31st January ~ a walk in stones (125 word diary)

a lone coot on the water
one ripple flows the length of the riverbed

Jake stops to stare at a pylon
and the airplane flying overhead

He notices the water level in the river
and the reeds growing out of them

I take him to the bridge
and he stops to throw sticks

we turn and see a heron
still as a statue
I snap a photo
and then it flies away

walking home
our shadows from the sunset
lead the way

a gull flying west
takes on a pale cherry breast

the island on the reservoir
is now alive with bird calls
black shapes alighting on nests

the sunset reflects on everything
treetops, upper story windows
eyes looking up to see

~

 
Although the river of stones project is coming to an end, I've enjoyed the trip so much this month, meeting fellow stoners (hee hee), having my eyes opened, sinking deeper into the stillness of the moments of the day-to-day, that I will carry on writing stones, though perhaps not every day.  I have a new project I'm looking forward to starting for the month of February, one that will redress the drawing part of the drawing / writing balance in my life and which will perhaps include the writing of stones.  I don't know exactly how it will go but I look forward to figuring it out.  I hope to catch some of you along the way.

Thank you for dropping by!

30th January ~ 100 word diary made of stones

A grey tabby washes his face
on our green garden chair
~
pale sunlight reflects off the puddle
on Jake’s overturned paddling pool
~
patches of blue through speckled window
squares of yellow light on the wall
~
Our 2.5yr-old stands on a chair and says Bollocks!
doubling over with chuckles
Bollocks! Bollocks! Bollocks!
egged on by our unrestrained laughter
~
I piss myself laughing
while doing jumping jacks
Jake says, “That’s really good Mummy!”
then decides to lie down on top of me
during the abdominal crunches
~
pressing his face against the window
Jake catches the sunset
“Wow, look at that colour Daddy!”

29th January ~ a stone for the river

a crowd of gulls
swoop and glide and circle and call
before leaving
a lone crow
perched on an antenna
stillness in their wake

28th January ~ my morning in stones (100 word diary)

Brushing my teeth
Jake stands next to me
imitating the sounds of a Hoover
I look down and see him using
Bagpuss’s tail as the Hoover nozzle
I laugh
Jake laughs too then says
“It’s not funny Mummy”
“But it’s cute,” I reply
“It’s not cute,” he says.

~

Breakfast:
Dried pineapple chunks
the shape of sunken squares
tinkle against the sides of the bowl

~

Words from my magnetic poetry kit
scattered on the carpet
I see words I want to form into sense
Jake says “Let’s make a tower”
He asks for more
I place Love in his cupped palms

27th January ~ a walk in stones (in 100 words)

Snowdrops in a neighbour’s window box,
smashed baseboard of an acoustic guitar,
the door to no. 46 slightly open,
a large woman pushing a shopping trolley trying to run for the W12,
a stoop painted fire engine red,
a ripped bin bag spilling clothes onto the street ~
chiffon polka-dot blouse
one cork-heeled sandal
a pink and cream striped tail catches my eye
sticking out amidst soft toy torsos
I stop and lift it out
Bagpuss! Brand new with the tag still attached
I place him in the seat of Jake’s pram
furry striped body rattling
all the way home.

~

This is from my walk along the same stretch of road as yesterday, returning home after dropping Jake off at nursery.  I love that I can walk the same road every day and see something new each time.

26th January ~ a walk in stones

a nest with conifers hanging off it,
a whippet the colour of a yellow labrador,
a small boy clutching an amber recorder in one hand
and his mother's hand in the other,
a jogger in black, her red hair swinging in a pony tail,
an abandoned cup in someone's front garden
advertising Thirsty Fun,
a discarded packet of cigarettes
bearing the image of a diseased lung next to a healthy one,
the smell of soup mingled with fried onions,
the chatter of magpies
~

What I saw on one stretch of road, walking home from dropping Jake off at nursery this morning.  Everything I see seems so connected, I'm having trouble separating them and picking just one.

26th January ~ a snippet from the other day (150 word diary)

Lunch at Tokyo Diner
Jake tries edamame and likes it
He takes a pair of unseparated chopsticks
and pokes at the compartments of my bento box
stirring the seaweed, turning over the salmon sashimi
He points at it - “Jake want try this”

I slice a bit off, dip it in soy sauce, offer it to him
He looks at it
“Do you want some?”
He shakes his head, then nods.
I offer it to him again

This time he opens his mouth
chews chews chews then
makes a face as he swallows

I imagine the feel of the fish on his tongue
“Don’t like it” he whimpers, pointing to his water bottle
I hand it to him and he grabs and guzzles

I’m just proud of him for trying
I never would have tried sashimi at his age
I wasn’t even brave enough to try it in my 20s

25th January ~ At the Museum of Childhood: 100 word diary made of stones

A child in tomato red jumper
lies down in front of the crisps and screams

Tiny-legged Alice in a blue dress
escapes from her flustered grandmother
ordering macchiato in the café queue

Bigger children
wearing fluorescent vests
choo-choo around the model rail display
edging Jake out of the way

Strawberry Shortcake still in her box
takes me to the car park at Toys R Us
Long Island
a bright cold day

Drawing an American Teddy Bear
from 1904
the bear’s torso shakes
as children stomp by

(Later...)

At the Bethnal Green Gallery Café
two labels beneath paintings
Grief, £150
Joy, Not for Sale

January 24th ~ 160 word diary made of stones

gifts wrapped in deep blue paper

a mug thrown by a friend
shiny deep blue glaze
creamy speckled inside
ripples on the base
and her name stamp

a perfectly sized copy of
The Hare with Amber Eyes

~
another gift in a tiny brown envelope

flat teardrop pendant
creamy smooth surface
crackled cream glaze
with a red stripe through it

~
Oscar the neighbourhood cat
scratches his paws on a silver birch
standing on his hind legs
his black and white belly exposed

Later,
Oscar jumps on to a low wall
to bump his head against
our shoulders and outstretched hands

~
The dentist’s receptionist
sings me Happy Birthday

~
People I hardly ever see
leave me messages
on a virtual wall

~
My son tenses his legs straight
and goes on to his tiptoes
as he hunches over
his arms around me
trying to hold in his poo

~
I sniff the plaster on my finger
it doesn’t smell good
but I can’t stop sniffing

23rd January ~ 100 word diary made of stones

The windows are being taken out
from our ex-neighbours’ flat

~
After Paul leaves, Jake clings
to my neck, my leg
asking “Where’s Daddy, want kiss him”
dragging Paul’s brown jumper in circles
pointing to his blue work shirt
going to the window and looking out
his hair pressed against the
white cloth blind

~
slicing carrots
the knife slips
blood runs from a gash
there is no pain

until later

~
silence
typing with one finger padded in a washproof plaster
a cup of tea
the dry rise of heat from the radiator
faint and constant outbreath
from a thin metallic hollow

22nd January ~ a stone for the river

washing my hair with Johnson's baby shampoo
the smell of childhood fills the shower

~

Later, Jake watches kittens dancing on youtube 
They dance to children singing
I’ve got the joy joy joy joy joy down in my heart (miaow)

Down in my heart (miaow)
Down in my heart (miaow)
I’ve got the joy joy joy joy joy down in my heart (miaow)
Down in my heart to stay

It becomes our unintended anthem for the rest of the day
escaping our lips in whistles
sung quietly while washing up and
filtering into my mind during the relaxation
at the end of yoga

22nd January ~ 100 word diary

What I've eaten today: two slices of toast, one with marmite, one with marmalade. A granola bar. A mini-bap with Quorn ham and butter. Carrot sticks with hummus. Some clementine segments. For dinner I will be making butter bean puree with spring greens which will be eaten with fresh crusty bread. And tomorrow, taco shells filled with Mexican spiced veggie mince, chopped baby plum tomatoes, shredded iceberg lettuce and homemade guacamole. I focus on food as an anchor, like we focus on the breath in yoga, and in life, when I need to catch myself from falling through this moment.

21st January ~ shadows (a stone for the river)

shadows in the folds of the silver beanbag

Things I saw this week

21st January ~ 100 word diary

Today I’m aware of wanting to get things over with. Writing my list of seen things as if it was a chore rather than something I chose to do, something to keep my eyes and senses open. Instead, a longing to clear a space, sweep my way through the day like a floor full of mess so I can have somewhere to sit. Except it’s the book I want to clear a space to. My notebook for the Fiction Project. Now that it’s begun, properly begun, I don’t want to put it down. A longing as physical as needing sleep.

20th January ~ 100 word diary

Yesterday I bought a jar of Rose’s lemon & lime marmalade. I loved the jar and the colour of the marmalade and I’d never seen it before. I happened to mention it to my friend M on our walk through the marshes and she said, “Rose’s lemon & lime marmalade! We used to eat it at the hotel for elevenses. If it was warm, all the staff would sit outside and eat the cold leftover toast from breakfast with Rose’s lemon & lime marmalade.” Who knew a whim for a jar of marmalade would lead to such a wonderful story.

January 20th ~ a stone

An observation from this morning.  A painful one.
~
what happens when you're an angry mother

Jake makes a missile of his plastic syringe, throwing it at me from the top of the stairs. I look up and see. His face full of hurt. Something inside me says, let him be, enough yelling. But an old voice, familiar and strong, shouts in two voices. “That’s it, no more syringes for you!” (out loud) and “you have to teach him a lesson” (inside my head). And though I stomp up the stairs and throw the syringe in the sink, I feel small for being the person I hate. Jake watches me and puts his fingers in his mouth. His face sets in determination. He does not want to do as I say. For a moment, I want to make him, knowing I can make him. Then I look at him with the tiny scratch on his forehead and see in his eyes how I tower over him with my angry face. I feel punched by shame and drop down to my knees. I want to climb into him, making his face my face, his determination my determination. Make my shame her shame. Wishing I’d had the power to turn off her angry face. I say sorry to my son and we hug. I kiss the scratch on his forehead. He says, “I sorry shouting too Mummy.” I hold him close. “You have nothing to be sorry for Jake. Nothing. This isn’t your fault.” But he says sorry again. And I cry, wondering what has been done.

~

Damn this hurts.

26n ~ response to prompt 2 (on overused words)

This is a response to this prompt, posted by Na on 26n.

~
I went out last Friday night. Even though I no longer commute, when I get on the tube, I still pull on my Londoner-armour. I rarely go out on a Friday or Saturday night. Rarely did even before I became a stay-at-home mum. I have a fear that I will be accosted or worse by a loud drunk person or persons. So I was in full wariness. And I was very tired. When I’m tired, I can be a judgemental ogre, especially if I’m around a lot of strangers. I don’t know why, but I look at people and my meanie reflex kicks in.

A couple got on at Holborn and I was instantly annoyed by them. Mainly because they were talking so loudly about their holiday in Mauritius that it felt like they wanted to be heard by as many people as possible. Then I labelled the man posh (because of his shirt and his accent) and ugly (because of his large mouth and teeth). When the woman turned around, all I could see was her huge nose. I couldn’t stop this thought: Oh my god, between his teeth and her nose how do they ever manage a snog?

At King’s Cross, three people got on. A woman and her parents. They were well-dressed and this label came out - respectable middle class, maybe church goers, a bit stiff. The woman sat between her mother and her father and I thought, poor thing hasn’t inherited either of her parents’ attractiveness. Her chin stuck out and her face seemed over-padded, making her features seem indistinct. She also had a fleshy bump on her chin which reminded me of a cartoon witch’s boil. And pale eyelashes.

But I found myself being absorbed by them. I looked from the woman to her mother and noticed that her mother had the same fleshy bump but to the side of her nose. And that the woman had her mother’s eyes. I’d thought her mother was more attractive but maybe it was because she’d taken a lot of care in her appearance. She wore makeup and looked well-to-do. And then I looked at her father and saw that she also had her father’s eyes. He looked more mellow than I’d first thought and quietly jolly. His eyes seemed to smile for no particular reason. The more I looked, the more I could see features of both her parents (whose faces were more chiselled and distinct than hers) blended on her face. And the more I looked, the more vivid she seemed to become.

Then I noticed how she spoke with her mother. They had been speaking for some time and not only were they calm, they looked at each other while they spoke. They seemed to treat each other as equals, with no animosity, hostility or misunderstanding between them. They smiled often. It was obvious they had a lot of affection for each other. And while she spoke to her mother, her father took her arm and slipped it around his, and he started to stroke her hand as he studied the adverts above my head. Once, he looked down, caught my eye and smiled at me. I felt caught out so I looked away and didn’t smile back and then regretted it. He continued to stroke his daughter’s hand and when I looked at her again, I started to see things I hadn’t seen before. The glow to her cheeks. A quality behind her eyes, more than warmth, something like blossoming. And a sense of something to her, something strong. Confidence, self-assurance? I noticed that the buttons on her coat said Betty Jackson. I imagined a high-flying career for her.

Then I thought about my parents. How hard it would be for me to have a conversation like that with my mother. And how alien it would feel for my father to sit stroking my hand while sitting on a train. It was normal to her. She barely seemed to notice it. Just before I got off the tube, I looked at her again and saw it. How beautiful she was. Because she was so clearly loved. It made me feel ashamed, to have thought of her as unattractive. And sad because she had something I didn’t. When her father noticed my bag and turned to ask her, “Have you ever been to Cordoba?” and they looked at me with my bag from my last holiday as if I was a portal to the place itself, I felt too visible. I wanted to get up and walk away before they started smiling and being kind and asking me questions, when I had been mean and judgemental. I didn’t want them to look at me or see me. So I got up and walked to the door, my aloof and distant Londoner-armour in tact.

~

Thoughts about the prompt & the writing I posted

I think there are two parts to this. One concerns the overuse of certain words in society at any given time. For example, amazing is far too popular a word at the moment. Gorgeous is another. And thing. And then, individuals will have their own overused words and phrases. I think overuse of certain words is inevitable. Like trends, they come and go. Words will have their peak and then people will grow tired of them or discover a new word and start saying that instead.

It seems that to not overuse words, you would have to maintain a constant and focussed sense of awareness – not only about what you say, but also what the word you say is connected to and what it means to you. I suspect most of us couldn’t cope what that level of awareness. We have routines, chores to complete, work to do, commutes to get through, people and things to take care of, meaning we need to get across as quickly and efficiently as possible. We get tired, confused, angry, emotional, fed up. We forget. What comes out is habit. Every now and then, we get a moment that lifts us out of that cycle. And maybe that moment will bring us to awareness. But so many things could be occupying us, and many of them are perhaps wordless.

So it’s not so much the words we use but how we relate to them. Whether we really see or hear them anymore. And why.

When I read this prompt I knew what I wanted to write about. However, rather than not using the word and trying to find a replacement that was fresh, I wanted to write about a moment that made me look closely and which made the word (beautiful) suddenly meaningful to me. In this case, it was the act of really looking and seeing that led me to the word, so that by the time it came to me, it did not feel flat or trite, but simply truthful.

This is long!!  And I nearly didn't post it cos it exposes things about me I don't really like.  So if you've gotten this far, thank you.

19th January ~ a stone for the river

Jake’s small hands
release Penguin’s neck
hovering and conducting
the air
a song I almost hear

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.