At the threshold of sleeping and waking, I remembered something I'd seen in a dream - it was a young woman sitting by a fire, pouring tea from a large pot and remarking about the program she was listening to on the radio. It was gloriously old-fashioned and comfortable, in the same way that I used to find walking into my grandparents house was comfortable; full of simple, familiar routines that could ease my worries in an instant.
Quiet girls with dark-framed glasses - their perfect skin and lovely smiles that you'd never notice because you never notice. Pouring tea from an over-sized Brown Betty, old radios playing crackling dance-hall records. Lace doilies and cardigans; the faint smell of damp. Wing-backed chairs by small, coal-fires in drafty houses. Small smiles and contented hearts; thin, blue, air-mail paper and the wobbling script of an aged hand.
I watched Jane Eyre on the weekend and I found myself remembering why I used to write poetry. It helps me capture those threads of longing that I feel when I see storm-scudded skies and the bleak beauty of wind-rent heather and cold stone. I try to anchor myself on this patch of earth, all the while my spirit is restless and longs for a home and life far out of time and space.
Writing holds me fast to the waking world, lest I lose myself in the dreams entirely. But it's a madness of it's own and each time I go under, I wonder if I'll be able to come back to the surface. I think of Inkheart and sigh for the notion of worlds-made-real.
Telling stories is one thing, dressing them up is entirely another and I wonder if that's at all what I want to do, at least on any sort of grand scale. But there's a burden of guilt attached to not sharing and I find myself resenting it. Ever contrary, I want to do the opposite of what's expected.
I just want to write down the stories that are following me around.
The snow is coming down, thick and fast. Winter, it seems, has finally arrived.
until next we meet,