19th January ~ 150 word diary (a recollection)

Yesterday while going through photos from my phone, Jake saw some of himself in hospital. I explained to him what they were. Some of them still make me wince. Took me back to the moment as if it were still a solid place. I put my arms around him but he pushed them away. Photos of buildings, light and Stevenson House came up in between. And I remembered how open I felt, involuntarily so. So open I felt exposed, as if I was being watched. The physicality of the world loud and vivid even in the moments in between. I felt I slept even with eyes open and eyes open on me. Just remembering it made me want to crawl under a blanket and sleep through the rest of winter. But Jake kept asking to see them, over and over again. “V hurting there, but Jake fine now,” he said.

18th January ~ a stone for the river

clouds

clouds the shape of great britain
float across a windshield

clouds reflected in puddles
the sky on the ground

18th January ~ 100 word diary

It seems like a long time since we’ve seen sunshine. The light today seems particularly luminescent, bright, warm. Jake and I went over to T’s for a play date. Then shopping for the ingredients for a tofu cheesecake. Yesterday my friend Iole came over and after ten minutes of shyness, Jake warmed up and dragged her off to “Ni room” to play, leaving me to finish cooking. Red lentil soup and a bulghur salad. It was a busy day but I went to bed feeling like I’d done nothing. Wasted a precious hour watching the Britney episode of Glee. Shudder.

17th January ~ a stone for the river

the head of a streetlamp
reflected in a puddle

~

With this thought in mind, I shift my attention. If it wanders into simile, I will try to bring it back to what I observe without embelllishment or interpretation.

17th January ~ 100 word diary

Reading this post on A River of Stones makes me pause. I fear I have mistaken the writing of small stones for the writing of poetry. I recognise myself as one of those people who "sees artistically, decorating my descriptions, turning everything into a simile". Beneath all that I glimpse the thought beneath it, the longing. Look at this pretty thing I did. Please admire me for it. Offering shiny trinkets to be liked and accepted. How hard it is to just see, to offer simply what is there. How hard it is not to change it into something “better”.

~

Here are some examples from today, where I have tried to stick to observation without decoration or interpretation:

my toddler follows me into the bathroom
I turn around
he throws up his arms
I pick him up
his arms circle my neck
his head rests on my shoulder
I kiss his smooth cheek
inhaling the unexpected scent of Vicks

~

the chemist with a fluffy head of hair
whistles “I believe in angels”
as he hands me Jake’s medicine

16th January ~ 100 word diary

A stick found on the street, a boy’s best toy. I think children have a gene, a drag-a-stick-along-the-street-as-you-run, and drag-it-across-the-railings-of-a-fence gene. And stopping to try and fit it in a crack the shape of a tree root in the pavement. And tapping it ahead of you like a diviner. We brought the stick home, with a larger stick friend and right now, Jake is sitting on the sofa, his socks off, poking the stick between his toes. Lately his face takes on this look and I can see it happening before my eyes, how he’s becoming his own person.

16th January ~ a stone for the river

a break in the clouds
the sky earth’s camera
the sun released
in a long, slow exposure
illumination
printing warmth
on my skin

I close my eyes
and turn my face
to the light

my eyelids
a burnt orange screen
flickering to rows
of tall sunflowers
facing the same way

nostalgia stirs
from winter sleep
longing for summers
gone
and those yet to come

the shutter falls
the screen goes dark
light retreats to its cloud-cushioned place

I open my eyes
It is today again

15th January ~ 100 word diary

Been having flashbacks reading the ignorant and defensive comments my brother’s getting on Facebook after having posted that he’s going vegan. He’s been inspiring me though and as soon as the meat in our fridge is eaten (2 bacon slices and 1 smoked mackerel fillet), I’m going back to vegetarianism, for a while anyway. Just made a gorgeous smoked mackerel risotto with spinach and peas served with a squeeze of lime juice. In other news, I finally started on my Nighttime Stories Fiction Project notebook today. One page down, 99 to go! All those empty pages are giving me palpitations.

15th January ~ a stone for the river

the clock ticks
my heart beats
I am here

14th January ~ a stone for the river

rain falling on puddles

a dance of grey O’s
mouths open on the surface
then disappear

14th January ~ 100 word diary

It's fine now.  I drew yesterday and I went back to 750.com this morning, wrote 1200 words during Teletubbies and finished my 30-day writing streak, earning my albatross badge. I’m back in the word zone. Words are my friend again. Maybe it’s because one of my oldest friends is in town for a week and we’re going out tonight. I suggested an Indian Vegetarian place on Panton Street. She didn’t sound enthusiastic but she didn’t refuse. But I’m feeling inspired by my brother’s attempt to go vegan after a lifetime of guzzling meat. It’s a VERY big deal for him.

Memories have a life of their own

Doodling: what I do when words get too much.

~

13th January ~ the relentless 100 word diary (100ish)

I am sick of words and they are sick of me. I can't do this.  Too many words.  I need balance.  Need to go stand on one leg, smear scarlet across a turquoise sea, stare too long at the sharp glint of sun on a puddle, dive into warm sea.  Go into the kitchen and inhale the remains of the ginger cake baked last night.  The worst cake I've ever made.  Burnt on top, crisp on the sides, sunk in the middle and too sweet.  Almost a whole tin of Golden Syrup went into the worst cake I've ever baked.  There will be other cakes.  But not today.

13th January ~ a stone for the river (on word-exhaustion)

the words are tired


they protest that they
have been working too hard
looking too hard
peering and squinting too much

their vision is blurred

they run around in my head
have to be dragged to my fingertips

on the way
they kick out
scattering sparks behind my eyelids

they want a break
or they will go on strike for good

just you try and do this without us
they say

and yet

I cannot not do this
I cannot fail
I cannot fall silent

12th January ~ something I wrote yesterday

Here is something I wrote yesterday.  Just sat down and wrote when I was in the midst of feeling sad about everything (and feeling sorry for myself) which Jakey dying made even more melancholy.  It's not edited (much).

~

I dreamed that you made it up the stairs
and when I saw you climbing up, I felt stricken
that we’d agreed to have you put to sleep

When I woke up
the meows I thought I heard
were pushed away to dusty corners
in favour of reality

the here and now
grey sadness
for which words are dull and stupid

I want a big ball of clay
to mould and squidge into your shape
and cover with fur
and leave a hollow inside for a small motor
for your purr

because what good is it
to write or say
things that can never be
can’t make you come back
bringing warmth again
under our fingers
scratching between your ears
can't make anyone
or any time
come back

What good are words now

when

I want to go to the beach
and eat fat salty chips
that grow cold while the wind
whips my hair and face

I want to make a cake
moist and dark and rich
make it xmas again
poured with cream
twinkling with lights
before anyone left or had to go

Since I woke up to not find
our cat who is still our cat
coming up the stairs
I’ve fed salty yoghurt to Jake
watched trains on youtube
cleaned shit off the toilet bowl
knelt to pick up crisp shards
and fingernail crescents
and dirty tissues
from an overturned bin

and

swam on a blue fleece sea
dried off on a red duvet beach
treated zombie wounds
launched rockets made of plastic bottles
ate soup prepared by a king
with a grey felt beard

while on 6music
a DJ with only one name talked
about everything in a tone of constant
enthusiasm
about The Cure and Primal Scream
playing Bestival

and I hated her
because she wasn't faking it
she really could be happy
about a festival in September
as if all the time between now
and then are bright pebbles
to skip upon
across a clear stream

I eff and blind
because I will not be the kind of person
who wants to look forward to something
that far into the future

while now

words are beached
and flapping for breath



and yet

I’ve abandoned the zombie hospital
and my son shouting for cuddles
to come down here
to push one letter next to another
asquickasIcan
like something important depends on it

Words are useless
Leave me alone

Words are useless
Hold on

12th January ~ a stone for the river

presence is
soft copper fur
warm engine purr
wet sandpaper kiss

absence is
transparent colourless gas
expanding into every space
squeezing organs
and tears out of ducts

11th January ~ Goodbye Jakey Cat

Jakey cat died last night.  We had to have him put down. He had a spinal injury and with his age and diabetes, his chances of recovery, after what would’ve been a difficult and long treatment, were slim. He was 10 years old. We miss him very much. Our affectionate ginger furball with his powerhouse purr and his penchant for licking. When Paul took him to the vet, we thought it might be the last time we saw him so we said goodbye. Jake and I kissed him on his sweet furry head. That’s all I want to say right now. For once, I find words no comfort at all. Goodbye Maximus Gingerpuss. You were a wonderful cat.

11th January ~ a stone for the river

our cat died last night

new sadness
sits heavy on my chest
and twists my stomach into queasiness

I don’t want to retreat into words
they are no comfort

silence is better
and cuddles offered by a child
who hasn’t learned to be afraid of emotion

10th January ~ a stone for the river

dressing my toddler
I realise
I must have taken deep sea diving lessons
in another life
and learned to wrestle an octopus

10th January ~ 100 word diary

Jakey is still in pain.  Last night, he crawled under the sofa and didn’t even come out for his dinner. Then after we went to bed, he dragged himself to the toilet to be near the litter tray. He’s been able to use that and have a bit of food, but otherwise, he’s not moving. We can’t take him to the vet till tonight though. Paul’s on his own at work and I don’t have anyone to look after Jake. Whenever we go near him, he lets out his mournful wail. Otherwise he’s bearing it with quiet dignity. Poor cat.

Denizen Photo Project

Denizen is an online magazine about and for Third Culture Kids.  They've just launched their 365 self-portrait photo project.  My contribution is here.

26n ~ From tomorrow...

26ⁿ

Treeshadowmoon and I will be kick-starting the writing prompts on 26n tomorrow.

Anyone can participate, whether you think of yourself as a writer or not.  If you want to write, then it's never too late to start.

New prompts will be posted every Monday.  We hope you'll join in, and spread the word.

See you there.

9th January ~ 100ish word diary (and that song again*)

I don't know if he doesn’t like the song (or if he's singing along) but Jakey’s resumed a mournful meow. It started earlier. He stood up, his back legs shaky. Then lay down suddenly with a plaintive meow that made us pause. Jake kneeled down and kissed him saying, “It’s okay Jakey.” He was quiet for a while, but he’s started up again. I need to stop playing it now. It’s reminding me too clearly that I’ve never bared my heart like that. And only so much wallowing in sadness will do. Time for a new song. Like Raspberry Beret.


(*that song being If You Go Away)

9th January ~ a song for the river

heartbreak quavering on her voice
sends goose pimples running up my skin
sadness stirs in my stomach
like a trembling stone
~

If You Go Away (this is a link to a song on Spotify)

8th January ~ If you go away

Today, after ten years of knowing her and believing that she only listens to classical music (and The Divine Comedy) I discovered that my friend M likes Dusty Springfield. We were discussing the (over)dramatisation of Nigel Slater’s memoir Toast. Ever since I heard Dusty’s heartbreaking version of Ne Me Quitte Pas in the film, I’ve wanted to hear it again. A young Nigel plays it before he packs one tiny suitcase and strides out of his unhappy childhood home. We remarked how people in films always manage to pack everything they need in one small suitcase before flowing seamlessly into a new life. “If it was Chekhov that would never happen,” M said. “But if it was Chekhov, there’d be no Dusty Springfield.” I replied. Overdramatisations were therefore forgiven. At least in this case.

8th January ~ a stone for the river

The Silver Birch

branches hang bare
the last strands of
a witch’s hair

she stands graceful
her arms set in a frozen dance
waiting for the season

to bloom again

7th January ~ 100 word diary

I’ve got a cyst in my gum. Apparently quite common when there’s lack of bone. It’s muscling the surrounding tissue and tooth out of its way and it has to come out. As do my wisdom teeth, both impacted, in my lower jaw. I’m being referred to have all that done surgically. In the meantime, I’m on antibiotics for the abscess and Corsodyl for my gum problems. I guess I knew this day would come. Many moons ago, a dentist told adolescent-me that my wisdom teeth would have to come out some day. Whaddya know. Some days do come true.

7th January ~ a stone for the river

Today, Elena leaves.
Raindrops cling to silver birch branches
like weeping eyes.
When we say goodbye our faces will smile
though we hold empty rooms inside us.

6th January ~ 100 word diary

Warning: This post is gross.  If you have dental-related phobias, look away now.

What happens when you avoid going to the dentist for two years? You wake up with a pinch in your gum, like someone’s holding it in pincers. As the day goes on, a raw grinding throb joins in. It worsens hourly. Paracetamol has no effect and you can’t close your mouth because of the swelling. Just when you think you can’t take anymore, you feel a trickle of liquid at the back of your mouth. It makes your breath rank but the pain has subsided. No matter what she puts me through tomorrow, the dentist is my new best friend.

6th January ~ a stone for the river

three streams cross my path

silver bright

crawling over fork and trunk

5th January ~ a (large) stone for the river

small hand in mine
we sit and breathe the quiet
between sleeping and waking

a warm squeeze
our fingers cluster together
and his voice
sweet and whole

Mummy are you small?

I nod. Yes darling, sometimes I am.
No other explanation is required
on his part or mine.

Shall we go downstairs?

warmth leaves my palm
as he gets up
the door opens
letting light in.

5th January ~ 250 word diary

I put a painting on the wall that I did last week. It was one I’d done alongside Jake during one of his sessions. But when he saw it on the wall today, he dragged a chair over and stood on it to get a better look. He looked at it for a long while. Finally I asked him if he liked it. “Yes! That bootful paintin that one.” I couldn’t have been happier if the snootiest art critic in the world said he liked it. Then he said he wanted to make one too so I showed him how.

He dripped and shook the paint over his paper with joyous gusto. Just as I was thinking to myself how beautifully the colours were falling, he grabbed a tissue and wiped all the colour together, his whole body moving with the rhythm of his arm. My instinct was an intake a breath and a desire to say, “No, stop, it was perfect just as it was.” And if that didn’t work then, “That’s not how Mummy did it.” Instead I gagged my Inner Control Freak and kept quiet. I looked at Jake. He’d forgotten everything but the moment he was in. It reminded me of something Keri Smith quoted on her blog, “Art is a quality, not a product.” Jake’s still at the age where he lives that quality without even knowing it. I just have to get out of his way and try not to spoil it for him.

My painting

Jake's painting

4th January ~ A Stone for The River

Slicing hearts of romaine
leaves a dome of pale green
For a moment
a minute universe
trembling
Then a droplet
that runs

4th January ~ 240 word diary

Some days I wake up feeling dry and swollen. The mirrors in our house are not kind. The one we pass all the time, the one in the hall, is literally distorted and subtly endows you with bulging squatness. The “good” mirror or rather, the one that doesn’t lie, the one I get dressed in front of, is tucked at the top of the stairs under a sloping roof. Standing in front of it is liable to get me a bump on the head but it’s less painful. I suspect the house was built by giants forced to collaborate with toddlers.

I am of average height yet have to stand on stools or strain and curse a blue streak on tiptoes to open or close most of the windows. In the kitchen there is the added joy of ensuring my stomach is over the counter in order to reach the window catch. The bathroom mirror, which is the front of an unusually small cabinet with shelves that we can only fill with miniature versions of real toiletries, only reflects the top half of my face. Because of this, I feel the illogical need to step closer to it as well as stand on my tiptoes to see my whole face. And nobody’s face looks great that close. Some days, when the sun is shining and I’m not tired, it doesn’t look so bad. Today it’s grey. And my eyes sting.

3rd January ~ 100 word diary

Because I don’t already have enough writing to do (I write private 750-word as well as 100-word entries) I joined A River of Stones and will soon be kick-starting a writing prompts blog with treeshadowmoon. What the hell. Overdoing it is my way. Last night at bed time, Jake placed his hand on my cheek and said, “Close eyes Mummy.” I didn’t want to. His forehead was pressed to mine, his face filling up my field of vision, magnified and blurry and cute. I just wanted to look into that blur of his face, catch his open eyes on mine.

3rd January ~ a stone for the river

Jake tastes Oolong tea and his face bunches up.  That’s not water that one, he says.  His weight is a padded boulder on my thigh.  He hops off, his hair bouncing grey light.

1st January 2011 ~ 100 word diary

Had no internet access or TV for most of the day. No problemo. Finished colouring in C’s drawing, inhaling too many funky fumes as a result. Then went to bed, knackered. As soon as I got under the covers, I felt cold and achey and stayed that way for the rest of the day. Dragged myself out of bed around 5:30pm and was no good for anything except reading on the sofa. Barely even managed that. Had tomato soup for dinner and with feta chunks in it, it tasted even more of vomit than usual. Yurmmy. Bed time was heaven.



Mummy reading, Taken by Jake



2nd January 2011 ~ 100 word diary

Threw the remains of Jake’s breakfast away, telling Jake I was doing so because it was old. Jake replied, “That’s right. Jake can’t eat it because Jake not old.” That was a good moment. Before that we had a run of bad ones, starting with a major tantrum when Paul left the house to go shopping. Jake kept crying for him, asking for Daddy Cuggles. Mummy Cuggles just wouldn’t do. Crisps calmed him, but not for long. What with his Daddy-attachment and constant worrying “Mummy are you happy?” I can’t help but wonder if I’m screwing the poor kid up.

A Poem

Wild Geese

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.

Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.

Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.

- from Dream Work by Mary Oliver

The last post of the year

I will not be making any New Year’s resolutions. I gave up on that a few years ago because it made me even crazier than I already felt. The psychic equivalent of trying to squeeze my size 12 hips into size 8 skinny jeans. I don’t do that in real life, I have no illusions about my size 12-ness and I abhor skinny jeans. So why do it to my already overworked, overwrought, oversensitive psyche? 

There is something about this time of year though that makes millions of people feel the need to magnify their dissatisfaction with themselves and their lives and feel the need to fix it. All because of a date on a calendar. A date that is merely a number, an attempt to mark the passing of time which if you think about it, is like marking the sky with a grid. Marking all of space with a metal grid. You might as well try and lasso a cloud or keep a crocodile as a pet. 

I know it’s practical – to have calendars and diaries and planners. But you can also take things too far. I've tried not to be judgmental about this.  I mean, I know some people need to be shouted at and demoralised so that they can do what they want to do or need to do.  But I can't help it.  Do you even know anyone who has ever stuck to their resolutions or talk about them or remember them or give a flying monkey's testicle about them past January? Actually, it gives me hope that people don't stick to those resolutions. It gives me hope that there is something in our human natures that will not bend to something imposed upon it so unnaturally.

So the mocking continues. 

Enter reverb10. Now that it is nearly over, I can safely say that it has confirmed my suspicions and fears. It really was as insipid and facile as it seemed. If I had felt uncomfortable with New Year’s Resolutions before, having seeing the Future Tools that the team had to offer, I now see them as practically toxic. Not only have they benevolently offered us the tool of How To Create Your Personal Manifesto – a process that is more lengthy and complicated than a mortgage application (honestly – who has the TIME to dick around like that?) to ‘tools’ to help you MANAGE your New Year’s Resolutions.  Those pesky things! Who knew they could become so unruly, so willful? Maybe it’s just the witch (or the Darkness, if you prefer) in me that can’t help but see all of this as terribly desperate and controlling. Trying to nail down every ounce of uncertainty in life, every glimmer of the unknown and bring it into obedient submission. Stamp on those dangerous sparks before they catch and become an inferno. I understand something of that because my Inner Control Freak is freakin’ strong and smug.  But it doesn't stay smug for long, because life has a way of reminding us that it is not a straight line to be drawn with a ruler.

If some of this resonates with you but you still feel a need to take something with you into the New Year, then take this:

In some countries, the year isn’t actually 2010 on the verge of becoming 2011.  In Thailand for instance, it is the year 2553.  And their New Year begins in April.

“There is always something beyond what we know.” – Ernesto Neto (Brazilian artist)

"The wind will carry us..." Noir Désir – Le Vent Nous Portera (This is a link to a song on Spotify)

If you still feel the urge to make a list or create a solid shape out of those filaments of uncertainty, then at least try to go easy on yourself. Ditch the manifesto and write a moanifesto instead. Here’s mine:

A Moanifesto

Out of respect and awe for the Unknown and for the vastness and richness that is life,

-I will not waste time trying to lose weight or wondering whether I should give up bacon or getting myself into an exercise regime. Rather, I will enjoy my food and enjoy yoga because it makes me feel good and not because it is good for me.

-I will not endeavour to make any pragmatic or sensible decisions about “my future”. It follows that I will NOT at any time sit down to think about where I want to be in five years time. Or consider a job because it offers a pension scheme. Or try to improve myself in any way that would make a life coach or wellness consultant proud or happy. If I attempt any such moves, I authorise the minions of the Unknown to bitch-slap me.

-I WILL rant and use bad language.

-I will continue to start projects and do most things in a haphazard manner. I will become the epitomy of doing things willy-nilly.

-I will waste time.

-I will watch too much TV.

-I will stage wrestling matches (and pick alleyway fist fights) with my inner control freak and sometimes, I will win.

-I will try my damndest to annoy the fuck out of guilt so it leaves me the hell alone.

-I will not make any rules.

-I reserve the right to break the rules.

Now, don't make the mistake of trying to stay up till midnight to see in the New Year.  It's already happened in some parts of the world anyway, so you're too late.  Just go to bed, or get drunk or stoned and forget that one second after midnight, you are suddenly supposed to be a whole new person living a whole new life.  Don't say I didn't warn you.

30th December ~ 275 word diary

Woke up this morning with a boulder of sadness on my chest and a dire need for a haircut. Obviously my hair didn’t become dire overnight but my need for having it chopped did. Thanks to errors in cinema listings, I had time to kill before The Kids Are All Right and wandered into a tiny salon in Chinatown. While the scissors snip-snip-snipped away and I wondered what memories my hair held and whether they would be lost to me now, the hairdresser starting speaking to her colleagues in such a tone about my hair that I started to feel guilty, as if my hair was a child or pet I had neglected for too long. She was so surprised at the length and thickness of it, pointing at the pile on the floor for me, as if hair on the floor was something she didn’t see everyday.

But even I was shocked. Because it looked like a small animal was curled at my feet. There was more hair on the floor than there was left on my head. I smiled sheepishly and said, “It’s been 3 months, since I last had a haircut.” She nodded and smiled and continued snipping. It seemed I was forgiven. Then I counted again. Not 3 months, but 8. 8 months. But I didn’t want to tell her, to correct myself. I didn’t want to seem too eager to defend myself. When I left the salon, they all smiled at me, as if patting me on the back for having done the right thing. “Not so heavy now,” my hairdresser said as I said goodbye. Not so heavy now.

My year in books

Books I read in 2010 (in the order that they were read)
(abandoned books not listed)

The True Deceiver – Tove Jansson
Brixton Beach – Roma Tearne*
The Griffin & Sabine books – Nick Bantock
Diary – Chuck Palaniuk
1000 Journals Project
Brooklyn – Colm Toibin
The Year of Magical Thinking – Joan Didion
The Vagrants – Yiyun Li
The Locust & The Bird – Hanan Al-Shaykh
The Forty Rules of Love – Elif Shafak
The Girl Who Played with Fire – Stieg Larsson
The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet’s Nest – Stieg Larsson
Stitches – David Small (a graphic memoir)
I Haven’t Dreamed of Flying for a While – Taichi Yamada
Saving Fish From Drowning – Amy Tan
The Sookie Stackhouse novels no’s 2 – 10 – Charlaine Harris
A Touch of Dead – Charlaine Harris
The Shiniest Jewel – Marian Henley (a graphic memoir)
One Day – David Nicholls

*I don't like to pick favourites for books, but I'm picking this one because even though I read it very early in the year, the story is still colourful and vivid in my mind and still moves me when I remember it. 

~

Most recently abandoned: The Diary of Anne Frank and Middlemarch

Currently reading: Stephen King’s Under The Dome


Most recently bought or received:
A History of Love – Nicole Krauss
The Hand That First Held Mine – Maggie O’Farrell
Our Tragic Universe – Scarlett Thomas
Mrs Fry’s Diary – Mrs Stephen Fry

Currently Top of the Wishlist:
The Hare with Amber Eyes – Edmund de Waal
The Alexandria Quartet – Lawrence Durrell
The Devil at Large – Erica Jong on Henry Miller

29th December ~ 100 word diary

It's been 3 months since I had a Jake-free night out. Looking at my diary entries for the whole year tells me that I had 10 nights out in total. Actually this isn’t bad and a vast improvement on the year before. I had aimed for one night a month and I’m not far short. But there’s never been a gap of 3 months between outings. Illness, bad weather and the onset of winter have been to blame. Well, I still have 2 days left to add another evening to my tally. Or an afternoon, or even a whole day.

28th December ~ 100 word diary

Paul's brother and family came over on a rare visit for xmas lunch. They’re not far away and yet they hadn’t been to visit since Jake was one month old (and not for lack of being invited). It makes me think of barriers we create around things we don’t want to do, how it can start with a wisp, a vague feeling of resistance which then becomes wall-like habit and then how-things-have-always-been. Or maybe there’s something underneath it all, something true which finds its way to being expressed despite familial bonds. Maybe some wisps were always meant to be bricks.

27th December ~ 100 word diary

Eating: spaghetti with baby plum tomatoes, chorizo, feta & basil drizzled with chilli oil. Watching: the cat toy with a knitted Mexican finger puppet. Reading: Stephen King’s Under The Dome. Listening: to Jake’s toddler belly laughter – how it fills and floats and lifts you up and feels pure. Revisiting: old favourites on Spotify – Laura Veirs’ Carbon Glacier (my favourite of all her albums) and Rachel Goswell’s Waves are Universal which I will always associate with a certain train ride from St Ives to London and a sense of serenity mingled with anticipation, of something just beginning, the tremors of possibility.

26th December ~ 325 word diary

Something odd happened yesterday. There was a moment, while I was rolling out the spiced cookie dough, listening to Richard Hawley on 6music that I felt so happy and at peace, so all-is-right-with-the-world despite its many problems and grief, that I even exclaimed, “I LOVE Christmas!”

Because it’s traditionally been lonely and over-stressed, I’ve hated it for years. This has lessened with having Jake. There’s nothing like having a child to show you how to celebrate. But this was beyond that. This wasn’t just about family and the coming together of those magical elements that make up Christmas. This was about being in the moment, all day, and how those moments made up one simple, flowing gorgeous day. Listening to the Christmas songs I love, realising that the best ones are tinged with sadness, I felt how true happiness is not about banishing sadness or grief, but embracing it in that bittersweet way.

So it was somehow fitting that it was our last Christmas with our neighbours from across the road. They are leaving in January. E & her father are going to China for an indefinite period and E’s mother is staying in Kent, where she now works. They are leaving their London flat for good. We won’t have them as neighbours anymore. Jake won’t have his friend from across the road. They won’t be at nursery together. We won’t be able to look out our window and see their friendly faces waving back at us. They are a big part of why I love living here. And now, they’re leaving. So our time together yesterday was heightened, the way spices, sharp and hot on your tongue bring tears to your eyes but flavour to your tongue, all the way down to your heart. Just by being together, sharing food, laughter, watching our children play together. Holding the sadness in the midst of the happiness, holding them in each palm, just letting them be.



Taken by Jake



25th December ~ 100ish word diary with a bonus Christmas post

I was still in bed when I heard Jake rustling presents under the tree. Paul told him they were mine then went into the kitchen. The rustling continued. I came downstairs and found Jake clutching one of my gifts. “Got present for you Mummy!” he said. He was more thrilled when he saw he had presents too! On seeing the Duplo, “It’s BRICKS!” and the baseplates (one in each colour) immediately became trains. I got a moving story written by Paul, about an orphan doohickey named Theo who receives a present from his parents from beyond the grave. Santa dies in the process, but we won't focus on that. 

~

And now, a few more words. In the spirit of Christmas, I’m going to respond (briefly) to today’s reverb10 prompt. Especially since it’s not a bad one.

Photo.

Sift through all the photos of you from the past year. Choose one that best captures you; either who you are, or who you strive to be. Find the shot of you that is worth a thousand words. Share the image, who shot it, where, and what it best reveals about you. (Prompt Author: Tracey Clark)

I’m posting this because it was taken by my 28 month old son. Judging by the length of these paragraphs, it’s only worth about 195 words, but why waffle on for a thousand when you can be more succinct. Anyway, I like it because I look genuinely happy and it’s one of those rare photos in which I don’t look hideous. I don’t think myself hideous, but I am not photogenic. I also like it because I like to think its how Jake sees me and that he has managed to capture it, in his simple toddler in-the-moment-joyful-authenticity.

It was about a week ago and we were in the kitchen. I was about to make lunch, he was on the counter rearranging my spice rack. I’d just snapped a photo of him and he asked for the camera. “Want take picture of Mummy, okay?” He held up the camera, smiled, said, “Say Cheese!” I couldn’t help but smile and he took it. So I also like the photo because it captures how he makes me feel. Happy, joyful, lucky to be alive, lucky to be part of his life, lucky to be his Mummy.

And on that note…Merry Christmas everyone. Love and peace to all.

24th December ~ 100 word diary (the one where I make sense)

Maybe spending half of xmas eve tidying, storing & reorganizing Jake’s toys wasn’t such a great idea. Cos I’ve spent half the day in a furious frenzy and I still haven’t done any baking for tomorrow. Here’s where I decide to focus on the positive or have a meltdown. How’s this? Trying to explain to Jake what elderflower cordial was, I said at the end of an inadequate explanation, “Does that make sense?” Thankfully he nodded, grabbed a wooden spoon and said, “Yes please. Jake want make sense. Mummy Jake make sense ‘gether? Shall we do that?” Yes we shall.

Ahhhh, warmth and fuzziness

Our tree angel with natural halo ;-)

Our family on the tree, courtesy of Jake



Jake's "triangle" which looks to me very much like a xmas tree
So, a tree on the tree





Spot the cat



23rd December ~ 150 word diary (the one where Santa gets naked)

So Jake met Santa and didn’t freak out. When I went to collect him from nursery, Santa (who was Cockney and had an earring in one ear) was still there handing out presents. Jake watched him with a mixture of awe, confusion and suspicion. When I asked him what it was like meeting Santa, he thought about it and said very seriously, “Says ho ho ho that one. Ho ho ho.”

Today when he woke up crying, I showed Jake a lovely card we received entitled “Santa’s Full Monty.” Santa, Russian doll like, goes from being fully dressed to naked (with bits discretely covered) in four steps. It calmed him down but I now wonder what he must be thinking. Santa is a man who dresses up funny, hands out presents to children and also sometimes takes his clothes off. Oh dear. Good preparation for the world at large then.

22nd December ~ 100 word diary

Jake's at nursery right now!  They said he could stay for the afternoon because Santa’s popping in with presents for the children. UNEXPECTED FREE TIME!!!! I managed to get most of the groceries we need for xmas. I can now start baking THE cookies. I got a few treats for Jake and his friend E who’s coming over xmas day. And I found exactly what I was hoping we could get for Jake (megablocks and duplo to bump up his collection) in the charity shop for £4.50 (would cost upwards of £40 new). Oh dear. I’m getting excited about xmas!

21st December ~ 100 word diary

Cutting out stars and colouring them with oil pastels. Cutting out shapes and listening to the Smoke Fairies album Through Low Light & Trees on Spotify. Absolutely gorgeous. Jake loves it too. When I switched to another album, Jake said “NO! Want that music!” And now he is lying on the floor, belly down, pushing a train across a track, listening with his whole body, his eyes and arm move with the train and the words and the rhythms of the music and I see him in his own world, inhabiting himself fully. I hope he never loses that ability.

A word about Goddesses...(I hope I don't make you puke)

Reading Elizabeth Marie's response to THAT reverb10 prompt, the one about "healing" written by a 20-something self-styled "Goddess Leoni" (I kid you not) got me thinking about real wounds and real Goddesses. I remembered the black-faced tongue protruding picture of Kali that a (very wise) friend sent me a few years ago and decided to find out more about her.

I've always been aware of Kali but never knew much about her. To be honest, she's always scared me. Well, maybe not scared, but she's always seemed too strange and inaccessible. Like she doesn't and cannot belong to me, but only to those of her culture. Like I could only lay claim to her if I was Indian or Bengali. I don't believe such things anymore, just like I no longer believe that I can't be Thai. So maybe it was the right time for me to rediscover her. Because I suddenly felt like she was there for me to discover.

The images I found of her, dark, fierce, huge tongue protruding, severed heads round her neck, standing on the body of Lord Shiva (who threw himself under her feet to stop her killing frenzy during battle) no longer seem strange or distant, but disconcertingly familiar.  Seeing them was like experiencing a glimmer of recognition.  What was even more surprising was reading that this Goddess of Death, this Dark Mother Goddess, has devotees who consider their bond with her to be intimate and loving, like the bond they have with their own mothers. This is what is foreign to me, the idea of a warm, intimate, loving motherly bond. And yet, Kali appeals to me. This quote I found on one of the sites about Kali is what ultimately pulled me in:

"My child, you need not know much in order to please Me.
Only Love Me dearly.
Speak to me, as you would talk to your mother,
if she had taken you in her arms."

The "if". If she had taken you in her arms. Love me and talk to me like your mother, IF she had taken you in her arms.

And so I feel welcomed. Embraced. Reading that, I wanted to make her my own, wanted to sit at her feet and be held and let her know the true darkness in my heart. After all, who would understand better than her? When I'm in one of my foul moods, feeling torn up from the inside out with frustration and fury, Kali would not tell me to go draw a rainbow sprinkled with glitter or heal myself with makeup and candles. She is the Goddess of Death & Destruction. And yet, she holds her arms out like a mother, a true mother. And in her, I find an unlikely place to rest my head. And maybe even my heart.

20th December ~ 100 word diary

Right now, Jake is cutting a piece of paper with scissors. Earlier, he was turning a box of melba toast into a train. The other day, he ran giggling through the house with a tea towel in tow, and every day uses a giant roll of wrapping paper as a vacuum cleaner. He’s much more fastidious about vacuuming than we are. I also made him a salt dough train. I thought it was crappy. He looked at it and said, “Oh, v nice this train, v happy this train.” We’re not buying xmas presents this year. We don’t need to.

Salt dough train.  Made by Mummy, painted by Jake.



What we've been up to...

Jake & I have had a very busy week...



Rearranging my spice rack while I bake mint chocolate cookies

 

Making salt dough



Kneaded into a lovely ball

 

Stopping to brush teeth, an important step in making salt dough



The baked salt dough faces Jake made with very little help
They are Daddy, Mummy, Jake



The salt dough bird I made following Geninne's bird ornament tutorial
It collapsed in the oven and came out wonky

 

All our creations, cooling off after baking


A few days later, we painted them with a poster paint & pva glue mix...

Painting our creations - Jake paints his faces

And then repaints them all green

The cat I made with a bit of leftover salt dough



The bird ornament, painted, varnished and somehow strung up on the tree
It caused so much cursing and swearing to get it
to that "hanging" stage that it is now known as The Effin' Bird



In the middle of all the creating, we also went out in the snow



And made a snowman with Daddy...



...complete with a goatee and pubes (Paul's idea)



And Jake played with his friend from across the road

 

And we built another snow...creature



All in one week!!  See what not doing reverb10 can lead to? :-)

19th December ~ on which the 100 word diary makes its return

So after shouting at my toddler for trying to snatch the Pritt Stick out of my hand while glueing his be-angelled image onto red card, and hinting at Paul that I need some time to myself, I get said time to myself and what do I do? Eat leftover Chinese in front of the computer while they are upstairs laughing and screaming together. What I’d really like for xmas is to get what I want without feeling like a cow. Okay, I also did some writing, which I claim is important for my existence. Still feel like a cow though.

Some toilet humour in the absence of further reverb10 posts...

As you may have gathered from the lack of further reverb10 posts, the one decent prompt I last mentioned was a blip and I have now let go of the idea of maybe going back to it.  However, without reverb10, my blog suddenly feels adrift, lacking in direction and purpose.  A friend and I are cooking some ideas to create our own writing prompt blog, but in the meantime, this lack of purpose post-reverb10 disturbs me.  In an attempt to remedy the situation, I thought I'd share some anecdotes with you, on the joys of life with a toddler... 

The other day, I was in the toilet and Jake followed me in.  I never get to go to the toilet without being watched anymore.  Jake asked me, "Mummy are you doing poo?"  I said, "Not poo darling, wee."
A few moments later he said, "Mummy, are you finished doing not poo?"

~

Yesterday, once the blizzard had subsided, we went out in the snow and built snowmen and had a snowball fight.  When I was hit by a particularly big one, I inadvertently did a little wee in my pants at the moment of impact.  Naturally I felt the need to share this information with Paul and whispered it to him (not very quietly obviously).  Just as a couple of strangers were walking past, Jake piped up, "Mummy do wee wee in pants?" enunciating each word perfectly.   That'll teach me.

Oh my noodles, is there hope for reverb10 after all?

I'm not coming back to reverb10.  At least I don't think I am.  But I did want to post about two reverb related things that actually made me feel tingles in my stomach and goosebumpy on my skin.  I know, it's hard to believe, but here you go, you can judge for yourself.

First, I stumbled on Elizabeth Marie's blog and was humbled and inspired by her take on yesterday's prompt, which when I read it, I thought "I'm glad I'm not doing this anymore," and when she read it, came up with excellent writing:

http://sidneyport.blogspot.com/2010/12/reverb-10-one-in-which-i-capture.html

http://sidneyport.blogspot.com/2010/12/one-thats-merely-blip.html

Second, today's prompt was written by someone who ISN'T a New Age consultant or guru of any kind, isn't selling anything and is an editor at Harper Collins.  You know what else, the prompt didn't suck.  It almost makes me want to resume doing reverb10 again.  We'll see.  Maybe I'll post as and when the mood strikes me.

reverb10: Appreciate (That's it, I'm outta here)

Appreciate.

What's the one thing you have come to appreciate most in the past year? How do you express gratitude for it?

(Prompt Author: Victoria Klein)

~

Ok that’s it. I give up. I can’t do this anymore. I can’t fight the relentless deluge of New Age exhortations to better myself. I don’t have the energy. I barely have enough energy to be civil to my partner and spend time with my toddler without being distracted by idiotic vomit-inducing prompts by people I would not seek out for help or inspiration under other circumstances, so why do it now?  (And yes, I have now given up on my shiny dream that any of the prompt authors will be writers whose work I might actually like or want to read.)


Do you know what did it for me? It wasn’t finding something to appreciate - believe it or not, even I am able to appreciate more than one thing in life. No, it is the arse-twitching New Age code that requires us all to BE GRATEFUL. A bit like making a child say thank you for a hideous scratchy jumper it’s been given by an ancient aunt, because heaven forbid that aunt should be offended or have to deal with a child's honesty. When I was a child, being ungrateful was one of the worst things you could be. It was on a par with the gravest sins in my mother's eyes: being unladylike and talking back (or having a mind of your own).   

This is the same thing. Express your gratitude, fake it if you have to, otherwise, you will offend God or the Universe or whatever Superpower provides all the things that you want and need in life. And underlying it all is a belief that we need to do this because we don’t really deserve it. We don’t deserve to be happy, we don’t deserve to feel fulfilled or at peace or have love in our lives or win the lottery or own a home or be successful or admired or have 25,000 gazillion followers or facebook friends, so we have to make ourselves jump through a series of hoops posing as spiritual rituals or ways of betterment, the modern day equivalent of sacrificing a few virgins in exchange for a good harvest. And I think its bullshit. There’s nothing wrong with feeling thankful. It can even feel good to do good things or better yourself because you genuinely want to. But start making gratefulness compulsory, or a step in a plan to guaranteed affluence and bliss, and any natural feelings of thankfulness that might have arisen will start to turn into a resentful burden of obligation.  Not only that, your face will turn to shiny plastic and you won't notice.

Now that you’ve read that are you thinking, Oh my god, how can she say that? Now god’s gonna strike her down with cancer to teach her a lesson.  Well if you did, just think about it. Do you really believe that if you aren’t grateful enough, then you deserve whatever bad shit the Universe has to throw at you?  If you do then maybe you need reverb10. As for me, I’ve had enough.

Because I want smiley things on my blog again...

reverb10: Action

Action.

When it comes to aspirations, it’s not about ideas. It's about making ideas happen. What's your next step?

(Prompt Author: Scott Belsky)

~

I checked today’s prompt with the same sense of dread that I check my bank balance. I only dared to look at it squinting through my fingers, because even though I managed to work through yesterday's nausea with the help of laughter tinged with hysteria and a dancing skeleton, even his charms wore off a little too quickly and I was left feeling sick for having responded to the prompt at all. (It was only Jake's continued singing of "Dem bones dem bones dancing bones" which got me through the day.)  As I watched truly good writers and people whom I respect bow out of the project (Skippedydoodah and Turtleturtleturtle), I wondered whether I’d crossed a line by not doing the same. Maybe even taking the piss out of something that awful is in some way an act of self-betrayal. Maybe engaging with it at all was the equivalent of seeing a steaming pile of dog poo on the street and deciding to dance in it instead of avoiding it.

So today’s prompt was going to be the deciding one for me. The slightest whiff of excrement (or partially clothed self-adoring self-help celebrities) and it would be the end for me.

I’m cautiously happy to let you know that my stomach is grateful for the distinct lack of foul smell wafting from today's prompt, and for the fully-clothed and inoffensive author photo. Enough to ignore the link to another book being sold and not taking pot-shots at the author’s ‘Action Method.’ (I'll even resist researching the method in order to draw comparisons between it and wanking.  That's a form of "self-love" for those of you not familiar with British slang.)

Having said that, the ideas that I want to make happen are not things that I want to share. They are at that delicate, light-shy pupa stage of development. So this is something I’ll be working on in private. 

In the meantime, my next step is to enjoy my day with a decidedly more settled stomach.

reverb10: Body Integration (this prompt was truly a gift...thank you)

Body Integration.

This year, when did you feel the most integrated with your body? Did you have a moment where there wasn’t mind and body, but simply a cohesive YOU, alive and present?

(Prompt Author: Patrick Reynolds)

~

I knew it. All these years I’ve had a suspicion that Mrs Koumas was hiding something. Yeah, she got us to dissect frogs and stick our fingers inside pig’s hearts, but I always knew there was something she was keeping from us, something she’d left off the curriculum. At the time, I thought it had something to do with the breeziness with which we covered the chapter on sexual organs. But now I know the truth. And now, so many things are starting to make sense.

Like, why my brain keeps insisting on walking three paces ahead of me, or why my tongue keeps diving in to other people’s lunches, or waking up to find my lungs spattered on the ceiling and the bedclothes (pulmonary alveoli are a bitch to get out of the sheets), and dragging my torso down the stairs in the mornings to find my legs, dead on the sofa, where they’d snuck off to watch bad TV in the middle of the night. And don't even get me started on my backbone. 

Why didn’t anyone ever tell us of the need to integrate? Were they worried we wouldn't have the guts to do it?  Well, it’s a gross oversight. It should be taught in all schools, everywhere, the earlier the better. Otherwise, it is left to the few earnest and caring souls, or to use the proper term, wellness consultants, like Patrick Reynolds, to spread the word.  Thank you Patrick, for enlightening me. I mean, I didn’t even know how close I’d been to NOT BEING ALIVE.

I don’t know about you, but the trickiest bit for me is keeping track of all the different PARTS that need integrating. So for the past 24 minutes, I’ve been working strenuously at finding a way to keep me nice and cohesive. I can tell you straight off that superglue doesn’t work. It made me a bit too cohesive with my clothing and furniture and toilet paper. (Even chanting at the same time didn't help.)  Cello tape is also ineffective. I just kept attracting dust and my limbs kept seeing it as a challenge to break free. The secret, I happily discovered, is to use the power of your mind to generate the power of distraction. What you have to do is find something for that unruly disintegrating body of yours to do! And nothing says integration like the power of dance.  (Stay with me, it's for your own good.)

Now, you might find it hard to keep up, but with a little bit of practice, I am sure you can do it. We can do this together.  If you have any children in the house, I advise you to get them involved too. It’s for their own good. Ok ready? Just let the words into your mind and your body will soon follow.  Here we go...

One, two, three…all together now…

Dem bones, dem bones, dem dancing bones.
Dem bones, dem bones, dem dancing bones.
Dem bones, dem bones, dem dancing bones.
Doin' the skeleton dance.

The foot bone's connected to the leg bone.
The leg bone's connected to the knee bone.
The knee bone's connected to the thigh bone.
Doin' the skeleton dance.

The thigh bone's connected to the hip bone.
The hip bone's connected to the backbone.
The backbone's connected to the neck bone.
Doin' the skeleton dance.

Shake your hands to the left.
Shake your hands to the right.
Put your hands in the air.
Put your hands out of sight!

Shake your hands to the left.
Shake your hands to the right.
Put your hands in the air.

Wiggle, wiggle, wiggle, wiggle, wiggle, wiggle, wiggle, wiggle, wiggle, wiggle, wiggle, wiggle.......wiggle your knees.

Dem bones, dem bones, dem dancing bones.
Dem bones, dem bones, dem dancing bones.
Dem bones, dem bones, dem dancing bones.
Doin' the skeleton dance.

For those of you requiring visual instruction, a wonderful video can be found on youtube here.

Now, you might get peculiar looks when practicing integration in public places.  Workplace practice could be especially problematic, unless you are an elementary or primary school teacher.  But remain true.  Be a strong and radiant ambassador for integration and make the world a better place.  All the doubters will thank you in the end. 

I just have one more thing to say about today’s prompt and the photo that accompanied it (which for those of you who don’t get the emailed prompts had the added benefit of a shirtless Patrick Reynolds staring off into the distance in a gaze reminiscent of Christ bearing the world’s burden on his big strong shoulders. Perhaps that is why his shoulders were bare. Or maybe he's just wondering where the bottom half of his body has gotten to.  I’d love to share the photo but I fear I would be infringing copyright law. Of course Jesus doesn’t seem to mind having his image plastered all over the place, now there’s a generous bloke, but one needs to be more careful with modern personages in this age of the media, especially with anyone honoured with the suffix consultant). Anyway, what I wanted to say was this:

Sam Davidson, all is forgiven.

Must...

somehow make time for this:

http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2010/dec/10/twelve-tales-for-christmas

A series of podcasts where writers read & discuss their favourite short stories.  One each day until xmas.