Late at night

It's late and they are sleeping. I am tucked into the sofa; lost in revisions. Midnight wishes, I'm waiting for the pumpkin, or should it be the golden carriage. The words keep spilling, endlessly. I cut, shape, paste and add and add. Nothing ever stays the same. Bones ache, but I buzz endlessly, read Virginia Wolff and Issac Bashevis Singer, fall from one world to another. Words come and I scribble in a green and blue notebook. Handwritten letters to be turned into typed fonts. The manuscript will be ready soon. I'll come to an end and it is strange this last rush, different from the flesh and blood making of a play; so internal. Books just exist inside your head. Nobody can see the making. It's only manifestation is an utter mess of papers that flutter in piles, all over the house. Soon, I'll take a vacation, make bread and play. Breath real deep from the inside out. Then, it will begin again.

Today - I should

Today, I should have practised Chi Gong when I pulled myself from bed, concentrating thoughts upon my coccyx. But, a little girl was snuggled in my morning darkness, whispering about her nose. I should have walked upon the beach and breathed in saline air; dragged my eyes from the digital screen and the revisions. This morning, I read pages of Virginia Wolff, switching the writer switch on. Recently, I took this photo of the sand. Unexpectedly, afterwards, I thought of Yves Tanguy, Leonora, floating sand and dancing deserts. Today, I should have, could have, would have. This weekend, a friend told me that as a little blond-haired boy in Southern France, he would try and change the course of time. He would stop halfway on his journey to school, stand still and examine his feet. He was convinced that by his stopping the whole world could transform because he wouldn't be where he was supposed to be at any given time. Then, he explained, came his utter disappointment as the school bell always rang at it's regular hour.  Should, would, could have done, making everyday be...

more bread

I can't seem to stop this making of bread. I don't follow a recipe, but feel the flour and water, a spot of milk, a sprinkle of salt. It's an intuitive process, a break from the lining up of words, the structuring of chapters, the revisions of manuscripts.

The evening

Tick tock goes the clock on the upturned wine crate that serves as my bedside table. Reaching into the tender clean sheets, toes curl at the thought of sleep. The books are piled in a crumpled heap, waiting to be read. Dust lurks in the space where objects end, creeping around my room. Hiding beneath a solace of blankets,  hear the purr of passing cars. So soft the evening gloom.

lowtide

Today we walk on the beach at low tide. Grey clouds paper the sky. A fine drizzle of rain coats the air. Everywhere is empty, uncovered, flat and raw. The sea has gone somewhere to dance with someone else. Seagulls streak across the sky. Puddles lap against brown sand, whispers of what is to come. 

bread-making

I have started baking bread again. I once did this before, before children, book-writing and job juggling. " I don't have the time now", I would say to my myself, baking bread takes time. Then, sometime in December, I baked a fruit loaf for one daughter, an enriched dough, studded with tiny black raisins, a melt in your mouth bread to be served with English tea in a cup and saucer, with a drop of milk. After the fruit loaf came some white bread, then, a brown loaf and then, another. "We are a family of boulangeres", my eldest daughter said. I giggled and stuck my hands back into the bowl of flour. For now, I am letting yeast bubble in a bowl of warm water, sprinkled with a taste of sugar. Having created a well in my mountain of flour, I mix until the sticky mess becomes a smooth warm ball, comfortable as a freshly laid egg. I knead, fold and work with my dough, muscles tighten and relax, I can feel it with my toes. I am dampening tea towels, letting things rise and then kneading a second time. I bake, turn the loaf, tap to hear a hollow echo. Baking bread. I found some time.

January morning 4 : this morning

This morning is wrapped in soft grey rain; tiny drops of water like champagne bubbles, the wind and a heavy, charcoal sky. "Lets stay at home", I long to say to the children, "- put on bobble hats, thick socks and hide under the duvet eating buttery toast and coco pops". Instead, we bundle on coats, shove hats on heads and venture out into the darkness.