being two

Today we walked to the granite city. We wearily trudged by the lapping sea, bitten by the chill of the wind and went to meet friends for coffee. We chatted and drank dark strong bleu de bresil. Outside, our kids were playing. Outside, my youngest daughter ran. In the sunny cobbled street, under the blue sky, she walked backwards and then ran down ' WEEeeeeeee'. After a while I went out and crouched down, and she fell into my arms at the end of each race, joy on her two year-old face. 'WWeeeeeeee' and ' Boooom' colliding flesh and emotion. She loves running my littlist girl. She loves planes, trains and automobiles. She has curly blond hair and is as stubborn as a mountain. She is two.

1. Learning about lying fallow

Amy has a project about learning. I want to join in, to go for the ride. Today, I learnt that part of making art is having the time to breath, drift, do nothing, drink coffee and listen to 18 year old French kids laugh, drink coke and gossip about Spanish teachers who swear. Henry Miller called this lying fallow. 'The plowing or tilling of land, without sowing it for a season; as, summer fallow, properly conducted, has ever been found a sure method of destroying weeds.' You plough the land then leave it empty, unsowed, rested. Who knows what can happen next?

Following Paris

I drifted in Paris, met friends, went to the 104, a contemporary arts centre in the North East of Paris. I watched plays, walked in the snow, bought a pair of dungarees that I have not worn. I nibbled on Jewish cheesecake, gulped coffee, dreamed and stamped my feet on urban land. I took photos, rang my family and bought cherry flowers in salt from an exquisite Japanese boutique.

Following Paris, I've been researching and writing, caring for sick people, eating spelt and lentils cooked with caramalized onions and topped with white feta cheese.

Paris

Tomorrow morning I shall awake in the winter darkness and ease myself silently out of the house. I shall cross dark streets and the midnight blue sky and drive my car through empty roads, lit by yellow street lamps. I will slip onto a monolithic train and ride my way to Paris. Alone. In a capital city. A present from time, an extraction from everyday living.

rushing or my being is doing

I rushed today- collating research for a conference paper, making soup, baking a fish, writing emails, buying nappies for my friend's new baby, drinking coffee, drinking green tea, drinking Lapsong Souchong; drinking everything and anything to keep the seconds ticking while I planned a trip to Paris, thought about sitting down and read my daughter books and sent invitations to an artists event I am organizing. I was bred like this, through nature or nurture, through watching my mother or through my DNA programming; a large part of my being is doing. I split days into hours and minutes and seconds and check diaries, emails, blogs and bank accounts. The weather report can be accessed, along with the latest news and checking out cheap flights for a future holiday, while stirring a sauce and when I am at work I do not walk I run. My life partner is the complete opposite of this, thank goodness. I have the energy of a toddler, the buzz of a power station.

stopping

The tumble dryer has just stopped turning. This morning we walked to the granite citadel, we stepped through the bitter wind, marched against a heavy ashen sky,we drank Brazlian coffee and talked of trips to Germany and pragmatism versus hedonism.This afternoon I made fairy cakes decorated in thick white icing with multi-coloured hundreds and thousands. Then we drank Japanese green tea and held a tiny new-born baby and felt the fire of new beginnings. This evening we made egg mayonnaise, did the washing up and danced to Grease Lightening à trois while he swam. Now, the day is finishing and I will fold hot washing as the tumble dryer has just stopped turning.

back again

One year later and I am back again. I started writing here on January the 24th 2008. I wrote posts for one year, stopping in December 2008. One year later and I am back again. Back here to write of waves, upside down journeys, dark skies, the blue sea, granite walls, sleeping children and the little moments which set my fingers clicking on the keyboard; words falling soft as midnight snowflakes, white and cold against the navy sky. I am back with vowels and consonants, words and sentences and paragraphs to fill my pixel landscape. I am back scratching stories into the empty screen, snuggling inside the letters that I write. I return because of the very evrydayness of this exercise, this electronic trace of space and time. I go now to finish my bowl of carrot, sweet potato and cumin soup, my slice of brown bread and feta cheese.