In between

This afternoon was in between, half-finished coffee, all the pieces of yourself that wanted to sleep, or work, or do something, despite the heat and the tingling sensation on your back from too long spent on the beach in the sun and the salt from the water and the first swim of the year, entering the water at the count of three and emerging from the cold yelling out loud, so loud, feeling free enough to roar, and good to be alive and now, after lunch, crunchy roast chicken and the taste of garlic linger on your tongue, everything is in between, for the evening has not yet come and the house is napping and the coffee is waiting, waiting to be drunk, for the light to fade and the waves to return to the shore.

Hungry, but not.

Hungry, but not. It is the evening now. Train travel home on a journey from a course. Via a hotel room, tucked into the eaves, warm baths and bad TV. Outside the window, the cloudless sky is navy blue, dark azure, nearly black. Bartok on the Ipod. Have spent days in movement and drama - fleshy art crafted from muscles and minds. Hands danced against locked yellow light. In the train carriage, a stark bob bissects a passenger's chin. A fat bespectacled lady rustles her evening paper. A biscuit box is opened. To eat or not to eat? Have consumed an apple. Sushi for lunch.  Heat. Heat. Heat. The sun has stolen my hunger.  Would like a cup of tea and something sweet, made with salted butter, just a pinch. Bartok bangs on piano keys, up down, up down, rhythms rolling. "Le train est a destination de..." says a voice, falling from the speakers, reaching our ears. I could stay here forever, bound into this train, watching the bob and the newspaper rustle.  Suited men carry cases as we leave another station. We are off. We. Are. Off.

Packing on a rainy day

It's raining again. Chill air, damp bones. The cold creeps into every corner. We are wishing, wishing on spring.  Meanwhile, I pack my bag. I am very fond of these preparations. Tucking objects into space, nestling miniature containers in tidy rows. Moving has been etched into my bones. I seek to balance the equation of a minimum weight to a maximum sense of home, bringing little pieces of everything with me, perhaps, carrying little pieces of me everywhere: hibiscus teabags, two butter biscuits, green notebooks, a sample of silken bath oil. Following the roots of the verb to pack, I am taken to carrying together in a bundle, and the making of secret arrangements. The latter definition suits me fine. I am arranging the objects for the comfort of my journey; putting stuff into private patterns.

what will happen next...

On Sunday night, overlooked by my grandma's Japanese doll, life falls in lines around me. I wonder to myself, what will happen next.

The manuscript has been sent, the washing turns, clothes tumble in a watery spin. The travelling has paused, just for a little while and I stare at the sudden spring sky. I look at my feet on our old living-room rug (that we keep on promising we will replace). I examine the lines that divide our space, straight things moving from A to Z.

I think of promises and deadlines; words typed on top of Spanish mountains. My toenails are red and pillar box bright. I think of building and climbing and mystery, and how the lines of our existence generally curve. 

I am working on stories and a project that makes me laugh. In between the workshops and the eating of garlic aioli (served with steamed vegetables and a bite of salt cod), I imagine an entirely new tale. I scrub floors, unexpectedly. 

On Sunday night, I murmur, quietly to myself, you know, it will happen next...

Basking in the blue

Been on the road, on the railways, tarmac and over-head wires, criss-crossing over land, through the rain - it seems to have been pouring endlessly. Wet, wet, wet. We met friends in damp Spanish mountains, drank cosmopolitans and café con lêche. 

People dodged puddles amongst the pollarded trees - that remind me of ink drops and midnight monsters (I am against over pruning). 

I caught a train from South to North, passed a shaven-headed surfer scented with thirty unwashed nights; a muzzled dog licked my foot as a fat woman swigging beer gave up her seat to a pin-thin old lady saying, "You have to think of the others". Rain, rain  on window panes. 

After, I ran theatre workshops, moved and imagined, acted and breathed; made ephemeral monuments, something from nothing, acting leaves no trace. It rained. At home, unpacked, washed, wrote. Celebrated with dandelions.

Made a brioche that did not rise. Made a loaf of bread that did. Finally, now, the sun's come out. We're basking in the blue.