year, however rough it has felt, there has been real progress. And where new problems have arisen, I can look back at earlier ones which have now vanished and say (saying it out loud helps!) "I cleared that, I'll clear this!" It's also good to be reminded that occasionally problems vanish of their own accord. As someone said, "My life has had many disasters, some of which actually happened!"

Then I allow myself to have another look at what I want to achieve in the next twelve months, make any revisions which the comparison exercise has stimulated, brew another cup of coffee while the final version is printing off, then sit down and read it through again. And that's it! No 'contract' with myself, no 'to-do' lists, I just take it up to the black tin box and lock it away until next year, trusting that the boys and girls in the back of my brain have got the message and, inspired by all that coffee, will get on with it!

Nadolig Llawen a Blwyddyn Newydd Ffantasteg!

Shifting Space: Podcasts from BBC Radio 4's ME Series November 2007#links

2007-12-02T18:18:00.000Z

Shifting Space: Podcasts from BBC Radio 4's ME Series November 2007#links

LEAVING

2007-12-02T17:11:00.000Z

Intuition arises
A sense
A word
Consciously aware
Of perception
Reality is larger
Encompassing
Of truth
Slices thought
Absorbing details
Threads
The space of place
Between objects
Moves insight
Culmination of all
That is
And will be
The path is written
Unless we change
To listen
To our deepest whisperings
The glimpses of stars
Silver dust
We can reach
In our dreams
Of life

Juliette Llewellyn
13/16.11.07

Hey folks! Written after our 'Journeys: Arriving' exercise the other session in response to Briony's 'Journeys: Leaving' suggestion. Am working on the other piece Ruth :-)

Memories of Christmas at home in Sweden

2007-12-01T22:29:00.000Z

I was going to post something about the Swedish Christmases I remember, but I've been beaten to it here. Enjoy!!

The Light at The End Of The Tunnel

2007-12-01T21:58:00.000Z

The Light at The End Of The Tunnel... is the light of an oncoming train...

In the interests of economy, The Light at The End Of The Tunnel is to be switched off...

Yes, but. When I was deep in depression, a good day was one when I thought that maybe one day I would perhaps see a faint light at the end of my tunnel.

And one day I did.

Don't knock it!

(Originally posted early 2006 on a blog of mine which went nowhere!)

A poetic language to describe the universe

2007-11-23T11:04:00.000Z

Browsing around, I've just come across an interesting article in Interactions, the Journal of the Institute of Physics. Trust me! It's on page 8.

You are always an electron away from a proper snog

2007-11-21T21:57:00.001Z

Just listened to Gwyneth Lewis's Stardust for the second time. Entrancing.

I'd be interested to know how people with no background in fundamental particles found it, but from the writer's viewpoint I loved the interweaving of the narrative and the play itself. Maybe there is a technical term for that - question for Briony next time!

Half way through the second hearing, I realised that it is a similar technique to that Dylan Thomas used in Under Milk Wood. But sorry, Dylan, I preferred Gwyneth's!

You are always an electron away from a proper snog

2007-11-21T21:57:00.000Z

Get ready for naked ambition on BBC One in The Empress's New Clothes

2007-11-15T16:55:00.000Z

http://www.bbc.co.uk/pressoffice/pressreleases/stories/2007/07_july/11/empress.shtml

looks interesting!

Shell

2007-11-07T15:55:00.000Z

Inside
I can reside
Quiet
Me
Effervescent yet free
Let others
In
Barriers slip
Wash away
Like sea

Juliette Llewellyn
06.11.07

This came to me as i was in a Cafe having a cup of tea after the class. Arose from the shell stimulus yesterday. Perhaps what i may have written if i had been unhindered by associations of polished shells!

Vocation, Vocation, Vocation

2007-11-07T15:26:00.000Z

'Shortly before the recent Forward prizes for poetry were awarded, I was rung up by a journalist who was trying to talk to all the poets on the shortlist for best collection. She asked me why so few young people considered poetry as a career, and whether I had anything to say to those who might have it in mind. This struck me as a strange and original approach, and I replied with a laugh that poetry was more like an affliction than a career. As luck would have it, I was among the prizewinners, and the next day the Independent ran a piece headlined: "This is no way to earn a living, says prize-winning poet." '

'Poetry is an imaginative necessity for the poet, for good or ill. It provides many of the writer's greatest joys, but writing poetry is often very difficult and frustrating, while not writing it can be intolerable, and not only for the poet. Whether a poet is writing or not, a good deal of his or her time is likely to be taken up with thinking about it, remembering poems, examining rhythms, finding a way in to the next poem. In blank patches nothing you have learned seems of any help: it's as though you have woken up in a world that no longer speaks your language. Something comparable, I imagine, holds true for those working in any art form. Hence my use of the word "affliction": you have to laugh at a situation in which your work is involuntary but where, equally, you have no grounds for complaint. It's a bind of almost theological neatness.'

'Poetry is a vocation: it possesses you. So the choices are either: write poetry or go mad, or: write poetry and go mad. The attrition rate among poets is high, and even given the vocation there is no guarantee that any of what you write will prove to be good or durable. As TS Eliot said, you may have messed up your life for nothing.'

'Isn't there a danger, some might ask, of taking yourself too seriously? Fortunately, a system of checks and balances operates, guided as though by an invisible hand. For example, only last week this very newspaper represented my collection The Drowned Book, which the Forward judges described as "heart-wrenching", by reprinting a comic poem called "Drains". No danger at all, thank heaven.'

Excerpts taken from Sean O Brien's article in Review: Saturday Guardian 13.10.07
http://books.guardian.co.uk/comment/story/0,,2189790,00.html

Keeping things simple

2007-11-06T22:41:00.000Z

Quote from Sean Penn on the Today programme this morning:
"This is a one-issue world, quality of life."
Wonder if Gordon and David were listening? Probably wouldn't get it if they were...

White Candle

2007-10-30T22:03:00.000Z

He rummaged around the kitchen draw, fumbling in the darkness. Must be here somewhere, Mum said she always kept white candles for emergencies. Cold metallic sharp scissors slipped against his finger tips, a ball of string wound tightly, old teaspoons. Without his eyes he relied heavily on feeling. There, the smooth waxiness of a white candle nestled between some silver forks. He grabbed at it and clutched the candle in his left hand. Diving immediately back in for the box of matches which he found straight away.

The velvet darkness surrounded him. Hush had fallen about the house since the power cut half hour ago. An earthly, natural hush. Suddenly the chaotic music which had invaded the airways had stopped and now all he could hear was the gentle swish of the trees in the wind in the garden. The bright light had vanished to be replaced by a dim blackness. There was something restful within the situation. He could have sunk in to it further but he needed to read up on some work for tomorrow.

Striking a match on the box, he lit the string on the tip of the candle. The match sparked and flared briefly and the flame then quickly transferred to a slower, calmer, more resilient light form the candle. The darkness dissipated a little and he could make out the lines of the chairs in the lounge. Harsh edges rounded and softened in the light. He gently placed the candle in the nearby bottle. Wax slid from its tip, sealing its new home.

Juliette Llewellyn
16.10.07

2007-10-30T11:15:00.001Z

Looking for Lorca

30^th October 2007. I'm sitting writing this on a bench in the sun in the little orchard attached to the house where Federico García Lorca lived in Granada, Andalucía. This house, where he said he produced some of his calmest work, is now run by the local council, the Junta di Andalucia, and the visit times posted on the door bear no relation to reality. This afternoon, our coach party is booked to visit the Alhambra, and our guide has impressed on us the need to get there on time, because there is a timed traffic flow through one of the palaces and no possibility to buy an individual ticket on the day. OK, no problem. The first two tours of the Lorca house have been booked by school trips, but the third slot or the final one on the day would suit me fine.

I went into the reception office in good time, to be totally ignored by the custodian behind the counter. He was having two phone conversations at once, on a landline and a mobile. However, the “next tour” presentation folder on the desk showed my target time, still half an hour away, so I started looking through the books on display. I had hoped to find some parallel texts, English and Spanish, because my Spanish is still basic and it saves time diving into dictionaries for new words. However, they were all in just Spanish. No problem. So many nationalities visit, and it would be impossible to cater for all of us. I selected Poema del Cante Jondo, sure that I would be able to find a parallel text once I could get my fingers on a keyboard again.

Once my man saw that I wanted to buy something, he came off the phones to talk to me. I said I wanted to book a place on the next tour as well, pointing to the time on the folder. ¡Ah, no, that was not possible! He flipped the page to show me the next one, too late for my Alhambra visit. No good. So I flipped the pages to the final visit for the day, but with a shrug he turned back to what was really the final visit for the day, at a time when I would still be at the Alhambra. ¡Choices! ¿Lorca or the Alhambra?

Lorca was taken from this house on August 19^th 1936 by Falange militia, driven into the countryside and murdered. He was an intellectual, a socialist and gay. What more excuse did Franco's thugs need? I suppressed unworthy thoughts about the possible ancestry of the man behind the counter, and made my decision. I will come back to Andalucía on a pilgrimage when the almond trees are in flower. I will visit Lorca's birthplace in Fuente Vaqueros, which is now the Museo Casa Natal Federico García Lorca. I will visit the place of his murder, near Víznar, and I will come back to this house, La Huerta de San Vicente, with plenty of time to find an available tour.

¡Hasta la vista!

Miguel

Looking for Lorca

2007-10-30T11:15:00.000Z

¡Hasta la vista!

Miguel

Shifting Space: JOURNEY#links

2007-10-21T13:20:00.000+01:00

Shifting Space: JOURNEY#links

CIRCLE

2007-10-04T11:10:00.001+01:00

If I step into you
Is it safe to be
Will you take care
Of the essence of me
Delicate, soft
Loving and clear
Boundaries gone
Holding you near

Juliette Llewellyn
02.06.07
For National Poetry Day

National Poetry Day Today!

2007-10-04T10:42:00.000+01:00

http://www.nationalpoetryday.co.uk/

2007-10-01T07:45:00.000+01:00

Creativity waxes and wanes as the cycle of the moon, flourishes and lays bare as the seasons, rises and falls as the tides. Endless yet finite, circular in its perfection.
Juliette Llewellyn
25.09.07

UK At Home - Writing & Photo Project

2007-09-19T22:41:00.000+01:00

http://www.ukathome.co.uk/assignments.php

Looks an interesting project. It asks for essays written about your home to be sent in (aswell as the photos). Actually its on now!

The Power of Putting Pen to Paper

2007-09-08T18:27:00.000+01:00

Dr James Pennebaker, Professor of Psychology at the University of Texas, has researched the connection between writing and health. He did a study in which volunteers wrote about a traumatic event in their lives and their feelings around it. Immediately after writing about the event they felt horrible. But six months later, compared to the control groups who had written on other topics, the journal group felt better.

Prof Pennebaker findings show that writing a journal improves sleep, strengthens the immune system, decreases pain levels and lowers blood pressure. He said ‘Writing about their deepest thoughts and feelings about trauma resulted in improved moods, more positive outlook and greater physical health.’

Why journal writing should make a difference to people’s health can perhaps be explained by Petra King. She is author of the Quest For Life and Your Life Matters, and founder of the Quest For Life Centre in Bundanoon, NSW, and Australia. She has helped over 50,000 people suffering from trauma and life threatening illnesses. Our emotions are enmeshed in our bodies, Petra explains, but writing uses different neural pathways to those of emotions.’ A reaction is just a re-activation of the whole neural pathway system. Writing can make a more appropriate response rather than just reactivating it’ she says. ‘Writing gives people a safe controlled environment in which they can begin to get the energy moving of whatever it is they are feeling. Once it stops churning around inside our heads and we find the language for it, then we begin to have some power over the experience.’

When Petra was diagnosed with leukaemia at the age of 33, writing was one of the tools she used in her own recovery. ‘I was so appalled to think that anyone might see the sort of stuff that went on inside my head,’ she confesses, ‘that I had to give myself permission to burn whatever I wrote after half a page.’ She realised when she first put pen to paper and wrote and burnt those half pages just how negative, judgmental and self-critical she felt. ‘Sometimes,’ she revealed, ‘you don’t even know what it is that you are feeling, or it can be a smorgasbord of feelings: confusion, shock and fear. Writing can give us that capacity to separate them out.’

Often the people who attend her writing courses and the quest For Life Centre are unable to vocalise how they are feeling. So writing can be a safe way to explore their feelings. If someone has been abused in earlier life, writing can often enable them to find the words and feelings around the issue. So when they leave the centre at the end of the course, they are able to go home and confront a parent about what happened in their childhood and find a way of saying out loud what had been unutterable until then.

Other people have turned to the cathartic release of their journal in dealing with grief. Pam Angus-Leppan found her journal writing invaluable when she lost her husband, Peter, through illness, several years ago. They had been married for 48 years. ‘It was a very strong relationship,’ says Pam. ‘We had little need for other people, except our children.’

For six months after Peter’s death, Pam wrote for 20 minutes first thing in the morning. ‘I wrote anything that came in to my head. I talked to myself in the journal. “I feel awful, in fact, bloody. What is it exactly? Is it some specific thing?”

She slowly found that what she was thinking was in her mind rather than reality, and began to notice that the world was nicer than she thought. ‘It gave me a direction towards things that were interesting.’ At 70, she started a law degree, and now, in addition to the rigours of essay writing and exams, she goes ten pin bowling.

American Julia Cameron is author of The Artists Way, an inspirational guide for anyone wanting to unblock their creativity. Of all the tools she recommends in the book the most useful, she believes, are what she calls ‘morning pages’. These are three pages written in longhand first thing every morning. The page doesn’t need to make sense. She sees them as a way of moving through the fears that stop a person doing what they are meant to be doing.

‘I think the morning pages give us our lives,’ Julia Cameron says. ‘We go to the page and we write down this is what I wish I had more of, what I like. This is what I don’t like, what I wish I had less of. I have to call my sister back. I need to buy kitty litter. None of this looks like it has a lot to do with art, but these are the things in between us and being present in our lives.’

She believes that morning pages make them able to see what is going on around them, instead of just ‘watching their inner movie’. One Australian woman remarked to her: ‘Julia, I was perfectly happy drunk in the outback, then I started doing morning pages and now I’m a Hollywood scriptwriter.’

The Artists Way was written to help blocked artists. But the book has reached s afar more wider audience and has been an invaluable resource for people facing such diverse challenges as getting divorced, or dealing with illness. She describes the book as being a bridge for many people, ‘I don’t think you can divide spiritual energy from creative energy,’ she says. ‘They are the same thing. You can’t divide creative energy from your health energy.’

Jacqueline Murphy teaches writing for storyworks Australia, and uses writing to help businesses bring their visions in to being. She sees morning pages as a non-rational, non-mental approach to writing. It’s about keeping the pen moving and it doesn’t need to make sense or have a plot. ‘I think it’s a kind of release,’ she says, ‘I love the empty feeling you get from it.’

Journal writing is something she sees as being more rational, more of an enquiry in to herself, and what the burning issues are for her that day. It is also a way to strategise, says Jacqueline. ‘I think its one of the most beautiful things you can do for yourself. It’s a very private, intimate relationship with yourself. It’s a way of valuing yourself, and all sorts of wonderful thins arrive out of it, such as insights, ideas and plans. It makes you more conscious.’

Both mediums, she finds, give her a deeper understanding and acceptance of herself and her emotions, and enables her to express herself more clearly in both the spoken and written word.

Excerpt from: The Power of Putting Pen to Paper
Rosamund Burton
Kindred Spirit Magazine May/June 2007

Auguste Rodin: The Earth & The Moon 1898-99

2007-08-18T09:46:00.000+01:00

Large rugged white rock. Stands solid. Two figures, one male, one female. Gently entwined heads touching, almost asleep. Their bodies naked. The man's right arm stretched over his head and his face resting on the woman's flowing hair, which spreads throughout the rock. Her arm blocking his legs and her right leg curled upwards just tucked behind her left ankle. Smooth polished bodies sculpted in to rough chipped white glistening marble.

Where did the stone come from?
How did he make the shapes of the bodies?
How is the stone so smooth?
Why are they naked?
Who is the woman?
Who is the man?
What is their relationship?
Are they in love?
Have they kissed?
Are they asleep?
Why is she blocking him a little?
When did they live?
Why do they care for each other?
How long did it take to make?
Why is it here?
Were they real people?
Are they fantasy?
Do they exist?
Why is it unfinished?
Why are only half their bodies showing?
Was it sculpted from memory?
Who was it for?
Where was it put when finished?
Why is it so famous?
Does the artist like it?
How do you lift it?
Is it very heavy?
Is it cold?
Does it feel hard?
Can i have one at home?
Why does the stone glisten?
Why do i like it?
Why is the man floating?
Why is her hair so long?
Does he love her?
Will they always be close?
Will i ever know?

Juliette Llewellyn
16.08.07
The Davies Sisters Exhibition: National Museum of Wales
http://www.museumwales.ac.uk/en/106/

blue notebook

2007-08-17T14:49:00.000+01:00

feels like an essential part of an ongoing transformation process.
lists and jotted ideas as they come to me
the size is important as it forces me to condense ideas to a few most important words
i began carrying a small notebook about four years ago as i found myself frustrated and tired from repeating ideas over and over in my head so as not to forget them.
sometimes a phrase or idea or memory or new understanding feels intensely important at the time and i feel such a buzz of excitement when i make a note of it - though on reflection at calmer times it can lose its urgency but at other times i am delighted to be reminded of a certain train of thought and may go on to expand on it further.
when i started carrying a notebook i was seeing a psychologist and i found that after stirring up thoughts and feeling with him new understandings would occassionally occur to me at unexpected moments and it seemed useful to capture them - mainly for my own use but sometimes as an area in which to start the next time i met up with him. i suppose i sort of saw it as my ''homework'' and feel i was continuing to ''work'' on things in between sessions to make as many useful changes as possible as speedily as possible. although at the time some notes seem essential i usually find that i absorb the insights over time and can end up feeling fine about throwing used pages away.
i suppose in a way it feels like a friend to confide in at any time i sit and think and feels like a symbol of trying to make positive changes, depending on myself rather than always needing someone else involved in the process.
sometimes the actual process where i put ideas into solid words has been essential as it can make me focus more clearly on choosing each word and phrase carefully and in doing that i have sometimes made exciting new links on the page as i make notes.

Blogger's block?

2007-08-13T00:09:00.000+01:00

It's not easy to get into the habit of sharing our ideas on a blog, even a private one like this, but I just came across http://www.lifeclever.com/10-tips-for-beating-bloggers-block/
I haven't checked out the list of resources yet - it's a little late for that at just gone midnight, but they look intriguing...
Enjoy!
Michael

Extract 2: Ghost Writing - Hilary Mantel

2007-08-09T10:20:00.000+01:00

'...For some years i lived in Africa, in Botswana, and people there used to say that to see ghosts you need to look out of the corner of your eyes. If you turn on them in a direct gaze, then, like Eurydice, they vanish.

The whole process of creativity is like that. The writer often doesn't know, consciously, what gods she invokes or what myths she's retelling. Orpheus is a figure of all artists, and Eurydice is his inspiration. She is what he goes into the dark to seek. He is the conscious mind, with its mastery of skill and craft, its faculty of ordering, selecting, making rational and persuasive; she is the subconscious mind, driven by disorder, fuelled by obscure desires, brimming with promises that perhaps she won't keep, with promises of revelation, fantasies of empowerment and knowledge. What she offers is fleeting, tenuous, hard to hold. She makes us stand on the brink of the unknown with our hand stretched out into the dark. Mostly, we just touch her fingertips and she vanishes. She is the dream that seems charged with meaning, that vanishes as soon as we try to describe it. She is the unsayable thing we are always trying to say. She is the memory that slips away as you try to grasp it. Just when you've got it, you haven't got it. She won't bear the light of day. She gets to the threshold and she falters. You want her too much, and by wanting her you destroy her.

As a writer, as an artist, your effects constantly elude you. You have a glimpse, an inspiration, you write a paragraph and you think it's there, but when you read back, it's not there. Every picture painted, every opera composed, every book that is written, is the ghost of the possibilities that were in the artist's head. Art brings back the dead, but it also makes perpetual mourners of us all. Nothing lasts: that's what Apollo, the father of Orpheus, sings to him in Monteverdi's opera. In Opera North's staging, the god took a handkerchief from his pocket, licked it, and tenderly cleaned his child's tear-stained face.'

Taken from Ghost Writing - Hilary Mantel
Guardian Review 28.07.08
http://arts.guardian.co.uk/edinburgh2007/story/0,,2136374,00.html

Extract 1: Ghost Writing - Hilary Mantel

2007-08-09T09:27:00.000+01:00

'I have written a memoir called Giving Up the Ghost, which is about my own childhood, but also about my ancestors and children who were never born, and about the ghosts we all have in our lives: the ghosts of possibility, the paths we didn't take, and the choices we didn't make, and expectations, which seemed perfectly valid at the time, but which somehow or other weren't fulfilled. I describe ghosts like this: "They are the rags and tags of everyday life, information you acquire that you don't know what to do with, knowledge that you can't process; they're cards thrown out of your card index, blots on the page."

As a historical novelist, I'm a great user of card indexes. I like to write about people who really lived, and try to wake them up from their long trance, and make them walk on the page. When you stand on the verge of a new narrative, when you have picked your character, you stretch out your hand in the dark and you don't know who or what will take it. You become profoundly involved in this effort to clothe old bones. '

Taken from Ghost Writing - Hilary Mantel
The Guardian Review 28.07.08
http://arts.guardian.co.uk/edinburgh2007/story/0,,2136374,00.html

Inspiration everywhere, if we detach

2007-08-03T10:57:00.000+01:00

A battle was raging all across the playroom. Transformer robots clashed on the ground and in the air as the commander, grandson Sandro, marshalled first one side then the other, changing tactics depending on where the combatants ended up after each sally. Now and again, he would stop the action to explain patiently to me what was happening. The sides were Goodies and Baddies, of course, and the Goodies don't always win. However, although people were being zapped, powed and destroyed all over the place, everyone recovered in time for the next battle. No bodybags here. Intrigued by his even-handedness between Goodies and Baddies, I asked him which he was, Goody or Baddy. With one of those withering looks that only a five-year old can produce, he explained, “Neither. I'm not here!”

How about that as a slogan for a writer! “I'm not here!”. Totally involved in the plot but detached from it as well, letting the characters build the action and writing down their fascinating history as it unfolds, building the tension by accepting that the Baddies win for much of the time!

And it's great to know that he isn't a committed goody-goody...

Unity

2007-07-27T09:54:00.000+01:00

Together as one
We unite
We collide
Collaborating many
Until we decide
Upon a direction
An open slide
Over the edge
And into the wide
Abyss of universe
Galaxy pride
Together as one
We ride

Juliette Llewellyn
03/03/05

Hello & Welcome!

2007-07-26T12:07:00.001+01:00

Hi Sarah, Ruth, Chris, Mike, Michael & Monica!

Here we are! Our creative writing blog space!

Just post as & when you wish & at your own pace. Any questions let me know and i'll try to help....

Otherwise Happy Creative Blogging!

Take care, Juliette