I am meant to be watching Inception, but they talk too fast and when I can actually hear what they are mumbling it doesn’t make too much sense anyway. As far as I can gather, it is all to do with being trapped in someone else’s dream (or nightmare). As I type they start mentioning LIMBO. For a Catholic child, this is simply terrifying.
Stargazing is far more relaxing. Here is today’s – there’ll be another tomorrow.
Eventually, we will be back on track.
I watched a boy leaning on a tree vomiting this lunchtime. I was out for ‘a run’ with the dog. The truth is I’ve not ‘run’ anywhere for eighteen months, although in order to avoid being one of the hordes of New Year Resolutionists I had a tentative trot out a couple of times last week just to check everything sort of worked. (The jury is out on that one.)
Anyway, at first I thought the boy was older than he was, probably in the grip of a hangover. As I got closer I saw he was no more than twelve, maybe younger. He had got out of a silver car, parked on the wrong side of the road. A man, probably his father, was in the driver’s seat, his elbow sticking out of the fully open car window, the engine running. Car sickness probably. Football fans perhaps – the Shrimpers were having an early kick-off.
That, I thought to myself as I passed the poor kid, is the difference between a father and a mother. The mother would be out with the kid, by the tree, as useless as the father still sitting in the car, engine running, but she would be there. Then I carried on and thought I might die myself in the far muddy corner of the park as my lungs threatened to explode. My life is not glamorous, my trainers are covered in an inch of mud at all times and when I ‘run’ I can’t always breathe. Still, I hope I would get out of the car if my child was throwing up by a tree. It would make no difference of course, but one can’t, always. I am reminded of the quote from Lady Windermere’s Fan by Oscar Wilde which said, ‘We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.’ The gutter doesn’t change but the stars do. At the moment my stars are a bit hazy, like this one.
Apparently it’s National Poetry Day. Here’s a poem, it’s not especially National though and it doesn’t follow this year’s theme which is stars. In my defence, I didn’t know it was National Poetry anything until seven o’-clock this morning and still less what the theme was until I googled it a minute ago; at least we can rectify the latter with a picture. As for the poem, I usually have a surfeit of these hanging around, just waiting for their chance to barely twinkle in the firmament, as unstellarlike as possible, no matter what the day. A shiny blazing poem would be just about the worst thing I could think of.
This poem can now be seen online – published in the journal When Women Waken.
I was out in the general murk this morning with the dog and on the way back I was aware it felt like the sun was trying to make an appearance. I thought I might try and photograph a proliferation of green plant psychedelia on the verge, but when I crossed the road I noticed the sun shining, at my feet.
It hadn’t broken through the clouds, but somehow its reflection in the huge puddles on the road magnified its rays. It faded nearly as abruptly as it had appeared but that didn’t stop the dog and I, dodging the traffic as it barrelled round the blind bend, from trying to catch a few rays to share on here.
It’s like I’m trying to spite Oscar Wilde who said, ‘We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.’ This is more like, I am in the gutter and I find all kinds of cosmic entities right there, thank you very much….