I was doing an on-line relaxation session earlier this morning and as my body was just oozing supine and smoothly into the exercise mat a wintry gust of wind and spattering of rain shook the windows. We were being gently encouraged to smile at the time and to move the smile through the different areas of the body – so my pelvis was brightly grinning away as I melted into a wrap of tranquillity. A poem from my ‘A’ Levels drifted into memory, from Ted Hughes. I hope his estate won’t mind if I quote it in full. It really is rather splendid for a day like this.
This house has been far out at sea all night, I can’ The woods crashing through darkness, the booming hills, Winds stampeding the fields under the window Floundering black astride and blinding wet Till day rose; then under an orange sky The hills had new places, and wind wielded Blade-light, luminous black and emerald, Flexing like the lens of a mad eye. At noon I scaled along the house-side as far as The coal-house door. Once I looked up - Through the brunt wind that dented the balls of my eyes The tent of the hills drummed and strained its guyrope, The fields quivering, the skyline a grimace, At any second to bang and vanish with a flap; The wind flung a magpie away and a black- Back gull bent like an iron bar slowly. The house Rang like some fine green goblet in the note That any second would shatter it. Now deep In chairs, in front of the great fire, we grip Our hearts and cannot entertain book, thought, Or each other. We watch the fire blazing, And feel the roots of the house move, but sit on, Seeing the window tremble to come in, Hearing the stones cry out under the horizons.
We lit the log stove and sip coffee and eat cake while wind and rain are flurrying in the Acer tree outside. All very cosy – until you remember that this is June – and this is next winter’s supply of logs burning away.
Still being snug is better than being listless which is what I assumed I would be today, in fact that was my intention. Listless in both senses of the word, either flopping about indecisively and uselessly which has become a speciality of mine lately, or not having a list, which is true as well. At the beginning of lockdown I did have a list, a list of lots of worthy things to be achieved, but by now they’ve either been done or I’ve decided what the heck! Second bottom on the list was paint the bathroom radiator, which has become a motif of recent blogs, bottom of the list is clean the car, which I always regard as the last resort of the existentially lost.
High up on the list, but repeatedly deferred, is disinter from the garage the two novels I wrote back in the 80s and 90s. Every ten years or so I drag these out, edit them yet again, correct a few typos, reflect somewhat smugly that they’re better than a lot of novels I’ve read lately, that they deserve publication, and then re-consign them to the garage, hoping that if I do nothing a literary agent will come round exploring garages for unpublished novels, a bit like the rag and bone man with his horse and cart. Anyway, I actually enjoy reading them because they evoke places and past experiences that I cherish and though fictional they are snapshots of moments in my imagination. My imagination has atrophied during lockdown, as readers of this blog will notice. I thought weeks of unhurried vacuous living would provide opportunity but sadly they’ve not provided stimuli, apart from one or two light poems. I should have managed something akin to Milton’s ‘Paradise Lost, which I think he wrote whilst isolating himself from the plague, but instead of a contemplation of Satan’s descent into Hell, I’ve written about protective masks, pigeons and bluebells. I tried another story of the genre I published back in 2018, ‘Father Jacko’s Gozo Stories’ . The plot involved getting lost along the cliff tops and rocky paths on the southern coast of Gozo, but the story got lost itself and the threads won’t come together, so I’ve discarded it - literally a cliff-hanger.
It’s very good, therefore, from this literary twilight of oldies shoved away indoors,
of dark clouds and general gloom, that out there young people are forging lives, opening doors, creating opportunities and pushing ahead. Earlier this year I was privileged to proof read a wonderful book called ‘Hope is Coming’ by Louise Blyth in which she tells the story of her husband’s death, yet in a way that is uplifting, romantic, even celebratory. Her Dad told me today that despite circumstances, the book is selling well and receiving good reviews. I’m glad, because the book is a timely example of how tragic circumstances can be survived, even managed with hope, faith and friendship. It’s the right book to read during a time of uncertainty and despair. You can get it on Amazon.
Meanwhile in the next room, in a steaming cauldron of creative magic Deirdre is concocting all sorts of designs for face masks. The sewing machine is whirring and she is muttering as she transforms old T’shirts into life-saving devices. The current challenge is something that will fit over my face and nose, won’t steam up my glasses or haul my hearing aids out when removed. To this end she has conscripted an array of garden wire, pipe cleaners and old guitar strings and all the mêlée of advice to be found on You Tube.
I swore a solemn oath to myself that I would post a blog every day for what was forecast to be 12 weeks of lockdown. The writing has become the lubricant of my days. With 11 days to go I must just hang on and drag myself on and crawl over the finishing line. I once had a colleague who represented Britain as a member of the Olympic Marathon Team. He told me that for the last few days before a race he ate huge amounts of carbohydrates which gave him an extra surge of stamina for the last few miles, so for me now it will be cakes and fish and chips and pasta and doughnuts to sustain me through to that last gasp.
I swore a solemn oath to myself that I would post a blog every day for what was forecast to be 12 weeks of lockdown. The writing has become the lubricant of my days. With 11 days to go I must just hang on and drag myself on and crawl over the finishing line. I once had a colleague who represented Britain as a member of the Olympic Marathon Team. He told me that for the last few days before a race he ate huge amounts of carbohydrates which gave him an extra surge of stamina for the last few miles, so for me now it will be cakes and fish and chips and pasta and doughnuts to sustain me through to that last gasp.