POETRY THURSDAY ... is a cyberspace event I like to contribute to if at all possible. Today on my walk along the beach, lying scattered along the low-tide line, there were pieces of smooth brick shaped like cakes of soap, and shards of china, ceramic and glass gathered and dragged there from southerly coastlines. It put me in mind of one of my favourite poets and poems; Amy Clampitt's 'Beach Glass'. ( I decided linking to that poem would be my contribution for this week.)
Of course I couldn't help myself. By nature I am a beachcomber and so I arrived home with several good specimens. The beach glass is my favourite.
I'm like one of my son's paintings, ( see above - I scanned a rough drawing of his that was lying on the desk here by the computer) I feel like I've got a tree growing out of my head. Thoughts and ideas are sprouting and growing outside my skull. Like a science fiction character, or maybe a character in a Scandinavian-folktale, whose name translates to 'Small Spruce On Top Of Head'.
Today I packed Christmas away in a box. Literally. All the decorations and ornaments went back into the 'Christmas Box' and back into the wardrobe in the spare room until next year.
And we waved good-bye to S this afternoon as he set off on a plane and the first leg of his journey back to Japan. I cried a little. As you do when someone close leaves to go to another country and you know you won't see them for another year, at least. Already the house seems to echo from the space left by his absence. I'm sure that just on his own, he'd have enough energy to run a small generator. A bit like the one I remember my uncle used for his milking shed. We are left now with M's peaceful calm. And his old dog who mostly sleeps all day long. That is good too - but it will be up to us now to create our own energy. Not to be so lazy. Or held back by trepidation. (If we need instructions, I guess we can always text or email S! )
My 8-year old granddaughter got a mobile phone for Christmas. Now I get texts from her when she's in bed and meant to be going to sleep.
It was a lovely sunny and (dare I say) even hot, day today. Again I followed the sun around the house and backyard and read and wrote in it. My writing consisted of writing out some goals for the year - among them writing goals. For example, picking up and completing the 'novel' or whatever it will turn out to be. And chasing up this next poetry collection of mine. When I wrote out all the things I wanted to do, I realised that because I'm going to be working 30 hours a week in about a week's time, I'm not going to have enough hours in the day. I felt mild panic rise in my chest like a fast-encroaching tide filling up a rock-pool. It is the panic of a writer without enough time left over after earning her keep. I've counted up how many days of holiday I've got left (10) and promptly went into another panic attack.
But I managed to regain control ... I took deep breaths and picked up the Japanese writer Haruki Murakami's collection of short stories, 'Blind Willow, Sleeping Woman.' This book has glints of genius. But on the whole, so far I find the stories strange and removed. I guess the writer would say - Yes. Hello-o. That's the point. One of the stories I read today, called 'A Perfect Day For Kangaroos', is the story I have enjoyed most. Here is an example of the subtlety and quirkiness I liked in that story '... the mother kangaroo and her baby had become one unit, resting in the flow of time, while the mysterious other female was hopping around the enclosure as if taking her tail out on a test run.'
In one of those elusive, twining strands of coincidence, the book I was going to report on today, 'Luca Antara' by Martin Edmond - the book I've just finished reading and enjoyed so much - mentioned Haruki Murakami. Unfortunately I haven't left myself enough time after a very busy day, to explain some of the reasons why I liked the book. And tomorrow we head back to Queenstown again to see the folks for a few days. So there will probably be no time then either. I sense a theme here. However, I will continue to process my thoughts - as another twig sprouts from the top of my skull.