The Word Cloud

At the moment I feel like my life is made up of a series of deadlines. Deadlines for short stories, deadlines for finishing a big edit of my MS, deadlines for my driving theory and deadlines for my master’s dissertation.

Deadlines, Deadlines, Deadlines. It’s enough to give me an ulcer.

In order to try and prepare myself to reach these deadlines I have put together a few helpful tips on how to cope with an impending deadline and thought I would share.

·         Break it down – every giant job can be broken down into a series of smaller jobs. This will make it easier to manage and you will feel more in control and successful when you finish a job.

 

·         Reward yourself – when you finish a small job reward yourself. This will help to keep you motivated and feel under less pressure.

 

·         Keep a clear list of where you are and where you need to be. – stay updated on your progress especially if you’re juggling multiple deadlines. This can also be called a timeline.

 

·         Plan your time – ties into the above point but it is important enough to be a standalone point as well. Careful planning of time means less chance of a meltdown later. Keep these plans fluid though as sometimes life happens and you can’t always stick to rigid plans.

 

·         Always keep a backup – this isn’t just for deadlines and is a good tip in general. Back everything up. Then if your computer explodes you’re not back at square one with the deadline much closer.

I hope these tips help you with your deadlines.

Anything to add please do!

Last year (2011) we took a trip to America for the first time, hiring a Ford Mustang and driving through California, Arizona and Nevada. It was glorious discovering new places, new environments, new ways of doing things, but we didn’t leave all the discovery till we arrived. We brought a couple of guidebooks beforehand, googled a few places on the Net, pored over some maps and studied details in the brochure.

All this is quite natural.

How about the Bigger Trip at the end of earthly life? Where are the guidebooks? Which web pages should I google? Where are the maps and tourist brochures? Once again it is natural to want some information. Where should I try?

From time to time I hope to post articles on 'Matters of Life and Death', and shall be evaluating various sources of information:

·       Science: how much, if anything, can it tell us about non-material reality?
·       Religion: how much can the familiar Christian variety tell us?
·       Poetry and music: can these reveal any ‘Truths of the Imagination’ for us?
·       Inner Resonance: how much weight can I place on something that ‘rings true’?

And there is one more source I shall consult, Spiritualism. For a writer, it is a brilliant resource. Spiritualism had a considerable vogue before and after the First World War, but nowadays it is deeply unfashionable. As a result, there is a cornucopia of wonderful but neglected materials for me to plunder

At my bedside I have volumes with such evocative titles as Life Beyond the Veil, Gone West and The Living Dead Man. They all date from the time around the First World War and have a sense of the drama and intensity involved in the time. But wait a moment, you might say, aren’t they too spooky for the bedside? Not at all. They make splendid bedtime reading, often cheering, frequently astonishing, always fascinating. I have dog-eared many a must-revisit page, made vertical lines in the margins of read-again extracts, and added double – or even treble – lines for especially mind-boggling material.

But how much can I trust such things, I hear you ask. Well, there are basically four answers to this:

·       Firstly, I can check the materials for consistency. How do they match up against each other – and also against more recent material coming from Near Death Experiences and Hypnotic Regression? Do they support or contradict each other?
·       Secondly, I can ask how far the stories match up with common sense. That is, do the humans behave as humans (albeit in different circumstances)?
·       Thirdly, I can employ the Inner Resonance guide (as mentioned above) – do the stories and descriptions ring true?
·       Fourthly, as a novelist I can ask whether they would make darn good tales.

That last one is a good criterion for me. I am engaged on writing an updatedDivine Comedy trilogy in which the scope and vision of Dante are compounded with the buddy-style interplay of, say, Butch and Sundance. A mismatched pair of cousins are sent to quarrel their way through Earth, Hell and even Heaven (which is not where you’d expect to see a lot of quarrelling, but they’ll find a way).

Recently I have been busy with Book Two, A Short, Selective Journey Through Hell, and have happily drawn on Life Beyond the Veil, Gone Westand The Living Dead Man, as well as plenty of other resources.

Well yes, you might say. Rattling good tale, you might say. But is it all true? Do you really believe all that stuff?

Well, my friends, believe is a funny word. It implies loyalty to one set of propositions and not to another. This can be very limiting, and, if you are a scientist, it can be disastrous. There you go building your career on – what? – certainties about dinosaur bones, about continental drift or perhaps even the speed of light, and then along comes evidence to prove your whole life is one big mistake.

No, belief is a very limiting word. Let’s go with something rather more open. It has been suggested that science fiction writers do a lot better in the Next World than saintly believers, and this seems credible to me because science fiction writers are in the business of imagining the unimaginable. They’re not held down by the diving boots of belief.

So let’s say I value Life Beyond the Veil, Gone West, The Living Dead Man and suchlike for their Wow factor. They may or may not hold vast amounts of truth, but I can try to check them for consistency, common sense and resonance. And, having done so, I’m inclined to say yup, they make the better story.

(This post has been simultaneously published on my blog  http://dimensionsbeyond.typepad.com/ 
complete with a lovely pic of Death Valley - seen from 'Dante's View' - which I would have included here, only I couldn't get the picture uploader to cooperate, alas. Do feel free to call in on said blog and sample the numerous delights therein...)

 

Tell me teacher, who is it that watches from the skies?

Who is it that hears us when we cry?

Why is it those receive and never give?

Why is it some die while others live?
 

 

Tell me teacher, why does he welcome me with open arms?

When till now, him, I did discard

Who’s footsteps here have replaced mine?

Does wisdom and love wilt with time?
 

 

Tell me teacher, why do we keep each race apart?

Why do we stop but rarely start?

How do I know who’s friend or foe?

How do I know which way to go?
 

 

Tell me teacher, why does the sea not meet the sky?

When it seems they lye together side by side

Who is it were talking to when we pray?

What is it that listens to what we say?
 

 

Tell me teacher, how do I know what life to live?

How do I learn how to forgive?

Who’s voice do I hear that has no face?

Will I win or lose this race?
 

 

Tell me teacher, why do the best medicines go to those who pay?

While the others pass away

Who is it decides if I’m boy or girl?

Who decides that I should be on this world?
 

 

Tell me teacher, when will I know that I am out of time?

When should there be silence, is life a mime?

Why do some laugh while others cry?

How do I know where my loyalties lie?
 

 

Tell me teacher, why is all beauty judged by skin?

When real beauty lies within

Who is it that turns night to day?

Who is it that when you forsake him, he does not turn away?
 

 

Tell me teacher, what will happen when I die?

When I find my own pathway in the sky

What if I reach heaven and there is no one there?

How will I cope if no-one will care?
 

 

Tell me teacher, how will I know what to say?

Will there be a price to pay?

Will I smile or will I cry?

And tell me teacher,

Who am I?

... is an interesting concept.

I've had quite a lot of it lately. My dull backstory: I've been job hunting since August and in between have gradually been going a bit loopy.

I've been hanging out with my friends & family, working part time at my lovely Saturday job and applying for jobs.

I applied for about four different volunteering placements (two of which more than once) and heard nothing back.

I've lost my creative buzz and love of reading and writing and have some days where I feel incredibly down.

I sometimes feel as if I have so much potential, so much energy and passion to pour into something and yet no opportunities. I feel held back from things I really want to achieve while I still can.

It may sound silly to some, but since losing both my cats it feels like my life has gone the wrong way. It feels as if I am in a parallel reality and the correct one is where my cat is still alive and I am happy.

I really want to stick at looking for a volunteering placement though and have become more interested in counselling and depression and general mental health.

When I get a job I want to take a few courses in Avian care and management, paleontology and creative writing or novel editing.

Until then I am just trying to keep the faith and focus on the things I do have.

Hope you are all well x

Like when many of these kinds of creations come together; it’s the early hours of the morning, I can’t sleep and my fears and instinct to panic have overcome me. All I can focus on is the here and now, these words, feeding my thoughts through this pen into something physical, something real, and something that means something, something that matters and is worth caring about. Now things aren’t just flying around in my head these are more my reality, the realness of my life. They are no longer creating dysmorphia and ugly scary prospects within the limitless fortress of my mind. Pen to paper for me can bring about boundaries and limit to the extent of my thoughts and their consequences.

I don’t know what will happen past today and this moment. All I can hope for is a rendezvous with sleep. After that I can find the answer, and the more I know this, the more scared I become.

 

I have always been a restless person, emotionally; my feelings are dynamic and ever changing, unpredictable and often un fathomable. Decision making; as my emotions change so does my choice of how I spend my time, in and out of jobs as a teen, change of study, change of friends, and as a child, even changing my hand writing. It scares me…Am I something that I don’t want to know as myself? Am I ill? Is my awareness of my own feelings and the feelings of others abnormal? Is it wrong, even dangerous? Will it always be the cause of ongoing suffering? After all the less you love the less you lose in the end. The less there is to lose the less you have to fear.

I know that all we do is born from either fear or love. And not only that fear is born from the absence of love. Or the possibility of it…. After all, what else is there if you’re a  young child has been abandoned, or a mother who has buried a child, a victim of rape or domestic violence, a homeless man or woman, a D- when you needed an A+ to secure that place at university. As humans, beings, in order to survive we must seek the best from ourselves and from others. In an environment lacking nurturing and love, how do we accomplish this, how do you even know that you can or should love yourself or others?

How will we continue, what if we are not offered that job? Your partner turns down your proposal, your grandmother doesn’t pull through her illness, your parents will not talk to you because you didn’t fulfil their expectations of you?

All that is left is questions, insecurities and fear. But, I have made a discovery. When there you reach  a point where there is no resolution, there then comes a choice; submission to the doom in your life, which will lead to your eventual and inevitable demise, whether financially, physically or mentally. The only outcome for that is that you will be no more, you will have no existence, you will no longer “be”.

At the age of 16 I developed Anorexia Nervosa.  The realities of this illness means that the lives of the sufferer and their loved ones are thrown into a battle. Not only is the sufferer always battling with themselves but they are then battling with everyone around them. My anorexia grew from a disoppointment in myself that I wasnt something that I thought I ought to be... I thought stay Nil-By-Mouth would absolve me of all the things I wanted improving, changing or destroying of myself and that this would clense me of these things and I would become the person I wanted to be. Of course I was measuring these things by disproportionate, unrealistic and often non existant measures. I then was caught in a cycle of fear that 1, I would always be what I always despised and that 2, if I tried to be "normal" again I would hate myself even more. 
What happened was I had entered a life that was painful, destructive and could only lead to my demise and that of my family. A breakdown in relationships with my parents, sister, grandparents and friends left me with only the illness and my own self hate. There came a point where I needed to make a choice...


What was I happy to live with? What was I happy to accept as my reality and my future reality? Was I happy with the decisions I had made up till this point and the consequences that left me with? Was what had until now been my security, actually a mode of destruction? Despair can be a real comfort. You know it is real, it is honest and as painful as it is, you understand it, and you know where you stand with it.

 So what came next was another battle. This time with my anxiety, my now very real fear of food, fear of being over weight, the overriding feeling that I still have that I am 'large' and 'take up too much space'.  I had to decide what I wanted to live with for the rest of my life; my hate for myself, something I was certain of but would lead me know where, or to give myself the opportunity to participate in life, train for the job I wanted, let someone love me annd get married, to have my parents back, be able to go out with family and friends to social events, meals, the cinema... To have my life and fear failure accept that in order to have that I cant be perfect, or to give up my life, sacrifice my relationships, opportunities and future just to punish and condemn myself for an imperfect and dark existance. 

It took me (and if Im honest is still taking me) time. What I chose was to come face-to-face with my fear and test myself to walk through the darkness with my arms stretched out infront of me. I eventually found a door, turned the handle, felt the anticipation of knowing I had to confront something new and close the door behind me.

Although I am in a different room now I can still remember how the old room looked. Sometimes I remember so vividly, as if Im back in those same four walls, but sometimes I just get a sense that there is a room behind me some where, somewhere else I used to live.

Looking back into that room I realise fear is just a word, its our actions that give it its powerbecause I will always still be standing at the other side once the battle is over.  

 It was Summer, my 16^th, and I was working part time in a farm supplies shop near Darien Georgia. I was young, stupid, big and very strong and all these characteristics made me perfect for working in a farm supplies shop in Darien, Georgia. 

June passed quickly in that dry, hot, summer and I remember spending it with a light coat of perspiration mixed with feed supplements permanently covering my body.  It was the year before the first great love of my life.

  Mr Jansen, the owner of the store, had ordered some stock which had been wrongly dispatched and in order to cover a loyal customer’s urgent needs, he decided that me and Buddy Grantham, his senior store man would drive all the way down to Jacksonville, Florida wait overnight to collect the load and drive it straight from there to our customer. 

Buddy Grantham was about my size. He was about twenty-seven, strong as an ox…and almost as smart as one. He had spent six months in State prison for being found in possession of a dozen high performance outboard boat engines which had disappeared from a container at Charleston docks a few years before.

 

I was wary of Buddy but not really afraid or intimidated by him and he seemed like an OK guy. After work on a Friday he and the older guys would drink beer out of big coolers from the back of their pickup trucks and after a few weeks, they would throw me a few when I joined them.

 

As I had yet to consummate my manhood, I didn’t fully understand all of their jokes but I laughed at the appropriate places and no one was wiser. As I was as big and as strong as any of them, had facial hair and did the same work, they pretty much treated me as any other. I was well pleased with that circumstance. 

With a final instruction from Mr Jansen, Buddy and I departed late afternoon for Jacksonville port on the I-95 interstate highway. I had told my parents about the job and Mum had said no but Dad had said ok so away I went.

 

We drove for about three hours and checked in to the port depot to register for our load and get a docking time. As I was aware of Buddy’s past, I had a mild concern about whether Buddy had any plans about picking up anything else other than our designated feed supplements, but he wasn’t looking for trouble. Our load would not be ready for us until about 05:00 the next morning and we registered to be there to pick it up.

 

Buddy said he knew a great place to spend the next eleven hours until our load was ready and we drove away from the port zone and along the lesser roads inland. The industrial and urban sprawl soon gave way to more rural surroundings. The sandy soil could only support small scrub oaks and stunted palmetto palm trees but these grew into small jungles.

 

The wooden buildings in the countryside were almost all up on short stilts with latticed wood covering the gap under them. This is done to allow air to circulate under them and make them less uninhabitable than the climate makes them.

 

After about an hour's drive, we pulled into a siding with several buildings. There was a diner, a petrol station combined with a small shop, and a single level motel with a bar attached to it. The bar was made of concrete breezeblock and painted a kind of moulted pale blue.

 

In the windows of the bar were neon signs advertising Pabst Blue Ribbon Beer and Miller Highlife, The Champagne of Bottled Beers….. Also in the window was a neon representation of a girl seemingly dancing….. I noticed all of these without any happiness. 

 

The name of the bar gave no promise of what a man/boy of sixteen years could expect to discover inside.  “The Blue Flamingo” was boldly stated in cracked paint on a wooden sign held on to the flat roof with 2x4 studding.

 

 Buddy nudged me and smiled and said, “You’ll love this place. I know a girl who worked here until she got pregnant. She works in the diner now.” 

 

I was thinking this is way way WAY beyond anything I am happy about but with the understanding that anything is better than looking stupid in front of Buddy, I followed him through the door. I had several dozen mixed emotions bouncing around inside me ranging from fear to curiosity….and something else. And I followed Buddy into the cool dark bar.

 

There was a bar on the right of the door with several people sitting on upolstered vinyl bar stools. To the left centre was a low stage around which several tables emanated.  Buddy walked up to the bar and spoke directly into the ear of the bar tender. The bar tended nodded his head and Buddy shook his hand and passed some money to him.

 

A girl in a black bikini and high heels came over to our table with a couple of draft beers and carefully set them down on beer mats marked with ‘Budweiser,  the King of Beers’.  I fixed on her cleavage as she bent down over the table. She had full make up on and she looked very much like the women I had seen only in the pages of magazines I had found under my older brother’s bed. I watched her bottom as she walked away and was surprised to see that although it was far from fat, it seemed to wobble a fair bit.

 

The glasses were frosted and several small icebergs had formed near the top of my glass. I picked it up and drank down almost half of it on the first go. I think to look more grown up and to settle myself rather than out of thirst. The cold of the beer burned the back of my fear-dried throat but in the best possible way.

  

Before the first beer was finished, another girl also in a bikini walked up to the raised stage area. She signalled to the barman and the jukebox near the door abruptly stopped. Our table was only a few feet from the stage and I watched with a total fascination as she started to dance to taped music now coming out over a different set of speakers at the back of the stage.

 

The first song she danced to was ‘La Grange’ by ZZ Top.  And I was totally and completely captivated as she went through her moves. More beer and more dancers followed in the next few hours.

 

My fear was replaced by a mix of fascination, instinct, and alcohol and at about 1 AM the girl who had been the first dancer, ‘MY DANCER’, came back on stage for her last set. . I had noticed that Buddy had been leaving the table at regular intervals and he had been speaking with various dancers. I was awestruck that he had the bottle to speak to these beautiful things and the beat/pulse of the music could barely keep up with my heartbeat.

 

She locked her eyes on me as she began to dance and I could barely breath…time stood still and the room and the music seemed to come in and out of focus with the only constant being her eyes and her swaying body. Someone at another table said something to her and I felt a cold possesive rage well up in me as I contemplated punching his head off. Fortunately the dark of the bar prevented him from noticing and punching my head off.

  At the end of her dance she walked straight over to our table and sat down next to me. I must have been breathing through my elbows as I think my whole body was locked up. She asked if I would walk her back to her room and I said “Hell YES” while meaning “Hell NO” and we walked out of the bar. 

 

Buddy came up smiling and said “Enjoy yourself Bubba, you got two hours!”  After about twenty minutes of thrashing about, laughing and inadvertent head butts, she calmed me down enough to not break any furniture or windows and I am pretty sure one of us had sex. Afterward we talked a bit and I discovered that Claire, the Love-of-my-night, was all of twenty-one. Her mum was looking after her kid and she was working and trying to save money to go to hairdressing school.  ….she was no longer a magical, mystical dancing siren, she was just a girl, not unlike my older sister’s friends of the same age. 

Buddy broke the mood a short while later with a heavy knock at the door. I slept the rest of the trip and didn’t even get out of the truck to help him unload. My hangover had cleared by mid afternoon when we got back to Darien. We fuelled up the truck and gave in our paperwork and Buddy dropped me off home.

 

I walked in the door as Mum was just preparing dinner. Dad asked how things went and I gave a non-committal “OK, No problems…” and he grunted and returned to his newspaper. Mum, though, hearing maybe something in my voice, turned deliberately around from the cooker and looked at me with an intense curiosity. 

She looked me straight in the eyes and her head tilted to once side. She smiled but with questioning, searching eyes and slowly turned back to the stove still smiling but  with a slight shake of her head. 

To this day two songs bring a smile to my face on the memory of that time. Bob Seger’s  ‘Main Street’ and of course ZZ Top’s ‘LA Grange’……..

  I wonder what became of Buddy, and what became of Claire and I wonder if they think of me as much as I think of them………

Warning: rant coming up....

As some of you may remember, I have a grown-up son who is autistic. Autistic people like the security of fixed routines, and so, rather charmingly, we have never got out of the habit of reading a library book to him at bedtime. He chooses his library books rather randomly, so the readings can be a mind-broadening experience in that I get to read books I would never choose for myself.

All this is to explain how I recently had the misfortune to read a book by one Danielle Steele. I admit I was predisposed not to like it, but no amount of hostile prejudice prepared me for the awful reality.

Yes, I know established authors can get away with a lot, but when I remembered the advice given on this site (edit edit edit, polish polish polish, revise and rewrite until you get it as good as you possibly can, etc.) and the experiences of members who've slaved at following this advice and still can't get published, I had to grit my teeth to stop myself swearing out loud while I was reading.

Repetition, redundancy, telling-not-showing, stating the obvious: all were there in all their awful glory. There were even basic errors of grammar and punctuation. It made me wince. I've never been published and no longer expect to be, but if I wrote stuff like that I wouldn't be able to forgive myself if I let it stand for five minutes.

At first I thought the publisher's editor must have had an off day, but it was too bad even for that. I've come to believe that Ms Steele is so confident in her own success that she bangs down the first thing that comes into her head and sends it off without even rereading it, let alone rewriting it. And her publishers know that it'll sell no matter how rubbishy it is, so they save themselves the expense of employing an editor for her stuff.

That's the way it read, anyway. The book was no less than an affront to anyone with any feeling for good language and writing, and I have to presume that her others are equally bad. I don't feel like finding out.

And this, let me remind you, is the world's best-selling living author. Grrrr!!

Just a random thought from my profile picture:

"The road of life is one never ending, and traveled by one and one alone.

For though our roads may intersect, The is only one we choose to follow, our road of life, whether easy or narrow.

But don't forget along your lifetime's journey, to stop and look around.
For if we forget to enjoy the scenes around us, no joy will ever be found.

Though the road of life may have twists and turns, and the weather may turn sour, each moment we spend upon that road, is another living hour.

So enjoy the wind, the rain, the fire, despite the trouble they may cause, for it is in the pain we know we're alive, and out of death's cold jaws.

Run in the rain, fly in the wind, warm yourself by the fire. The journey's long, through land dry or filled with muck and mire.

And don't forget the ones you meet as you roads intersect for a while, the family, the friends, and those random people who seem to make you smile.

So here it comes, the journey ends, as you sit upon the shore, your life complete, hold no regrets, for you will stay there, evermore."

This past few months life has thrown all kinds of rotten things our way. I want to say crap as that is exacatly what it has been - crap from all directions. This blog is my opportunity to offload some of it. And what  follows here is only a small part of what has been happening since we moved.
There were three family deaths last year, one perhaps uneccesary, and if that wasn't hard enough to deal with, another dear member of our family died on Christmas Eve. This time the death really was a disaster.
There has been an inquest so the funeral only took place last week. This neccesary delay meant that we were on tenter-hooks not knowing what was going to happen - or what did happen to our relative.  On making some enquiries on behalf of my distraught cousins who were too shocked to deal with things I was surprised to be told to ring the coroners office which I duly did, ready to be on my high horse to try and make certain that someone was going to have to enquire into my aunt's death.
It was a strange experience being part of a situation that I would normally only encounter when watching Silent Witness on tv, and I was very nervous, however the coroner could not have been more friendly, supportive and helpful. He advised me that he would do everything in his power to make sure that a cause of death was found and that the body would not be released for burial until they had done so.
My aunt had been ill for two months, had lost over two stone, and had seen her doctor on numerous occasions. When it became clear to her and her daughter that she was too poorly to wait for the tests she went to A&E where she saw a doctor who said, after her waiting in pain for four hours, that she was not ill. I cannot say on a public blog what illness he diagnosed except to say that my aunt would have had to have travelled to India or a similar country to get it, which she had not. A  diagnosis that should not be given without stringent testing to rule out other diseases first. She returned home and, feeling really unwell, she called lots of her family, and repeated her story, obviously desperate for some help or suggestions. 
My mother phoned me and told me part of the story (she can only recall snippets) and was pleased that there had been a diagnosis and that her sister would soon be well. Another sister in Canada looked up symptoms and drugs that had been given on the internet and informed my aunt that it would be a week before she was better.
The next day she was rushed into hospital by a neighbour, and ten hours later she died.
We were so happy that she was at last receiving care and rushed over to Poole with a balloon, (she always teased me that I had picked a gorgeous husband and they always made a fuss of each other) he wanted to go in and say that she didn't need to go to all this trouble to get his attention. But she was in a different hospital. Yet again people were kind and the staff rang the other hospital and we were informed that my aunt was fine and in a holding bay awaiting surgery. So we went home.
Later that evening while getting ready to meet friends for dinner I had the strange feeling that all was not well and rushed to the phone and called the hospital - I was put through to intensive care and the call was picked up just as my aunt died. But it was me who told the nurse - I did not ask how she was I just knew. It was really wierd. The nurse was whispering and I heard myself say that someone would be in deep trouble and there would have to be an investigation. Even tho they are not meant to comment the nurse did agree that my aunt should not have died.
Of course no one is saying that now.
It is all most unpleasant.
I think the reason for my blog is to share how drained I have been feeling, and how the emotions are subtle. I realise sitting here in the twighlight that for months I have been giving lots of people support, endless listening and talking. My brother, my nephew, my cousins, my own family as both my children were in hospital last year. (oh yes, I forgot, my son was ill the week before christmas and did not respond to treatment) he did and was allowed home on christmas eve, at six. So, we had the highs and the lows within an hour.
Last night, I was in the bath and the phone rang, and rang again, and again, and again. I was really puzzled why my BBlvd wasn't answering it so climbed out of the bath and yelled for him to get it. It was my foster daughter - (no longer a little girl). Her sobs were heart rending I could hardly hear what she was saying. Finally I grasped that her father had become violent and damaged her flat and frightened her kitten and it would not come out of the bathroom, but the thing that upset her most was that he had destroyed our contact details. So I sat on the bed with wet hair and listened and talked until she calmed.
I knew that she wanted to come and stay - part of her recent insecurity is that we have moved and she has not been here and cannot travel without a support worker.
How do we know what to say in all these situations?  And what are the connections in my ramblings? Well, there are many, but one is the power of words, and the voice.
I miss my aunt's Dorset smile, and her laugh, she laughed readily. One of my happinesses about moving here was that she was here.
I missed the dinner but my husband went.
After an hour as I started to shiver I told S that I didn't know what to say to make her feel better but what ever it was it seemed to be working. She replied that I always say just the right things, but mostly it was hearing our voices that made her better. She had thought for two weeks that she had lost that forever. The police traced us for her.
I was humbled to think that a short time with that child twenty years ago, has lasted her all her hard life. (and 20 years of phone calls)
I did think, just for a moment, that I didn't have anything else to give but from somewhere comes the strength.
Maybe I am saved by the tiny vase of flowers that I pick and carry around to place beside me whatever I am doing and the constant relativity of my life to those who don't see flowers or hear birds but what ever it is, I live for another day.
The inquest on my aunt was adjourned while more investigations are carried out at the hospital.
Which reminds me I must call my cousins.....
In amongst all this my little book gets put on a back burner - again.  
Thank you
Bren

Just spending a few moments on the cloud before I get on with what I should be doing now I'm home from work...and I realised how much I don't want to do what's on my to-do list! In no particular order, it includes;

The washing up.
Creating invitations to all the neighbours on our street for a diamond jubilee street party.
Taking my son to dodgeball (probably in the snow if the weatherman is to be believed)
Peeling the veg for tonight's dinner (Thank heavens for the slow cooker).
Organising resources for Sunday's all-age service.
Writing the cheque to pay for piano lessons.
Sorting out flowers and a card for someone who's recovering from an accident.
Pairing up all the socks I washed earlier in the week.
The ironing.
Beginning to organise next year's flower festival.

I know not all of it NEEDS to be done today, but for the things that do - well, I would SO much rather be writing. Especially now Rurik has taken off in my head again and needs to be captured on the laptop.

I keep telling myself - just do this, then you can have half an hour with Rurik - but I cheat! I say " I'll do half an hour and then do that". Of course the half becomes a whole or longer, and before I know where I am, the dinner's late.

I try to be disciplined about when I allow myself to write, but I'm sure I'm not the only one for whom life gets in the way of the muse. 

Even writing this blog is a delaying tactic...