The Moon that got me home again

A mirror of the future fell over me today- a one am taxi'd waited for too long, rode off with me as it turned and returned down the hill a tarnished golden pregnant moon minted long aeons past benignly watched our voyage. It banished impatience and the pacing wait within in my need to escape, the parchment moon hung in the taxi's windscreen as it returned with me down my steep slope down to the valley and the road into the city. I felt fey with all the uncounted dangers and pleasant strangers I passed and might met once I walked along beside them on the streets of weekend wonders. Only half way along the street was abrupt with violence the half crazed with pain and stimulants were forced to the ground, by the deft and offensively defensive men in blue who threw them to ground. Sirens blazed to the vicinity of the nights rupture of empty men's pain, and from all directions men and policewomen appeared as if they had risen from chip wrapped strewn pavements. At least there not after me I consoled myself, though I considered getting another taxi home.
I bypassed them criss crossing the road I found a penny, the panic of the violence the roars of hate, I left behind and walked on to what ever destination the night had gifted me. I found myself at a watering hole, no original thought had taken me there, but only the memory of my feet that seemed to led me nowhere else, I found myself there as if past and now and those seconds after had already collided and my final destination was what it always was. A side door to a club, where once I had danced, tossed beers down my throat, where smiles and hopes of love still lingered on the dancefloor.
But I see now that the past had always muisguided me I stood alone plasticwrapped in sound, and as I stood and drank the beer, wondering were they always so beautiful in here? But in that now-ness as I reached for a fallen fifty pee I smiled as I remembered the insanities of dance I had gyrated. I stretched up as if the beauty had not lost my face and now no longer would, tendrils of the future held me tall and I was blind, disguised me from myself and as I finished my drink I saw the ghosts of me I had shed long before, still dancing, nimbly, caught in masscara eyes and lips to touch. I did not linger and left my ghosts play as I walked back out into the orange cobbled streets.
The future pushed me up the crowded rowdy streets to the bus that would take me home, the ghosts of now, the shoes of my past sauntered along the teeming streets as if unwilling to be rid of me so soon. The future met me with the bus drivers smile. I looked down from the top deck and I heard the ghosts blessing me with goodbye, and river of colour and freshness danced long limbed and lithe found the shoes that the past had made me leave behind, put the tight about their bare feet and dance as if a solambulater would dance. And left me dreaming all the way to morning.

St Swithan's Day and swithering

Will be St Swithan's Day the morn according a calender. I hope he has good one. All the work on the kitchen and bathroom is completed. I read two chapters of a novel I'm writing and denounced writing in all it's forms, especially mine. Then in the dusklight I wrote the end of a story. The rain is relentless, yet bold Eva is once more out. Soon tomorrow will become. My daughter is back from Tunisia and she will be seeing me soon. She's playing football this week. Have a happy St Swithan's Day in blogland and beyond.

...like a book

He took down the slim-line tale of hearts
half-patched plastic,
bent edges to mark pages
caught by coffee stains
and dots and dashes of unknown origins-
like misprints on the page
they trick the eye making sense of them,
drawing away attention away, away from
the beautiful words,
that he restored every five years.
he took down the book, on dreams, of light
and night, on awakening, a being loved.
He took down the book that night, gave it
a new jacket and ironed each page and tried his
best to clean it, and as he worked along
the words many eyes had wandered.
At morning he took the book to its shelf, he'd miss it,
five more years, but, joy tonight, he'd dream her bonny face
by his, she who could read him like a book.
A pristine volume
and always worth a look.

The day that my new bath arrived

As Ariel said in The Tempest: 'Hell is empty and all the devils are here,' and yes, they turned up at about eight this morning and are stamping about, battering hammers, drilling, sanding and swearing in a Dundonian twang. I am in the eye of the storm today, calm and tranquil as opposed to the raging psychopath I was on Wednesday. The cats are in hiding and probably will be for a while. Last night my neighbours called from Spain to find out if I'd given the gaffer their keys, this I affirmed and Ian asked me if I wanted anything from Spain. I had to think quickly. The deeds to villa on the coast? Mmm. A guitar? No, I'd have to get lessons Some Spanish fly? No, but maybe a Spanish butterfly. A tee shirt, I said, would be nice. Life seems to be on a bit of an upward slide, I'm loving my neighbours, my Father is better than he has been for years on a cranberry and stew diet and Debbie the Dentist fussed over my teeth for over an hour. However I still have not had a shower.

New Expectations

Now i am here, the thought headed me forward, the now of flesh and spirit and from the inner spaces of imagination a rumour of God whispers and gradually I step from that recognised route, that safe way, star shod over a rocky stream along single track roads trekking toward a horizon that reveals nothing I ever expected. Now though with a few more moments to dawn, when birdcalls break in through the double glazed windows and the swaggering sun steals in through clouds and burns indecision away, the night seems perpetually about me still loaded with yesterday waiting to filled with today. Contracters will be fitting a new bathroom and kitchen in my lowly Council dwelling, so by early July I will be able to have a shower for the first time in ten years. A story I wrote quite some time ago will be publish in a week or so and on Tuesday I will go to an Audition to get on a acting course. I hope I get on it, find a bit part in a new reality, recall all dreams that has led me to this future. I feel I forgot anticipation, excitement and I yearn to find it, find the childlike soul that is not suprised when new expectations greet me as the world slowly turns.

After Edinburgh

Now home, awake at three- I find the need the write becomes overwhelming, my fingers itching to stroke the keys. Had my first holiday this year. Haven't been to great since I fired my psychologist, so it was good to get away and open my horizon's somewhat, see segments of reality that I forgot or choose to ignore, revealing other personalities that are always there whispering as they slowly wake and take the pen from my hand and add their voice to the pages of my Journal. Now though I am home and the hum of the hard drive seems to chew at my memory, so that the thoughts and the half thought out phrases my memory uses to explain dream images, day dreams wandering down Leith Walk, are coincidences caught out place. Perhaps I passed myself that day and didn't give myself a second glance. The old cat was out all the time I was away and now she makes sure I stay put, follows me from room to room as if trying to guess my next move. I will try not suprise her too much.. I know now that the power to act to be, to change, is now, this moment, this present and that forgiveness is here too. I pick up this moment, a diamond on a long stretch of sand. I leave no footprint as if I am the air itself the sun and the sand the diamond calls me too walk unfettered down a new path through the lands of Summer.

Blogging to Banchory

Unlike the effortless recluse I am today I was consumed with excitement as I was setting off on a bus journey to Banchory. I dressed in my best funereal black and down the hill I went passed the stragglers going to Primary School. The 201 came along and so I set of on my journey to the west, breathing in the air of freedom-i left behind the dirt and dishes and the cats and the computer- and feel so light, dare I say it happy.

Now we are near Crathes with it's long, seemingly life long road up to the Castle. I recall last autumn a group of us kicked through the snowdrifts and mini-Murdo's of leaves on our even longer road through the woods up to the Castle.

The bus is speeding nauseatingly fast, the River Dee unseen today, but only a few fields of grass away. Yellow and black railway engines sit idly at the start of a couple of miles of freshly laid tracks, that will reach Banchory sometime soon some say. The bus has paused, there is a deep redness on the trees at the side of the road, for a while it seems almost autumn, but the next stop reveals a sandpit of a new housing estate. Now a deep corner and we slide down a soft slope through the rain towards the Town Centre, I could almost taste the coffee and bacon roll, I would eat before taking on the Charity Shops. Found a new bookshop, empty, but for the owner, she said they'd been open two and a half years. A shelf of poetry books, for some reason I was disapointed there were no Sylvia Plath books. Perhaps I would return, on another day finding freedom, I thought as I left empty handed.

If it wasn't raining I could go for a walk to a bridge over the Feugh where the salmon jump and take some pictures, but pangs of homesickness arose as the rain intensified and I didn't have to wait long at the bus stop.

Now I am returning, down toward the river, home and I am glad.