Tuesday, September 1, 2015

Waking Up.

There are Chopin Nocturnes drifting through the house, (didn't think I could enjoy them these days, but at dusk, on a Spring evening in the mountains, they are rejuvenated in all their tender magic).

And there is a glass of pear cider. And earlier Leonard Cohen.

I miss showing up here at mine, and having chats. And I also miss popping in to see you at yours. Thank you for your comments, which I haven't been able to get to yet.

The combination of technology (massive fail), and my being whisked away into the world where I'm  kept busy with a task that has me, basically, weaving straw into...well, copper,* has left me with Phantom Keyboard Syndrome, (yes, I do believe it's a syndrome, or it is because I say so).
I scratch out writing time on the Nov where I can, but in truth there has been scant enough head-space for the thing. And something else, another story, keeps snaking and swirling itself about me, crowding out the one I should be working on.

So I snatch time in cafes with notebooks, collecting these snippets like rainwater. Scratching them down before they evaporate, only to reappear in someone else's head. Trying to push through and birth themselves.

And finally this evening, I've managed an elusive kind of alchemy by conjuring both play time and a borrowed pooter, (because it is just one or t'other of late). So on that note, I thought I'd pop in and say hello.

Hello! *waves*.

I could tell you of more things than the quiet and domestic. But I am much too tired and dulled by that. I will tell you about the seeds I've sown in the garden, and how the Chook Ladies are doing their bestest to scratch them up again. Although the borage, rocket, and calendula prevail, and are jauntily above ground already.

And there was the Party From Hell the neighbours held over the weekend, (it went on for two nights. Two. nights). Sleep? What is this strange and wondrous land of which you speak?
I could accuse these people of being raised by wolves, except that I'd do Blessed Wolf a great disservice in the saying. In fact, I wish they'd been raised by wolves. A good Pack would sort 'em out.

There have been the usual menagerie dramas. Miggins brought a live rat in through the cat-flap and carried it straight into Moon's bedroom. Crickets chirped, and praise in this instance, was not forthcoming. There ensued a kind of frenzy of trying to extricate the poor, terrified rodent, (this involved a feather duster, which in hindsight the rat probably thought even worse than a cat). And just when we thought it was safe, it turned up in Moon's bed, staring out at us in mute horror from beneath the bed covers. Meanwhile, Miggins just stares fatly at us for a moment, swipes the rat onto the floor with a wicked claw, and then promptly beheads the poor beast, (sorry).

Miggins was unruffled, (to say the least), and entirely indifferent to our woes. We now refer to her as MM, (Medieval Miggins). Or Clint Eastwood Cat. Next time, I'm setting her on the neighbours.

And this one. Performing arias at 4am. 

And speaking of Spring lunacy, everywhere is mad-mad-Nature since Spring decided to erupt here on the mountain. It's wild, and big, lush, and Otherworldly as Australia can be.


But I won't go on. I have so little time here, and Moon needs to practise her German on me before she heads off to the Slumbermill, (and heaven help her, because all the German I can manage involves schnapps).

In truth, I believe I need a retreat. Somewhere to just go and think and be, (oh, how lovely that would be hey?) Somewhere to percolate. Because I'm definitely scattered.

At the moment, I manage small grabs of time in the garden, sinking my hands in the black gold and folding it through my fingers. Singing to the earth - strange little songs woven with curiosity and carefulness. There is much older, wiser magic here than mine. Old, old, scary, deep magic. Scary because it doesn't mess about, and is likewise not to be messed with.

I could get a bit woo on you, and tell you of how the Guardians drift about this land. Even this quiet little patch. I leave offerings of porridge, or rice, as well as flowers and incense.

Sometimes I feel nervous in Spring. Not just anxious about the Summer SAD that will descend upon me in a couple of months. Spring is a lull, an upward surging time of buoyancy before the strange, dark, crash that descends when the Light is at its most fierce and unrepentant. But Spring also presents me with a nervous, sharp edged wariness for all that is to come. My Spring has claws beneath its prettiness. I become unsettled.

For now that Winter is over, I can no longer sleep curled up in that warm-budded softness, away from the world. All the tenderness is exposed. I hope I can ease softly into the coming months of Fire and terrible brilliance.

I would like to know how you are...what are you up to? For I doth miss you, m'dears. I hope all is well with you. xxx

*I shall have to remain opaque on that one, I'm afraid.

Tuesday, August 25, 2015


In the garden with the Ladies. And there is much to be done. Although they undo many of my efforts to tidy and plant things. Bless.

Thought that title would cover a few bases there. Ahem.

Well, it seems that my poor (not that old at all, in fact quite new-ish harrumph!) pooter is quite caput. That scurvy knave, who wears an apple on his sleeve.

I'm attempting to enter a state of complete and beatific denial in order to not go all foetal in the corner. I have a new understanding and sympathy for those often daffy and impervious characters one encounters in books. For instance, Mrs Durrell in My Family and Other Animals. She must have been slightly dissociative, living with all those frightful children of hers.
Or Lunar Lovegood, who perhaps just always had her priorities straight, (she's actually one of my favourite Harry Potter characters, truth be told).

They seem to have adopted a kind of refusal of disaster. A sort of baffled serenity of the kind that says, "oh well, let's just have a cup of tea while Rome burns, dear. We can't completely lose our equilibrium. It would do the geraniums no good at all". This is decidedly my stance. For now.

But, *sniff*, my computer is my livelihood, my sanity, and all manner of things necessary. And that m'dears, is quite the First World Problem. I know it. And fortunate am I that this it is this that's considered a calamity in my little existence.

Gratitude hasn't quite fixed the problem yet, though.

Anyway, the point I'm (eventually) getting to whilst I have my little pity party, is that I may not be visiting my wee blog hoosies for some time. Or not very often. At the moment I am using someone else's computer, (the Bloke's, actually), but he needs his for work also. So for now, any computer time means work time. And no faffing about between jobs.

The bat-phone is proving to be a frustrating blog tool, (let's be real here, it's not a blogging tool at all), and trying to comment on other blogs is also quite tricky. So I'm sticking to pinterest and instagrin for my happies right now.

Oh and books, and knitting fulfil my analogue leanings...

But it's Spring in this part of the world! And I just ate a pile of early asparagus with my dinner, and I have been watching seeds push their way up through the earth, (although they have been pillaged in part by the Chook Ladies).

And there have been witchetty, highwayman moons, complete with frantic clouds, that whip and stir, and trouble and toil around La Lune's irresistible allure. She all moody and noir in her slinky silver gown.

And I can never photograph the moon. Sigh.
Well lovelies, until next we meet, (and when I have a computer that works), I shall for the most part, be elsewhere. If you do the instagram, I'd love to give you a wave and a hello.

I do hope you're having an excellent week, (with no meltdowns of any kind), and that this find you in good health.

Warmest wishes and blessings to you. xxx