people of soup! in these far northern lands huddle close around the cauldron of plenty, gather for stories, yarns of yawn and yore
basgallop models leek and potato, knitwear, with a slight hint of shamanic reindeer wee
………………
one more crumb for the mountain of futility that is your facebook feed… if its anything like mine anyway
realised this morning that all my stock cubes expired in 2017, so ‘borrowed’ some swiss vegetable bouillon from daughter
yum!
these the last days of leaf fall, this autumnal hurrah
crimson, mustard, saffron, all of the motley browns
a few beeches remain full burnished, stuck over with gold, vivid against the clear blue sky beyond
sucked of moisture, skeletons of nowt but tannin and rasp
breeze stirred, one leaf detaches, it begins with a waggle, a saunter,
the swoop of leaf fandango,
a final bellyflop swoon to the ground
letting go? giving up! oh you leaf shirkers
the wind strengthens, a brittle leaf rattle (something of teeth chatter), a swirl, bask and laugh within this blizzard snow shaker
beneath foot, the leaf kerfuffle, layered, interleaved, humus settling to mud
the earth serpent, coils of body, she rears up, then dives deep beneath the ground,
sloughing off the colours, the beauty, of her myriad scales
a great sinuous wave flowing through the land, but also, passing through us
we are buoyed, immense, lifted up
then left, the promise of return, yet bereft in the still serenity of ourselves
……………….
chewed through a whole biro trying to write those words! i am an inveterate pen gnaw-er, especially when words don’t want to flow (stuckness mostly a winter thing)
fun to write similar words each turn around the sun, a return, spiraling through the year
it doesn’t have to be great, just a really enjoyable process, stodgily working things through
was trying for something a bit more ooh i don’t know manley hopkins or o’donohue this time
recently, when i’ve been waking at a blear 4:00 am, to get back to sleep i’ve been listening again to o’donohue (‘beauty: the invisible embrace’)
i love his irish voice, that slightly peculiar intonation, it flows beautifully with his words, to my pre dawn consciousness muddled mind, i’m not always sure what he’s saying
but its important, a sumptuous crescendo of lyricism
‘Freed from desire, mind and senses purified’
i’ve been rolling these words around on my tongue all day long, like some buddhist koan pebble gobstopper
i’m rubbish at equinamity, just too darn difficult… so with some relief finally realised that this owl pellet of wisdom isn’t from thich naht hahn,
but rather a cheesey dance song that came up on this mornings jog, it continues:
‘My love has got no power, he’s got his trampoline! my love has got no money, he’s got his trampoline!’, sentiments i can definitely get bounce behind
the certain knowledge that November is not for me… its all being reclusive, chunky knitwear and glum soup
the endless twilight tho is quite beautiful
colours of washed out lemon, with a flame aura of blue through violet
black clouds like scattered ash, lit from below, feather bellied, swollen, solemn, ponderous
indeed, nuage et nuance
katie: Love it! And my love has got his strong beliefs (and hopefully a strong trampoline too)
truth! whatever lyrical quibbles its deffo an earworm… listened to it again, now its going around my head, probs till christmas day xx
lou: Yesssss this song is epic 
November live to your dear 
magda: Na na na na na na naaana na naaana na na
harley: na na na na na nah-nah na na na na nana!
genius! i think they realised that the words they had were perfection in themselves, so decided not to bother making up any more xx
hey jude for the dance generation
aww impossible not to love the lewes bonfire bedlam! the annual stripey jumpered cacophony
swirling smoke, teeming rain
burning brands shoved in your face, all is hubbub, a riot of fire, of clamour… explosions 2 feet away, absorbed in the body
visceral, a somatic nightmare
brass bands vye with samba ensembles, psychotic drummers provide a skeletal backbone beat
effigies are lugged, everything exploded… yes, everything exploded
a jostle, pomp of costume, melee down medieval streets
beauty glimpsed, forever fleeting
people are glamourous, astonishing. WE are beautiful with the madness, fresh of fire, flourished on our faces… shining, tumbling forth from eyes… ha!
anyway, hyperbole aside, i’m enjoying the blurry out of focus unreality of the smaps
good natured, in your face, ritualised anarchy
PANDE-f***kin’-MONIUM
endless endless rain, spent the rest of the day marooned in bed… even getting to lewes is a palaver, like your breaking into the town… a drive and a crazy pedal for me… all part of the adventure
hmm skimming thru recent posts looks like i live in a shower cap… probs truer than i’d care to imagine
