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.