Author: basgallop

ugghh is it possible to overdose on honey ginger and lemon? can one dwell too long in a lavender and jasmine bath… beyond even twiggly wrinkled prune fingers
its the end of the world (possibly) and i’ve got a mild attack of the sniffles. snotmageddon.
mildly disappointing really
still i’ve got the best bobble hat in the entire universe.. and huge quantities of chocolate. not all bad
see even REM weren’t always boring old windbags

aggghh i’ve just remembered smiley happy people… noooooooo!

watching the wind on the surface of the water
flattening the waves, plumping up the froth, shrapnel stipple pockmarking the surface
playful agog, then it is gone, to alight elsewhere, some capricious djinn
to be a sailor, when all is calm, idle, marooned on the placid expanse of ocean
to whistle for the wind, a gentle summoning, subterfuge, an act of sympathetic magic
tacit acknowledgement that the wind, with all its blustery pomp cannot be controlled
that when it wants, and only then, it will fill the slack sails with its burden brute force
i like wind because it is invisible! rejoice in the bleeding obvious, known only through its consequence
hung out washing dancing on the line,
a fire just as it catches, wind coaxed, the joyful fury as the wood surges into flame,
prayer flags, colourful, aloft, in the high himalaya, clap flapping their prayers to the heavens
else the augury of birds, a seagull that stalls, stukhas then slow dives to the waves
a hawk as it hovers, a subtle manipulation, the angling of bone, sinew and feather, miraculous stasis midst the roar
mastery. to blend with its element. grace

………. its fun, waking up, writing words and at the same time half heartedly perusing facebook! x

ice cream head! best cosset me noggin tea cosey stylee, back from an early morning jog, trust me ice cream head is much better than colly wobble goolies
…off in my jogging pantaloons following the frost sparkled pavements up to the cliff tops
Running across the ice brittle grass, stiff bristled as a crunchy ocean bed of sea urchins
clip clop, kept on looking around for a horse, but just the sound of my own passing over the iron shod ground
i love coming across horses on a hill side in the early morning light, it is not their full fettle movement, but the utter stillness, entranced, dream phantom still
i digress, below, like liquid nitrogen(?!), the sea is frozen into a wave… the hunger, the loll tongued stare of the steppenwolf
the water cradled within the harbour walls is calm and gentle, stippled… like cling film on jelly
surrealy the only sound to break the stillness (to quell the rattling in my head) are chimes, a few wafted bars from an ice cream van!
i imagine mr softee, wintering in his mobile home, apron and feather duster, with a sigh, with a smile, unable to resist pressing the button, simple nostalgia for summers sake
anyway i get to my turning around point, where i get the first glimpse of brighton, usually a shrug and ‘naaaah’, but today, the low slung orange sun behind me
and there, with the furious snarled grimace of the sun god, or more likely the rictus grin of a cartoon character stung by a wasp, i raise both my arms, the long shadow reaches out, gaping to the horizon
and tho it might be fanciful to claim to have blotted out the whole of brighton, i did, at least, obliterate peacehaven heights… some might say a very good thing

he he i love a bout of early morning poncification! to make up for it, a lovely pic of finn from way way back when! stanmer house in the background

always loved this song, evocative, melancholic dick gaughan, perfect for a winters afternoon, sometimes the sadness leads you deeper, towards the beauty
‘But waking in your dawn
I saw you crying in the morning light
While lying where the falcons fly
They twist and turn all in your air-blue sky’

touch, most gentle, intimate and sincere of all the senses… nourishing in most of its guises, whether through massage, the pummel of muscles, which relaxes, then releases the fraught stored clenched memories
or from a hug, warmth shared, summoning something greater
it disturbs me that society has almost banished touch, cuddles reserved for your own children, a caress only for a lover, sometimes people shy away, almost flinch when you reach out to touch them (like salt on slug lips?!)
‘how dare you!’, ‘invasion!’, ‘keep your filthy paws… (off my silky drawers)’
yes touch can be rough, abrupt, ambivalent sexual, but also and, even, sometimes, at the same time gentle, playful, releasing, forgiving

it is ancient, that which is deepest, oldest, first… fundamental
think of the oldest life, as they squirmed through the primordial ooze, the world as a felt experience
or the foetus us, shrimp curled in our mothers womb… held, contained, feeling only the pressing outwards, inwards, of cusp and boundaries.
Our ancestors, plains dwellers, frightened within the night, huddled close to the genius warmth of fire, eyes gazing upwards, marvelling at the cold distance of the crystal stars
… but from the safe, held, coddled warmth of the rummage of bodies, the we, the closeness of us

humans sweaty, grubby, present

ha! indeed i greatly enjoy my own grandeloquence! boa constrictor squeeze the life from a thought with the clammy clasp of words
a tumble of words written first thing in the morning, inteersting space, before we are grounded by conversation

………… and a mail that got totally ignored … struggle with that sort of energy!
…
was doing some sun salutations this morning, such a gorgeous b-e-a-utiful day out there, and was thinking absent mindedly about your status, of course i should just have been with the postures, but my mind so often doodles in spirals.. was going to say the obvious, that when i split from my ex, barely took anything, tried to embrace all those ideas of letting go, making space, but in all honesty i don’t think it was that succesful for me, as always trying, rather than allowing it to come from anywhere natural… ended up with less stuff to lug around though, so guess that was good!
.. but actually i was thinking more of the temple metaphor, i tend to feel more like what? a small fearful creature scurrying through a sprawling decaying city, the city of all that i have ever known, baroque, medieval, prague probably, where i used to live, but knowing well that i am not merely that creature, but the city itself, the faces and guises on all the statues (ooh thinking grandiose like the bayonne at angkor wat, amazing place, hope you’ve been there!), but also the beautiful woman glimpsed turning away from the window, somewhere on the outskirts fading into other people, the social realm, ancient archetypes… oh but also the new life, the flowers pushing up growing through the paving stones.
hmmm enough of rather obvious morning fancifulness, my kids are over, shall have to see if they fancy being roused into going for a walk… teenagers!
………………………….

my nose is cold (healthy if i were a dog!). my socks are DAMP. love is only for others… a waltz to the co op.. thought as a tight knit barricade against the world, brushing aside the rude intimacy of sensation. early morning gloam, this the late november dish water bilge light…. and verily death stalks the trees, leaves that once were all a silken shimmy, those that remain, tattered, brown, with a dry death rasp, husk of a rattle, aagggh… lies of course, the leaves are soggy and look like their made of polyester. mulch of thoughts. mulch. thought. mulch. march along the concrete. ah but song! outward looking, open, embracing, the loose woven billow of a tune. croak along ‘my old man said follow the van and don’t dilly dally on the wa-a-ay’