Waiting

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Waiting, it’s like watching paint dry.

The time goes on and the paint shrinks slightly, maybe wrinkles as the water evaporates.

I’m sitting with my phone waiting for a call, hoping that it will ring soon….

Still waiting, another hour gone.

Still waiting, the paint is half dried, now it’s tacky…

Oh what can I do while I’m waiting? I can’t go out, because I need to be here when it happens. I will ring the number….

Oh no! No answer! Are they on their way? Not answering because they are driving? Where are they coming from. Is there traffic? Are there traffic jams?

Waiting…. Time trickles through the hourglass faster and slower. The paint is almost dry. The fine grain of the brush strokes smoothing out.

A call! We are on our way, but, (there is always a ‘but’) there is a major accident….. On the motorway….. Grid lock….. Have to change our eta…. Etc….

The paint is cracking and peeling…. They never arrived. Now I’m waiting again for someone new 😕

Remembering Mothers

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It’s mother’s day here on 31st of March but I won’t be celebrating it as both my mom and mother in law passed away a few years ago.

What I do have is these two paintings of them to remember them by.

They both had their troubles and difficulties but they were both strong women and I loved them both.

Instead of going to a mothers day lunch or tea I’m going to a theatrical event called Titchy theatre.

I’ve written a couple of small conversations for two or three voices and the people running the theatre event will be reading them out. The Titchy theatre started at Penkhull Mysteries but is expanding to two performances a year. People were asked to write something for the performance. If you are free on Sunday the 31st and want to come up to Penkhull Village Hall please do. Please get there for 2.30pm. The show starts at 3pm. Spaces are limited.

Spelling?

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Can you spot the mistake? It’s funny how the brain works – writing the word “buidling” instead of “building” is just an example. Apparently if you have all the right letters and the correct first and last letter of the word, your brain can unscramble it. For instance if I write :

The qcuik bowrn fox jmpus oevr the lzay dog?

You should still be able to read it.

Spelling only became regularised when the dictionary arrived. Once the spelling of words was written down with a definition the spelling was more fixed. But spelling is still quite phonetic, based on sound sometimes. For, four, fore all sound the same but have different spellings and meanings.

The example above is more likely to have occurred because of a computer mistake when the author or designer did not proof read the art work.

I guess I make a lot of mistakes too. I do rely on spellchecker but even that gets it wrong sometimes.

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No Time

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Time is running far too fast for me. I’m so busy doing something that I’m tired and I’m getting worn out. That’s why I haven’t been here much over the last few days..

Anyway  I will try and catch up over the weekend. I enjoy writing and would miss it if I didn’t blog or write poems.

My Instagram and Facebook pages are also being neglected but I can’t help that. I will try and post more later when I’ve recovered a bit.

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Make me paint!

_20190310_022442 I need to paint. I’ve had a break, partly self enforced because I was busy and tired and lost my way in doing other things like blogging, plus it’s been winter and it’s too cold and dark. I was doing lots of things as hobbies too. But I’m nervous of spending too much of dwindling resources.  I’m scared of putting a toe back into the world of work. I want to be helping people as well as painting.

The cliff edge is looming and I want to take a step back. Writing here is allowing me to explore ideas and thoughts that I have never been able to do before. It’s all very gentle and kind and I’m afraid I’ve found a cosy space that allows my dreams, but perhaps I have to let go and try harder in the real world. I’m saying I’m an experimenting artist so I need to do that….. Give art a chance.

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Tranquil – from Sue Vincent’s weekly #writephoto prompt.

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Funny how the light shines in this glade she thought. The trees and the beach look pink and purple. It must be the weather. Then she looked up to where the sun should be, but the star she saw  was red, like the sun when you see it through thick clouds on the horizon. But this star was small and high up in the sky. She could tell it wasn’t her sun. You could actually look at it without being blinded.

She tried to remember how she had got here, what had happened to her? All she could think of was the lights in the sky the night before. Not meteors but green flashes, like falling fireworks. Yes, then something had lifted her up and everything had gone dark and silent….

Where am I? Where have I been brought to? she thought, this place is so peaceful, so quiet. Then she realised what was missing, birdsong, insects churring, the everyday sound of traffic… Wherever she was she knew now it was alien. It could not be Earth.

Written in response to Sue Vincent’s Thursday #writephoto prompt here

Calligraphy

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A couple of years ago I went to a calligraphy workshop. As well as doing English Calligraphy we also tried doing Arabic script (I don’t have much memory of it). I do remember we used sticks cut down to make a chiseled edge to write with. Then like children learning the alphabet we wrote each letter over and over again until we started getting the shapes right.

I enjoy drawing patterns so it was really interesting to see how this style of writing worked. The artist who taught us showed us some beautiful calligraphy. Unfortunately I did not take any photos of his work. Calligraphy is clearly an art in its own right. I would love to learn more.

Boarded up

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He woke up in darkness, the window he has climbed through last night was now boarded up. He was alone in the barn, but his hands were tied behind his back. He heard a quiet rustling in the straw. A squeak and he realised there were either rats or mice sharing the space with him…..

Everything had been quiet when he had crept into the barn about 8 o’clock the previous evening. He’d been setting up the camera when something or someone had hit him on the head.

What the hell do I do now? he thought. I’m stuck.

He glanced about and he saw something black in the corner, an old scythe? Yes stck under some sacking. It was so easy in mystery stories. Just rub against the blade and escape…. Two hours later he’d got through one strand of rope, his wrists were bruised and cut and he was sweating with the exertion of trying to escape. If he ever got out of here he would have words with his mates…

This was not how a stag party was meant to go!

Coffee and cream?

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Hot coffee with cream, a slice of black forest gateaux. She sat and stirred the cup, hearing the spoon tinkle against it.

Only an hour ago she had been running to catch the bus into town. She’d told Al that she was meeting a friend….

This isn’t a trashy romance story, she told herself. Just a meeting with an old friend. But she couldn’t help feeling excited. He’d sounded just the same on the phone as he had all those years ago at college.

The cake was delicious, but she only tasted it, she was too nervous to eat. Too many butterflies in her stomach, too much anticipation and anxiety.

Oh god, she thought. I’m too old for all this, what will I say? Should I put some more lipstick on? She was also thinking about Al. How could she tell him about this. No it would be her little secret.

It was half an hour later, he was 20 minutes late… He promised he would be there. She remembered a tall young man. Long hair, a leather jacket and jeans. Black doc marten shoes….. Where is he? She thought.

Just then the glass door opened. She saw a once tall man, now stooped over. A bald head, what hair that was left was grey and in a ponytail. A walking stick, a gold medallion.

She decided not to say hello. As he walked into the room she went to the counter to pay her bill. On the way out of the door she felt mixed guilt and grief. Had she done the right thing?

She looked in the window and caught her reflection. Her once slim body was wider now, her hair not just grey, but white. Oh well she thought. At least I have Al.. …