Leaping over the Wall

 

I’d noticed the plastic bag next to the wall in the garden and had dismissed it, thinking it was nothing more than a bag that had escaped from the nearby bin bag.

It was there the next day too.

And the next.

I’d already put the black bin bag out on the front when I caught yet another glimpse of it. I went to pick it up.

That was when I realised it was full of lettuce, tomatoes, water cress and cucumber. They were all kinda warm from the sun.

That’s when the penny dropped and I remembered what my neighbour had said, ‘I’ll put the bag over the wall for you,’ she’d said.

I glanced at her windows, all the blinds were down she was on holiday…and that bag full of food had been waiting several days for me.

Panicking, I chopped up the food, and rushed back outside. I jumped over the wall balancing a plate on which there was a rather warm, hastily prepared salad.

Then I went in search of the beast… that was probably on its last legs.

The beast I was supposed to be looking after.

I search the overgrown garden and eventually…

I found it.

Still alive.

Just

But it was barely moving.

I placed the food in a heap in front of it, and it lumbered exceptionally slowly the few centimetres it had to move to reach it.

And the look in its eye!

But what else can you expect from a tortoise!

Bliss!

 

Revision can lead to cabin fever and The Teenager wanted to go out for a drive and a walk somewhere.

I drove him to Everdon Stubbs where I knew there was a rope swing.

The woods were astonishingly beautiful.

I thought the bluebells would have gone over but they hadn’t quite and it was quite a magical place. A cuckoo was calling. We saw rabbits and squirrels, and later views towards Daventry of open fields.

There was a low swing, empty and waiting for us. The Teenager had a go first, and then it was my turn.

There is nothing more wonderful than swinging gently, suspended over the ground. There was birdsong and bluebells in every direction. It was perfect…until…

The Teenager started to push me.

Suddenly, I’m whizzing through the trees hollowing like Tarzan … which is fine until…the swing begins to go in a great circle. This is fine too, until… the swing is pushed very hard once again and I’m now swooping close to the trunk of the tree from whose branch the swing has been tied. I realise that I’m on a dangerous trajectory… there is a near miss of the mighty tree trunk… and I realise that another push is all it would take for me to hit it.

I shout to The Teenager not to push me. I shout that if he does push again that I will crash into the tree trunk. I shout warning after warning.

I forget that I am with a teenager.

As the swing passes him by, he pushes me even harder than before.

The swing obeys the laws of physics, and the meaner laws of fate, and swirls and swings me around so that I curl high up into the air before being smashed, defencelessly, sideways on, straight into the tree trunk.

 

I discover to my cost that tree trunks do not yield when something swings into them. I discover that bark is like a giant form of sandpaper and that clothes are no defence against it. I discover that I’m made of softer stuff than a tree.

I am knocked from the swing and dragged through the earth like a human plough.

Shaken, I stagger to my feet.

Later, when I asked the Teenager why he'd still pushed me after I'd shouted out to him not to; and warned him about the imminent danger, he said...

‘Oh, I thought it was just banter!’

And I’m left wondering why he couldn’t see and guess the outcome of the trajectory he had set me on… how he couldn’t see how dangerous the last circuit was…and I’m also left wondering as to what ever had happened to his common sense and his imagination if he couldn’t predict the outcome…especially when his own self-preservation, and pain threshold is always set at a default setting of maximum!

And why did he not heed my warning shouts.

(sigh)

‘It was funny though,’ he says later, as I checked on bruised fingers, and turned down socks to discover how little skin was left on my ankle bone. ‘It was really funny.’

I can feel tinkling bruises already deepening their hues all down my right hand side. The bones in my wrist are stiffening… I haven’t yet dared to inspect the damage properly…probably because my head has been too jarred for me to think straight.

But I did get back on the swing again, despite the bruises, the fingers that would no longer bend, the concussion, the blood stains, and the dirt covered trousers, and the…er..pain!

And it was lovely once again to be suspended in the air again…to see the bluebells… and the robin…and to swirl freely though the air…and to enjoy the fragrance of the flowers… and to swirl over that strangely disturbed mound of soft earth where once a teenager had stood!

 

 

 

Bliss!

Henrietta the VIII

 

Scientists do thought experiments and reveal the wonders of the universe. I was wondering if the same could be applied to history. England glories in the colourful character of Henry VIII. His portrait standing astride hands on hips is synonymous for many with the image of manly power, wealth and authority. So here is my historical thought experiment. What would we have thought of this monarch in this painting if he had not been Henry but Henrietta?

We would of course be seeing Henrietta first not as a human being but as a woman, with all the negative and critical baggage that that brings with it.

I guess the portrait would be reviled for starters. Imagine people standing before a portrait of Henrietta. Gone would be any allusions to a colossus striding the world proclaiming his power and authority in its place would be simple, bloated, ugly Henrietta.

What would we see?

We’d see a fat, bloated, obese woman. We’d see her tiny, mean-looking eyes. We’d see the fat, blubbery cheeks that spoke of self-indulgence and gluttony. We’d see the mean closed mouth. (We’ll assume that she wouldn’t have had the moustache and beard.) We’d judge her by our terrible scales that weigh up her feminine beauty and we’d find her scoring a big fat zero. I doubt that many would choose to look upon her portrait for long. We would mock the woman who covered her bloated body with outlandish gowns, rich furs and jewels. We would laugh at her ra ra skirt and snigger over her wearing a mini skirt at her age! Her sagging Nora Batty tights would give us delightful hoots… we’ll spare her the indignities of commenting upon her cod piece .

The point is: take away our expectations of Kingship in this portrait and substitute simple Henrietta and you get the truth about the person that once stood there. You’ll see a self-indulgent, unkind person with dark small eyes and trumped up self-importance, a creature that looks like a bloated maggot.

Perhaps this is the message that the painter was trying to achieve. The artist shows us what was once behind this monarch and perhaps what he turned his back on in the elaborately painted background. We have the beauty of the Celtic knot work… the rich historical heritage of the land. He has shown us the splendours of the architecture in the carvings behind him which have echoes of broken monasteries and of looted wealth. He depicts a verdant land with the full greenery behind Henry, showing the once over-abundant richness of the country. The artist then gives us all the trappings of kingship in the clothing of the monarch topped off with the flamboyant Tudor hat. Perhaps it is in the carpet that the artist tries to show us what this king has really achieved, and what lies under the shadow of his legacy; we are given the carpet’s patterned leaves which are brown and faded. Perhaps the artist was suggesting that England has been worn thin under his dominating rule.

We can set Henrietta aside now and truly see Henry for what he was.

All the painter’s skill goes into the painting exquisite detail showing us an abundance of wealth and riches…and then the artist turns his attention to the king’s face and what do we get? We get the bland, contourless features of Henry. An empty, pale face devoid of all that makes us human; a face devoid of animation. There is no twinkle in the eye, no smile that says I’ve achieved all this for my people. No deeply etched lines that speak of worried and well considered thought. Instead there is blankness and emptiness: a face upon which nothing is written. Why? Why is there this emptiness, this blandness? Why has the artist painted the king this way? Is it because what the artist knew of his model was too horrific to depict in paint?

Was it easier to depict a maggot than a monster? A maggot that grew fat on the riches of his Kingdom? Was the painter depicting all men of power and their corruption in this painting as a warning for our times too?

A strange Form of Life by Bonnie 'Prince' Billy

.

a strange form of life
kicking through windows
rolling on yards
heading in loved ones' triggering eyes
a strange one
and a hard way to come into a cabin
into the weather
into a path
walking together
a hard one
and the softest lips ever
25 years of waiting to kiss them
smiling and waiting
to bend down and kiss twice
the softest lips
in a dark little room
across the nation
you found myself racing
forgetting the strange and the hard
and the soft kiss
in the dark room
and a strange form of life
kicking through windows
rolling on yards
heading in loved ones' triggering eyes
a strange one

Robert Mirabel The Dance

All My Tears by Julie Miller

 

When I go don't cry for me
In my fathers arms I'll be
The wounds this world left on my soul
Will all be healed and I'll be whole

Sun and moon will be replaced
With the light of Jesus' face
And I will not be ashamed
For my saviour knows my name

It don't matter where you bury me
I'll be home and I'll be free
It don't matter where I lay
All my tears be washed away

Gold and silver blind the eye
Temporary riches lie
Come and eat from heaven's store
Come and drink and thirst no more

So weep not for me my friend
When my time below does end
For my life belongs to him
Who will raise the dead again

 

Merge, a Vessel, a Harbour By Great Lake Swimmers

 

 

Merge, A Vessel, A Harbour
A perfect union
Of gift and reception
Each an eye
On the same face

Loss and gain
Fly into the mouth of the ground
Six feet under
Thanks to some failure
Fly into the mouth of the ground
Six feet under

One for the night
One for the dark
Taste each other
For a moment, then goodbye
Hold her eyes
Share the same air
Oh lay it down
Oh lay it bare

I'm speechless
Naked as a fiery sunset
You turn, not fleeting
Destroyed not complete
A perfect cacophony
Rising like vapour
Solid and liquid
Awkward and trapping
Stolen but paid for

Legs and knees and ankles and toes
When it burns an old enemy knows
Legs and knees and ankles and toes
When it burns an old enemy flows

Gathered and strewn
From this altitude
To some other moon
Wearing false armour
And useless shields
Failed to exist

Crying out and into the streets
They are always prepared for the cries
Prepared for the worst
Crying out loud at the untold
They are transfixed but not transformed

Stop accommodating echoes
Into these hard-pressed streets
Into these well-travelled streets
Into these hard-pressed streets