Smooth Pencil

 

The more I write, the more I realise that I like to write in pencil, on paper. Rather than typing on my laptop or using a pen. The computer has too many distractions and my attention is soon away from the job in hand onto something less important and more inane. And pens never seem quite right. The choice of the right pencil is becoming more and more of an obsession. I used to use those plastic things where the lead pops out of the end when you press the rubber-tipped end. But the plastic doesn't feel right in my hands. So I mostly use HB pencils from WH Smith. They are painted a lovely, soothing blue-grey colour and they feel silky to the touch. They have rubbers on the ends and are just about the perfect pencil. However, I do like them sharp, so my small stock is rapidly diminishing in size as they get sharpened away.

The Ode Less Travelled by Stephen Fry

I bought this the other day & have been slowly working my way through it. Its a bit like an OU work book, but with jokes. I was already a fan of Stephen Fry's but now I think I will be worshipping at his feet & erecting a statue in hs honour. I have already managed to write two or three couplets that may develop into something useable for A215 and I have only got to about page 40. I keep the scribblings from the exercises in my notebook, so the whole thing dovetails nicely with a bit of daily writing. Well worth the effort & the doing it properly. Cannot recommend this highly enough.

Some Haikus.

Cows chewing grass
Shaded beneath apple tree.
Crumble and cream, yum.


Reflective, hard watch.
Dismissing time with cold hands.
Patience; waiting; done.


Small, hard, black flies
Whizzing, buzzing round my head.
Wish you were all dead.


Two Haikus on spider's webs.

Spider's webs, inside dust
Accumulates. Slatternly.
Hoover all up quick!

Outside, jewels, diamonds
Glistening on morning webs.
Nature's perfect dew.

Cycles

Today my daughter learnt to ride her bike without stabilisers. She is enormously proud of her achievement and has spent much of the afternoon calling her grandparents to tell them about it. I have only vague memories of the day I learnt to ride a bike. I do remember that it was red and new – not my brother's hand-me-down. I think I was pedalling down the lane outside our house and my Dad was holding on to the back. Then all of a sudden he wasn't holding on and I was doing it myself. My daughter's memories are unlikely to be so vague. I had my camera at the ready and shot several short videos of her wobbling towards me. What she might not remember is the ride along the road by the river, where she fell into the hedge a couple of times – with the scratches to prove it. But – and this I am most proud of – each time she fell, she got up, got back on and had another go. I could hear her next to me, muttering under her breath, 'I can do it, I will do it...' I'm sure this part of her memory will fade as the scratches on her arm heal. But I won't ever forget that.

A215 is underway!

Activity 1.1!

(response to a piece by Raymond Carver about real life getting in the way of writing and priorities)

Like Carver, I can blame domestic chores for getting in the way of just getting on with it. I also allow myself to think that it matters whether or not I have the right pens, pencils, notebooks or even computer screen in front of me. In the past I have spent pointless time and money on those things rather than just grabbing the nearest piece of paper and whatever writing implement is closest to hand. My latest (and grandest) fantasy is to build a beautiful, glass-walled pavilion in the garden, where I will sit, in splendid isolation, writing my Pride and Prejudice for the 21^st century. Happily, I read this extract from Carver's 'Fires' before the foundations had been dug!

On neither youth nor middle age.

In the hinterland between youth and middle age,

Spreading, greying, neither spread or greyed,

Some idealistic saplings still growing

Reality not yet cut through the thicket.

Gazing down at the generation coming,

To them impossibly old, impossibly powerful

Yet so weak in the face of life’s disasters.

The solution, maybe to plant the same ideals?

And on much the same theme...

Late afternoon in Epping Forest


A log, solid and ancient lies still in the wood,
My memories of love lay in a drawer, undisturbed.
Was it love? Turning again to this spot in time
Dark hair, dark eyes in the gathering dusk.


We sat on the log, not touching, speaking,
The words between us floating in the air,
Our breath mingling, evaporating and waiting,
Words never spoken, out of reach, like leaves.


My mind's eye wanders now and again
To the wood. Courage failed us both, not
Wanting truly to know. An accidental kiss
Then going home, separately, each to our others.