The tantalising Tarn turns to terrible thoughts

Leaving the snow-dusted valley behind, I begin to climb.

Mutli-coloured rocks protrude through a frosty coating;

their staccatoed presence offering steps for weary feet.

Fern corpses, reddening the banks of the path;

bowing down, as sorrowful as the combed hair of a bolding man.

Gushing foams of crashing water to the right;

thundering in to clear pools, creating chaos and delight.

Wolf-like sheep stare as I clamber to the top;

their black beady eyes bore through and beyond me.

The Tarn sumit offering a tranquil place to rest.

Sitting on a rock beside the frozen lake the chill of it all;

creeping within me twisting my heart like the 'Mirror of Reason'

All becomes ugly, distorted and misery sets in.

The waters wash over me as I sink beneath their icy waves;

Lost to the tantalising Tarn and my terrible thoughts.

 

 

Books

As a Happy Post-Christmas self-indulgant gift I bought myself a book. Stephen Fry's 'The Fry Chronicles' was purchased, really, as a much needed something more interesting than a rag to read as I waited for @gazcook to meet me in the increasingly vacumous of soul-sucking shopping centres in Blackburn, Lancashire. As a pawed through the first saccharine sodden pages, the swirling chaos of shoppers and coffee slurpers, about me, were silenced to a dull-throbbing hum. Joy. I had been swept away by another's life and felt that guilty greedy glow of pleasure at reading of Fry's flaws, fragility and gratuitous self annihilation.

  Part way through the book I noticed that the publishers, as with most autobiographies, had thought it of value to supplement Fry's words with images. Now, whilst I am a lover of a great image (illustrous images being a fundamental feature of my love for @gazcook - photojournalist and all-in-all photographic God) once I find a book contains them I become lost to an overwhelming urge to look through all the images instead of working chronologically towards them. So strong is my desire for the photographic imagery that I only managed to reach Chapter 3, page 67 before the dark internal calling engulfed me and I was leafing intoxicatingly through Fry's life in all its black and white, colour and waxy paper glory. On reaching the final page of images (notibly Fry in his glasses, as an almost handsome fellow) I was then hit with the rack of misery I always feel knowing that I had downed the lot in one hit. Silly me. Silly publishers.

  If only the temptation was removed. I could have wallowed, undisturbed, in the delight of Fry's delicious collection of words. Images, as I see it, are far better left to photographic books (like the 'flashes to ashes' documentary photography book @gazcook works to sell - images included below). Where leafing through a collection of images is encouraged - supplemented sometimes by a scattering of words. Or perhaps, in future autobiographies, all the images could be stored at the front so that my ugly craving can be suitably and immediately sated. I can then move gracefully on to the magic of the words with my mind lacing the memory of the seen images in to the tapestry of my imagination. Although in short, I should undo the worry and waste not a second more mumbling on and get back to C is for College......   

Anna Byrom

See and download the full gallery on posterous

Yanomamo: The Jaguar

via youtube.com

one for @cmb_dixon and @CharHarAgain the only one I could find.

Vodka - a tall tale.

This recording was taken over the festive period 2010. 

It's an alcohol induced tale of Vodka.

  
Download now or listen on posterous

Vodka_words_2010.amr (116 KB)

Being directionless, finding my life spiraling down a well-trodden path feels sickeningly slow.
A wieldy net harpoons my fast beating wings.
Occasional loosening of the fine ropes tantalises inner spirit.
Yet the quickening race of my heart,
the rapid flurry of feathers
the bright glare of widening pupils
are all in vain.

There is no escape.

The burning grip of reality shears at my face, deep through the skin
I find myself pinned down by some grappling hand of fate.

There is however, the lingering hope.
A secret imagining a captured glimmer of escape.
Yet not beyond the net, the cage
but within it
within me.

Utter unhappiness.

The sharp light of today exposes the intimate crevice of my heart,
Laces of frost harden the ground and tighten the chest.

The cracks and cries of the soul against the beat of a heavy heart.
Curdled ripples of feeling turned to a putrid poisonous taste.

Foul spattering voices pierce the sinews within my head.
A time to wrap up my body and turn to my bed.

A sickening, despicable day.

Shutters

A tense flick of the eye. Shutters up, ignite an inner image.
A story of the soul inside.
The delicate uncertainties,
haunting fears.

Bagging a bore

Gazcook, if you're reading, you've bagged yourself a bore.

Congratulations.

(this is unless, of course, you've moved on from your 2006 MySpace rant re: me,me,me)

Poe perfection

Sombre thoughts perpetuated perversley with Poe's A Raven.
Poe perfection on the eve of all Hallows.

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
`'Tis some visitor,' I muttered, `tapping at my chamber door -
Only this, and nothing more.'

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; - vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow - sorrow for the lost Lenore -
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore -
Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
`'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door -
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; -
This it is, and nothing more,'

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
`Sir,' said I, `or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you' - here I opened wide the door; -
Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, `Lenore!'
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, `Lenore!'
Merely this and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
`Surely,' said I, `surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore -
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; -
'Tis the wind and nothing more!'

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door -
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door -
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
`Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,' I said, `art sure no craven.
Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore -
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning - little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door -
Bird or beast above the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as `Nevermore.'

But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only,
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered - not a feather then he fluttered -
Till I scarcely more than muttered `Other friends have flown before -
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.'
Then the bird said, `Nevermore.'

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
`Doubtless,' said I, `what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore -
Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore
Of "Never-nevermore."'

But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore -
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking `Nevermore.'

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
`Wretch,' I cried, `thy God hath lent thee - by these angels he has sent thee
Respite - respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

`Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! -
Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted -
On this home by horror haunted - tell me truly, I implore -
Is there - is there balm in Gilead? - tell me - tell me, I implore!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

`Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us - by that God we both adore -
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels named Lenore -
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels named Lenore?'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

`Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!' I shrieked upstarting -
`Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! - quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted - nevermore!

dark night

A night spent steeped in lurid misery and dark inspid emotion. The burning grip of the hurt thickly fell in to a kleidoscope of night-dreams. Tortured images that stormed through my mind crushing any lingering glow. Like a body engulfed by the ravaged swirls of a torrent sea, stapled rythmically with the harsh beat of rain, I am lost to the grief. So as the late morning broke with the snuffles of a growing child I was unable to rise against the heaviness of myself. A self locked in to a metal cloak of despire.

The punctures of life becoming too much to bare.

Deep in indulgent, sickening-sorrow a sharp shard of sun sliced upon me, stirring me. A glimmering searching, reaching in to a part of my soul chanting an echoing call. The dance of light engaging, enraging. So up rising a hidden near-extinguished bud of belief swells within. The movement shattering the restrictive coat of grief. Sitting now, undressed, unkempt, I am forced to restore the perfect sanity of my mind.

the good stuff

coffee beans, Whalley nab, fresh herbs, baking, running fast, cotton-wool, wind-swept hair, taking risks, our boy's laughter, paddling, teaching, learning, loving, holding, feeling, saving money, Tennyson, tennis, lush grass, Sheena, ethnography, Spradley, Tuesdays with Morrie, Anne of Green Gables, The Red Tent, Valleys, imagination, smiling, walking to work, blossom trees, slumbering children, making dens, trying new things, hope, plum-jam, PB, achievement, cramming things in, remembering, mothering, making, creativity, Tom and Joan, language, meaning, understanding, English country-side, lovely knickers, brown hair, G's torso, reading children's books, humour, sad songs, cups of tea, talking, G's heart, thinking, sunny days, hard rain, neat diving, balancing, kissing, dancing, meeting new people, youth, taut muscles, climbing, exciting projects, lying in, waiting, anticipation, giving, seeing friends, creating memories.

What's in a name?

As I hurtled my way in to work, last week, somewhat flustered from the usual morning slog, I drew up to the new traffic lights (on red, of course) at the foot of the hill in to Preston. As I stopped I noticed a man looking to hitch a ride in to the city. In a flash of a moment I gave him the green light to get in. Without a moment to spare for greetings the traffic lights changed and we were off on our way, up the hill.

I have given rides to men before. Only in daylight, you understand. Giving lifts to hitchers became acceptable whilst I travelled alone, back-packing around the world. More specifically, it was my 3 month bout in New Zealand that really began to dissolve my entirely British resolve never to be truly helpful.

So now, if the sun is shining I help out. I give lifts to strangers waiting on the side of the road. So how does it go? Well, it goes well. You meet and chat, partake in a touch of small talk, smile, and then say your goodbyes.

The man I dropped off in Preston last week only needed a short ride. He was a lovely bloke. I learnt he was from South Shields, had babies in Belgium, and received care from Theo Walcott's mother Lynne. I learnt he believed in home-birth and breastfeeding. Oh, and as he left the car, and handed me a pen I learnt he transported Mercedes Benz around the country.

His parting words: "here you go, Pet. Perhaps one day you'll be driving one of these"

So to the Mercedes-driving man. Thanks for the company. The information. The chatter. If you ever happen to read this. It'd be great to know your name.

Tap-tastic

This is me, age 6, as my Ballerina-self.

My ambitions then, apart from wanting to climb trees, were to dance with Wayne Sleep (I did actually ask Jim to fix that for me) and to become the next Darcey Bussell.

Thanks to a neglectful Jim and the loss of Mrs Thurston (my beloved Dance teacher) to Spain, neither dreams were realised. All I have left to remind me of those childish aspirations is an attic full of trophies, medals, paper-clippings and dancing shoes. That was, however, until and old friend found me on Facebook and invited me along to one of her new adult dance classes, immediately triggering my long-forgotten passion for Ballet.

So it has been up to the loft, for me, to dust off my shoes (and my par de bourrée).

Perhaps Darcey retired just in time.

16 King St

This inconspicuous house. This plain, tiny terrace has been my home for the last eighteen months. This delightful dwelling has given my son and I a place to call our own. A place to feel safe and begin a new journey together. Number sixteen King Street, a little damp, a little small, a little cluttered, has been ours, entirely ours. It has heard our cries, felt our loneliness, held our laughter, known our joy and seen us thrive within it's walls.

Our little home brought us back to the village of my youth, close to my family and the greetings of friendly faces from my past. We have been nestled amongst the green luxury of nature and cloaked in loveliness of the familiar. I remember the first night we slept here. Remember lying in the dark, with my slumbering child beside me, feeling light with the glory of tranquility and excitement in anticipation for my future.

That future is before us, we are set to move next week. With each box I pack, I am aware that I am dismantling our home and I am filled with some sadness. Yet this home has given me strength, a new determination and a heart full of happiness. So whilst that most dreaded of calls, from my Landlady, made my heart sink at the thought of moving out and on, I know that it is time. Time to say goodbye to the house that became the home that rescued me.

I want no MTV

In January 2009 I moved to a house at the foot of a hill. The wee Nab in Whalley, not all that grand, is large enough to prevent any kind of decent terrestrial television signal from reaching the redundant arial that awaits patiently to no avail. No signal means no T.V. (when you despise Sky as vehemently as I). Thus my television set is left to join an ever growing list of superfluous items that litter my home.

So alarmed were those around me to learn of my loss that I was soon inundated with offers of solutions including; new sets with built in digi box, new arial leads and other various electrical equipment. The clutter of electrical redundancies in the corner of my living room, if not ridiculous, would actually make me laugh. Luckily for me, and more importantly for my four year old son, we have the internet - and the internet has BBC iplayer. So you could say we aren't living entirely without telly.

How has it been living without a myriad of channels to trawl through? Have we missed the range, the options, the currency? Frankly, no. There are times when I have missed the ability to follow the Tennis, or the mind-numbing relief of watching something mind-numbing following a stressful day. Yet, overall it has been blissful. My house is peaceful, beyond the calls and plights of my four year old son and the occasional bouts of maternal rath.

Without T.V. we can chat, we can think, we read, we play and if our desire to watch something overwhelms us we sit together and feed our dark craving suitably with iplayer.

My little house and I have missed the passing of the digital era but we have not missed T.V. Unfortunately we are set to move this month. A move that will return us back to the world of telly. I only hope we'll survive the transition.

Watch this space.

Clear skies

For the most part, I am a positive, excitable, idealist. Seeing the good in things, people, or situations comes naturally to me. Imagine then, how baffled I am to find myself privy to a web of negativity and upset. So fraught I am with worry and anxiety about this new-found approach to living that I am set to make a change.

Luckily for me I have been working on writing an article, for an academic journal, on the concept of 'risk magnification' in midwifery. Whilst reading an enthralling commentary By Dahlen (2010) on fear and trust in childbirth, I happened upon this most brilliant of timely found quotes:

'our anxiety does not empty tomorrow of its sorrow, but only empties today of it's strength'

Not normally a sucker for this approach to bettering myself I have, for the sake of utilitarian happiness, relented and sucked it up. This will now resound as my mantra for the coming hours, days, weeks until I shake myself free from my negativity and rejoin the bubbly world of optimism and delight. I wish to see hazard only in those storm clouds where it exists and live life more fully in the clear skies between them.

For those cynics amongst you, repeat after me: "philosophical bullshit is good for you", Amen.

Motherhood reignited my passion for baking.

As Seamus slept in those first hazy weeks of his life, I, being riddled with post-birth lunacy, filled that precious time making luxurious patisseries. The frenzy of cake-making was such that I had to start giving them away to all welcoming, yet increasingly puzzled, neighbours (it was that or become victim to a cake-a-day habit). It has always baffled me when reflecting on those initial heady months how I managed to squeeze in so much home-making activity in amongst the frantic baby-club drop ins and almost constant breastfeeding activity. But I did. Why, I scream to myself now? Why did you not sleep, every moment Seamus sent? I certainly remember day dreaming of sleep during his wakeful moments but could never muster even a split second of shut eye when he finally shut his. So I filled the time baking cakes. I make excellent cakes, being the Granddaughter of a genuine home-baked bread and cakes Baker.

However, as Seamus has grown my time to perfect my cakes has shriveled. It was initially replaced by my sons incessant need to be carried, then by inordinate amounts of floor play, moving on to bike rides, scooter rides, days out and reading books (not to mention the move back in to part-time paid work and then full-time paid work). More recently Seamus has become the Baker and now my cakes look as above (neatly made by my boy tonight). So as you see gourmet chocolate ganache has been replaced by vile saccharine icing and hundreds and thousands of teeth rotters.

But witnessing the smile (that is left - post this over-sugared treat) is worth it.

Today has savaged me.
I have been:
rejected in love,
humiliated at work,
and stranded in the wilderness.

I wept in public today.

Today has been one of those insufferably mediocre days. The kind of day that promised great things: dazzling weather, family outings and work free loveliness, but fell victim to the reality of my negative emotions. Thick, energy sapping feelings that worked to pervade the wonder of the day and crush a little more of my heart's tenuous links to my life and happiness.

Unusually organised I had woken early to the sound of my alarm orchestrated by merry bird-song dancing through the open window. The impossible heat had evoked a restless night and left me clammy. I heaved my sticky body up and thudded into the bathroom. A brief glare in to the mirror offered a momentary glimpse of my puffy face. Disgusted I sat on the cooling rim of the toilet and relieved my bursting bladder.

Without time to ponder too long, I got up and on with the tasks of putting bins out, washing on, hanging washing to dry, morning ramble with kind neighbour, nettle stings from overgrown back street, washing hair, applying my face, de-hairing my body, feeding my child, and generally performing the dance all mothers know as the 'morning slog'.

Garry and Teddy arrived mid-child feeding/pot washing/hair drying. Their arrival gave flight to the first abrogating sensibility of the day - anxiety. Tense, teasing anxiety. Such a desperate character flaw. How could the arrival of my partner, and his boy, evoke such annulling feelings? A state that left me teetering on the cliff edge of disaster throughout the enitre day. The Christening service, the cycle-ride and outdoor picnic at Sheena's were destroyed by my inability to put a lid on it.

It was like an internal waltz with the recusancy of stress, worry, and self-loathing. The fevered chants of anxiety that whirred through my mind gave voice to my short-temper and terrible behaviour. The culmination of this most distatrous of days was in the moment I uttered words to Garry signalling the end of our electric affair.

So now, in the end, I am flooded with deep crushing sorrow and wretched despair at my stupidity. For hurting the man I love with every bit of me. A man I have lost through my lack of reason, sense and a neo-cortex. I am now flowing down the river of regret with no hope of land. Drowning in grief is an apporpriate end for an emotion swamped girl like me.

Stalin vs Hitler

AB = Stalin*
GC = Hitler*

(perhaps we better shake off our respective Communist and Fascist views and put an end to our World War 3?)

*this blog is not in support of these dictators

Parental correction

So here's the deal. Dad read my heart-wrenching blog about him and put in a few, minor requests.

No. 1 - he asked me to correct his birth year from 1957 to 1956. Embarrassment felt at not knowing this fact and disappointment at losing the claim that my dad was born the year 12 Angry Men was released, are dwarfed by respect for Dads honesty at labeling himself an older man.

So, for clarification, the year dad was born saw Elvis make his first TV appearance, Yul Brynner win an oscar for his performance in the 'King and I', and the Soviets invaded Hungary to squash an anti-communist revolution. Lovely. It's all about Rock & Roll and Russia.

No. 2 - my dad was only 9 when his father passed away

No. 3 - Nana would bridge the holes in my dad's school shoes with Weetabix box cardboard.

It took my father at least 30 minutes to read the original blog. Mostly because he has a degenerative eye disorder that renders him virtually blind but partly because his tears blurred his view.

God Bless PB.

My Fella - the right wing liberalist

Politics is becoming a popular topic of heated debate between my boyfriend and I. It is not alarming that we have debates about politics, or that they are hot and infuriating. What fills me with increasing despair is how frighteningly right-wing he is. In an attempt to apply a salutogenic approach to the situation, I want to indulge in battle and attempt a political transplant mission. It is thrilling to imagine a reformed man. It is a little like the hushed hope for National political reform. Yet I am hoping for more than a Con-Dem-ing liberal-right wing reformation. He already proclaims to be just that - a liberal right-winger (with a somewhat huge tongue in his cheek).

It'll be worth mentioning here that I am not after much from G. I don't expect him to start some voluntary organisation to care for the infirm, though that'd be lovely. I would just like to urge him to see how fantastically lucky we have been to live in a country with such a wonderfully whopping social state. I am also fairly keen for him place some of his negative experiences with the NHS into context. How many people around the world get access to free health care? How many get sick and get seen? How many die from lack of good care? In our country, our NHS provides a sterling service. Yes, warranted, to get seen for chronic conditions may involve a wait. However this is often so we can be seen immediately if we're about to die.

I am not denying that, like every other service, the NHS can't get better or is immune from piss-poor performance but what I am arguing is that the NHS, as a philosophical concept and practical reality, is bloody brilliant. To consider an alternative we only have to breeze across the Atlantic Ocean. American health care can be explored here, via the somewhat polemic, but refreshingly illuminating Michael Moore Docu SICKO:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a7pCaK0aASE

I suppose my polarity stems from my personal experience of the NHS both as an employee and a patient. I have worked and been cared for in ten different NHS Trusts across the United Kingdom and have built up vast understanding of how the NHS functions and cares for people. Without doubt, on the whole, the care provision and service has been excellent (with only small splatterings of difficulty and frustration).

My love of our NHS took flight following my working trip to Ludhiana, The Punjab, India. There I worked in a University City Hospital and witnessed first-hand the trauma of inequalities in healthcare. I actually saw a man with 80% burns being turned away from accident and emergency because he couldn't pay for treatment. I saw the harsh reality of slum life and the effects of no-health-care.

When I think of the cost-benefit analysis related to the NHS. What we put in and what we take out. It is easy to see it's value. In my life time alone, I have had:

c/section - cost - £12,000
salpingectomy - cost - £8,000

Plus a whole array of free vitamins, pregnancy care, scans, GP appointments, hospital appointments and blood tests.

Considering that one blood test costs the NHS £26, I feel I have had my values worth. Garry on the other hand has had way more:

knee op, ear op, nose op, throat op, and a c/section (well his ex, to meet his son). Garry is the most ill person I have ever met and, since I have known him, he has had more GP/Hospital/clinic visits than I have had in my life time. Yet he is one of the biggest moaners around. His complaints are as follows:

1. waiting times are terrible
2. staff can be rude (e.g. the reception staff at the physio clinic)
3. The physio's haven't helped his knee problem

Garry considers himself lucky to be alive!!!!
Well G if you lived in another country, without an NHS then perhaps you wouldn't be. If you lived in America you'd certainly be very poor.

So do I think Gaz can start to love my beloved NHS. No, not really. This battle is likely to rage for a life-time.

We travel along the silvery wet road. Waves crashing to the West throw light sprays of sea upon us. I taste the bitter water on my lips and inhale the scent of the ocean as we ride. Spruces of rough green grass startles the eye amongst the soft-sand, rippling dunes that trace the line of our route. Wind tears through it's blades pushing them forward, a direction urging us on up the endless road. Your hand touches my bare leg; a light coldness reflecting the beauty about us. The sensation burns deep beyond the fleshy boundaries of my skin. Through taut muscles into the rivers of blood that sustain me. I catch my breath as rain pounds down upon us and my bloody streams reach my heart making it beat with love for you.

Waiting for G

I am sat in my bed, my hair in a plait, listening to the whirr of my heating. The candle flame dancing on the drawers casts a flickering light across the wall and enhances my anticipation. Waiting for G to arrive is like waiting for the bath to fill. It is filled with longing. Longing to feel his warmth around me; the prospect of his loveliness exciting. Waiting to sink beneath the waves of his love, with the scent of him all about, only serves to heighten my sensitivity to the cold air of my room. I nestle further under the bed-covers and finish out my wait. Like the filling bath G always takes too long.

actions speak louder than words

On Monday the 8th of Feburary 2010 Garry Cook reminded me why I love him so much by stating, on twitter, that "actions speak louder than words" (see here -http://twitter.com/gazcook). An important point, perfect in fact for use to obliterate my blog written on Wednesday 25th November 2009 entitled 'words are everything'.

However, he must concede that he needed words to make that point. But then words can not be written without action. Words themselves could be actions. A muddy dichotomy.

The end.

Death of an Orchid

Steam billows about me licking my arms.
My pores strain to drink invisible drops.

Bottles surrounding me restrict my place.
My petals shed in to a brown bag of bits.

Icy panes frame me with frost at my back.
Nature begins to claim all that I have.

From the tips of my bloom I start to fade.
Slowly death works making crooked my spine.

Left without plume, naked, shriveled and bare.
Wasted from the lack of good care.

My dried roots held up like arthritic claws
Leaves limp left longing for life.

My decaying beauty, lingering sadness.
No water for tears within me.

Anniversary

With the eve of the day before us, we set out. Our work complete and yet on the cusp of beginning. The memories of a year gone by; behind us but within us, defining the fabric of our love. Almost overwhelmed with the silence between us we push on embracing the prospect of walking up, forcefully up, to Cracoe Monument.

The route unknown to us; a path to negotiate, explore. A mirror of our own journey into being and continuing. A welcomed challenge. Every step we take is deliberate and uncertain. Seeking exertion together. The vast soft billowing-blue hue of the sky above us, hard ice-crisped ground beneath us, an earthy climb before us.

The song of your voice the perfect melody to the awkward harmony of the pheasant calls and mild wind blowing. The sight of you soothing relief for the painful climb. My chest rises and falls, rises and falls, breath in, in and out. Getting deeper and heavier as we climb.

We break away from each other as we draw near to the top. Our desire now to reach the summit greater than our longing for each other. I only hear my breath and the breaking bracken beneath my feet. We choose different paths. I watch as you reach Cracoe before me and for a fleeting, sickening second I am lost to fear. Fear that you are gone, that we are lost to the wild, swirling chaos of our lives.

Then I see you, from a moment of humour; humour that closes it's colourful fist around my dark fear, pushing it away. Happiness swells from me and forces me on to you. I encircle the stone to reach you, past the blood-red poppies, over the irregular rock, I touch the cold smooth surface of the monument as I work my way to you.

In your arms I rest back, back to your front. Warm clouds of your breath fall softly, like quiet promises, about me and I glow. We survey the beauty before us; a glorious reward for our work. The amber of the falling sun resting heavy on the horizon sinking away like a forgotten love. The last of the light weaving through wisps of mist reaching out to us, bathing us gently as we stand and gaze. The intoxicating hormones of our achievement make me giddy with delight. I feel alive and en-spirited. I want you right there. My need for you exploding out into the dusky air.

We dance on over stiles, weathered rocks and through frost-bitten heather. In nature's secret place I open my body to you as my fingers trace the rough contours of the earth. I hear my cries rise up and float off on the breeze of the night. Soaring high toward the setting sun. I feel you within me and smile. A smile that carries me playfully down. Skipping, running, recklessly galloping down the heathered-hill. Back to where we set out, where we began.

The rythmic beat of your steps throbbing in my ears, thra tat, ta-tat, ta-tat. Delighting my heart, igniting my soul with every note. The music of that night will play on, within me for a life-time.

A dad

My dad is growing older.
Days flash by and with each interaction I am amazed at how little I know of him. I want to write the small nuggets of knowing down. Less I forget and they are suddenly washed away with time or each new understanding of him.

My dad is now 53. He was born in 1957. The year that saw Russia launch the first artificial satellites in to space, Britain test it's first hydrogen bomb, Elvis buy 'Graceland', Liverpool open the doors to The Cavern, and the Cinema show it's first viewing of my favourite film 12 Angry Men.

Paul Byrom, my dad, was second child to Rose Marie and Norman Byrom. He was born at home, on a small street in Padiham Lancashire. He shared a bed with his 3 brothers, Stephen, Mark and David. Paul was the lively, cheeky brother - and according to my late Nan, the most mischievous. A genetic expression that has successfully passed down the line and rests decidedly with my own son Seamus.

Dad's childhood mischiefs involved: shooting rats down 'Mongoli Swamp', climbing over the fat pipe, riding cows in the fields, jumping off bridges onto the back of the coal train, making 'trolleys' to race down the streets, sliding down Nana's bannister (the marks from such larks still remain), and getting chased by Nana and her fore-biding scolls!

Along with fun and antics, dad's life has had it's fair share of trauma. His dad died when he was ten years old leaving Nana with four boys to raise alone. Anecdotes of which have been shared through a disparate array of folk - some family or friends, some half-known colleagues at work, and sometimes complete strangers. It was only the other day, following a stressful meeting at work, that a midwife came up to me (our paths have never crossed before) and shared with me that she went to school with Dad and his brothers. She noted how she remembered seeing them lined-up, all neat and well-behaved in church. She passed on her memory and now it rests in mine colouring my image of this man, my father.

Other stories detail how dad was an absolute marvel. He used to make 'trolleys' (go-carts) with his friends using old pram wheels. Nothing particularly novel about that. Until you decide to make a bob or two helping your neighbours to wheel their suitcases (pre-pull along) to the bus stop so they can go on holiday.

Dad was also an impressive sports star. His specific talents were in, well, everything. He was the best in the county at neat diving, gymnastics, and running. In long jump he actually cleared the pit with his impressive 21ft 6.5inch jump when he was just thirteen years old. A jump he made in plimpsoles with holes in their bottoms. His school-boy achievements were so vast that his name still resides on the trophy my brother held during his sporting streak at the same school.

Unfortunately for dad, poverty got in the way of sporting progression. He was good a sport at a time with no scholarships or National programmes to spot gifted sports stars at schools. Children could leave school at fourteen. Dad left when he could. Leaving with one solitary Certificate of Secondary Education (appalls me to write it) in Art of all things. Perhaps it's from dad that I get my creative flare. I've certainly got his eyes, his nose, his legs, and his most horrendous temper - but I am not going to go into that here.

My dad, and his brothers, have built their life from the extreme raptures of torturous poverty and heart-breaking family turmoil. My Nana, their mother, all four foot ten of her, gave those boys her life as a platform to neat-dive into success. They are all hard-working, strong yet sensitive, loving men. It is all down to her, that wonderful women. The woman who raised them alone, cleaned four pairs of shoes every night so they shone (despite them having holes in their soles). The women who worked four jobs just to keep food on the table and a roof over their heads. The woman who went to bed every night on her own and awoke with the daily task of sorting four children out. I can barely manage the morning slog with just one boy to sort.

Marrying Sheena Byrom, my mother has been one of dad's luckiest moments. He knows it. He loves her. Always has since the age of fourteen. That's some impressive loving. It's something special to see a man, your dad, love your mother so intensely. It fills me with pride. I remember he took me on holiday to cheer me following a pretty saddening relationship break-up. Apart from the holiday being beyond brilliant I was able to see my father as a loving husband, a loving husband to Sheena. He talked of her with such passion, such deep commitment it was almost overwhelming. It was too much for dad, as he talked about his utter love for Mum his eyes would fill and I knew how much he felt. Amazing. What a guy.

Thoughts of Dad haven't always been so sunny but I suppose the aged memories of upset, anger and frustration become more mellow and fade, as time goes by. I do remember Dad shouting. Christ dad can shout. Thank-fully this dreadful Byrom trait has, like ancient memories, softened with age. He is now a stunning Grand-dad to my boy. Senstitive, strong, playful and so giving of his time. He has stepped in, so graciously as Seamus' own dad stepped out. For that I will be eternally grateful.

He is a brilliant man. There's nothing more can be said for someone who manages to cycle Land's end to John O'Groats (over 900 miles) in twelve days at the age of 53. But then me being me, I suppose there is. My dad could get better if he stopped reading the Daily Mail and lost his temper. It's my duty to help him try.

(and no, unfortunately, Dad didn't manage the bike ride on that)