Promoted by aphorisms

I wasn't sure what an aphorism was - and even after reading this week's selection am still confused, nevertheless MudSpots 009 has a lot of interesting takes on the subject, all in under 250 words.
Have a look at https://mudspots.wordpress.com/2011/09/22/spot-009-aphorisms/#comment-111

Heart of a cultural landscape

Stenness, circle of Neolithic celebration

eleven stones aligned, and twelfth omitted

for the entrance from the loch side village

and to admit the setting summer solstice sun

Angled standing slabs all set for ceremonial

to echo music, recognise the high point of the year

Central square stone surrounded hearth

backed by smaller sectioned pair

which frame the Maeshowe tomb

and with just a semi-circle turn

one would see the sixty stones of Brodgar,

both winter places death associated

aligned with equinox, sunrise, sunset and solstice.

My entry for Language>Place Carnival # 10, which is hosted by Sheree Mack, and can be accessed in its glorious entirety from here

Urban rhymes for modern times [Book blurb Friday #28]

Too often poetry written for teenagers misses by a country mile.  Joshua Waites wouldn’t thank you for country:  his attitude and intelligence re-define ‘streetwise’, his vision is 20:20 urban and there’s hardly a leaf or a blade of grass to be seen.   ‘Rhymes’ is a misnomer too – many don’t, nevertheless his sensitivity and observation is astonishing, not only for a young man (he is not yet twenty-two) lacking much in the way of formal education, but would be equally impressive were he a prize-winning scholar from any of England’s most eminent educational establishments.

 “Born on the streets, lived on the streets and will likely die on the streets” (Beth Waites, wife)

“A Shakespeare for the twenty-first century” (Benjamin Jonson, Minister for Culture)

[Warning for the super-squeamish - contains sex, violence and bad language – all very relevant]

[137 words]

Week #28’s response to Lisa Ricard Claro’s Book Blurb Friday challenge Joseph Claro’s photograph,    Each week Lisa posts a photograph which represents a book cover.   Participants are challenged to “Write a book jacket blurb (150 words or less) so enticing that potential readers would feel compelled to buy the book”  
http://www.writinginthebuff.net/p/book-blurb-friday.html

Prodigal! - the eternal dilemma [Book Blurb Friday #26]

‘He’s one of ours ... and we should give him at least a second chance!’

Thus ended Bill Jenkins’ impassioned speech to the assembled villagers – forty-three of them, a 70% turnout.   Passion sufficient to swing the vote to 52:48 in support of his plan to take back the lad who, ten years ago, was jailed for the manslaughter of his own father.

Narrow, but his mother needed him:  would he care for her as he ought?

Too narrow for the girl on whom he’d fathered a daughter:  her father and three brothers had declared they’d see him in hell first.

The minister and the church congregation likewise flew in the face of compassion, declining to forgive, while without exception his former teachers were unanimous in offering practical help and a chance to prove himself – and even to clear his name.

Who wins – and is the result deserved?

[147 words]

Week #26’s response to Lisa Ricard Claro’s Book Blurb Friday challenge and Lyn Obermoeller’s photograph,    Each week Lisa posts a photograph which represents a book cover.   Participants are challenged to “Write a book jacket blurb (150 words or less) so enticing that potential readers would feel compelled to buy the book”  

http://www.writinginthebuff.net/p/book-blurb-friday.html

MudSpots

From the MuDJoB stable - MudSpots is a weekly challenge of writing up to 250 words to a prompt.
This is week five and the topic was 'Needful Things - give yourself a treat and check it out

from Saturday

Although it might be getting dark by the time we arrive on Saturday (and 'severe gales' are forecast for the weekend) this is where we'll be next week - the red-jumpered person on the pier is my husband (photo taken in 2005.)

It will be low key - walking through the flagstone town of Stromness, Pier Arts Centre, Tam's bookshop, Waterfront Gallery, and further afield, including, this trip, to Isbister - the Tomb of the Eagles - to see if they'd like to buy my book, 'Edge' which is inspired by there.

No posts while I am there but I hope to gather more material (more! - I've been gathering memories since 1981) at least for Language>Place> Carnival #10 - 'The Heart and Soul of the Cultural Landscape'

Penny pretends

“Penny Plain become Penny Coloured eh?   A definite improvement if I may say so!”  

Penny looked up at Eric McGarry, suppressing her desire to smirk, gloatingly, at him, and instead applied a mirror-rehearsed sequence of facial responses indicating in turn surprise, recognition and (hardest of all) flattered pleasure.    

Yes, he had noticed her bright pink jacket – he was meant to – as he had completely ignored, as also intended, her earlier neutral and anonymous appearances in these same auction rooms in the previous three weeks.   Originally she had hardly dared to believe it was possible for him to be so unobservant, but over the course of the five weeks she’d been following him around, she had realised that he had lost none of his self-important arrogance – viewed, in Venice, in her youthful ignorance, as cleverness and knowledge – and with a secret, and somewhat relieved, wriggle of delight, she realised that her task – Guido's second task  – was going to at least be easier and more satisfying to accomplish than she had at one time feared.

Eric McGarry makes a move

“What’s this?” he asked, confronting her where she stood in the angle of the building, a somewhat laboured bonhomie intended to cover his slight doubt that he had judged her correctly, his uncertainty that she’d recognise him, and that if she did, that she’d remember him kindly.   “Penny Plain become Penny Coloured eh?   A definite improvement if I may say so!”

Earlier, Eric McGarry, a man of many aliases, checking out the crowd for the dealers and fellow competitors, and ignoring the obvious first-timers, had spotted the woman in the vivid linen jacket, the strawberry pink singing out among the drab, eager-to-be-neutral grey and beige suits, and he’d taken a second look, not immediately certain which category she fell into – she certainly didn’t possess the bored nonchalance of the regular but neither did she have the eyes-everywhere excitement of the amateur.

He’d then been diverted, the usual hearty, lying, insincere greetings, on both sides, before, at the entry of the auctioneer, having to take his seat, but on the way he had given the woman, now stood at the back of the room, a second glance, and then a third ... was there something familiar about her?   He cleared his mind once the bidding started, concentrating, but was caught out a couple of times by the lot he wanted going, at the last minute, for a fraction more than he was prepared to bid, to someone else.   These things happened, now and then, but he needed to find out who it was ...  

In the interval, stood outside with a cigarette, keeping away from the others so as not to lose concentration, he had seen her again, in profile this time, looking up towards the sky, watching the wheeling of a flock of pigeons and suddenly, transported in an instant to St. Mark’s Square – Piazza San Marco – he had recognised her.   ‘Christ!’ he wondered to himself, ‘after all these years ...’   Quickly he retrieved what he knew of her:  shy, eager and biddable, she had been in love with Guido of course but Guido wasn’t interested in her type – too mousy by half.   But she’d obviously learnt something in the intervening years, got a bit more colourful, at least.   He doubted she was any less biddable, not from what he could remember of her, that sort didn’t change ... and the more he thought about it the more he could see a use for her now ... so noting that she was standing alone he had quickly extinguished his cigarette and gone over to speak to her.
[possible excerpt from 'Not wanted on Voyage']

Past Imperfect - Book Blurb Friday #24

It was the old, old story, often told – a time of war when future was uncertain, if not unlikely, when the need to experience Life, not to die not knowing became overwhelming.   And in the aftermath of war, for the victors, there was too much going on in the present to think of what had been, to wonder about consequences.

Anne Saddleworth, recently, stoically, widowed and in her mid-fifties was merely hanging a holiday on something as irrelevant as the pack of postcards she had long known about, which had been in an envelope with an Italian-English dictionary, belonging to her father.

Finding the town had not been difficult; finding a chain of bookshops with the un-Italian name of ‘Murgatroyd’ – her maiden name, her father’s name – most definitely had.

And difficulties compounded upon meeting the children of the triplets of the woman who had taught her father about Life.

Week #24’s response to Lisa Ricard Claro’s Book Blurb Friday challenge and Sioux Roslawski’s evocative photograph,    Each week Lisa posts a photograph which represents a book cover.   Participants are challenged to “Write a book jacket blurb (150 words or less) so enticing that potential readers would feel compelled to buy the book” 
http://www.writinginthebuff.net/p/book-blurb-friday.html

Book 6, Chapter 1

With a smile on her face she read the nineteen words of the final sentence, probably for the nineteenth time, and was, definitely for the nineteenth time. well pleased with it, despite the fact that the preceding 1440 words had been changed and changed again numerous times.   Mostly they had been added to, to clarify, using extra description, more precise adjectives, although, as always, the very first sentence, the one which was always the hook which lodged itself in her brain, which started the whole head-filling process, had hardly changed at all.   And starting from that first sentence, listening to the words her characters insisted on saying, putting herself in their places, remembering what had gone on before, the many and various interactions which had filled the previous four books, understanding how they felt towards each other, how they interacted, what emotions they would show, which conceal, she had arrived, unanticipated, at the last, because that was exactly what the man would say.

She pressed Ctrl and S, and then did it again, for luck, before reaching across to the wooden cup wherein lay her memory stick.   ‘Here we go again’ she thought.

[This was my response to the serendipitous four words of yesterday’s Thinking Ten prompt, read after I had done precisely this.]

Bliss Blue Diagonal [Book Blurb Friday #22]

Bigger than the Beatles, more talented than Radiohead, Blue Bliss Diagonal came, sang and conquered. Four highly talented musicians who wrote lyrics of an originality and relevance to today’s high-speed culture, sung in a voice described as that of a ‘sultry angel’.   Songs with a conscience, sung with honesty and passion which not only equalled but surpassed the Blues, held heartstrings tighter than grass roots Folk music and shivered the spines of everyone who heard them.

Then overnight – 21st July 2010 - they stopped: disbanded, went their separate ways without publicity or announcement.   And left behind a bereft and heartbroken fan-base.

In the past twelve months one of their greatest fans has undertaken hours of assiduous research and carried out dozens of hours of interviews in an attempt to answer some of their fans’ desperate questions – not all but most of the answers can be found HERE.   [148 words]

Week #22’s response to Lisa Ricard Claro’s Book Blurb Friday challenge and Christine Claro’s challenging photograph,    Each week Lisa posts a photograph which represents a book cover.   Participants are challenged to “Write a book jacket blurb (150 words or less) so enticing that potential readers would feel compelled to buy the book”  

http://www.writinginthebuff.net/p/book-blurb-friday.html

London Migration

It is human nature to take written facts of names and places, dates and occupations, however sparse, and use them to build a picture our ancestors and of the lives they led.   My husband was born in London, as were his parents, grandparents and all but two of his great-grandparents.   Of the sixteen in the generation previous to that only two were London born – twelve others had, between 1826 and 1872, migrated into London from all corners of England:  Devon, Warwickshire, Lancashire, Northamptonshire, Lincolnshire, Cambridge, Suffolk, Essex, and Kent.

Of these twelve, three couples had married and had at least one child before migrating (two marrying spouses from adjoining countries), and three males met and married their wives in London, their birthplaces bearing no relationship to those of their spouses.

The two couples of this generation who remained in the county of their birth were a stonemason and his wife (both Shropshire-born) and a carpenter and his wife (both born in Devon).

For this series of London migration prints, both country and city ‘portraits’ were produced for each migrating ancestor.   As in life, the juxtaposition of sixteen disparate people failed to present a unified image, therefore these were variously combined and allied to relevant texts in order to create a harmonious composition.


London migration I combines of country ‘portraits’ for each of the sixteen ancestors known to have migrated into London, with maps and place names of where they originated.   The decision to move from one’s birthplace might be prompted by dreams of success or by harsh economic necessity.


 
London migration II combined city ‘portraits’ for each of the sixteen ancestors known to have migrated into London with the street names of their first known address; further information is also embedded within the image.

 
London migration III Names, birthplaces and occupations have been worked into this image.   As well as commenting on the difficulties of unravelling such information when tracing London-born ancestors, it underlines the need to reappraise conclusions in the light of new evidence.

London migration IV is the final piece in this series and attempts to comment on dislocation and loss of identity, and the fact that while some families go on to achieve financial success, others most definitely do not.

From censuses it was seen that the fortunes of at least three families improved, since they became employers, but that one might have been better staying where he was, at least in terms of habitation.   For all but one it would have been necessary to come to terms with living, and raising a family in a crowded and rapidly-expanding city while losing both family support and the possibility of solitude amidst natural beauty;  that the one who migrated from the equally thrusting city of Birmingham was also by far the most financially successful might be little more than coincidence, but might not.

(All images measure 40cm x 40cm 15¾” x 15¾”, etching with soluble graphite on 250 gsm Somerset Satin)

This piece was written for the 9th issue of Language>Place> blog Carnival

 

Grandson

An early morning premonition
a midday phone call
and earlier this evening photographs

A grandson - with a face of such individuality
and a most beautifully-shaped mouth.

I do not know who he takes after.

Averting the echo of history (Book Blurb Friday #21

Agatha Jane Merriman

12 July 1879 - 12 September 1899

Steadfast to the end

Although the self-possessed accusation in the face of the stone girl had startled her, it was the memorial inscription at her feet which terrified because she was Agatha Jane Merriman, her birthdate identical but for a century - and today was the first day of September 1999

Impelled by urgent and insistent premonition, acutely aware that only with knowledge of past events could she prevent her own death in less than a fortnight, Agatha visits the local Record Office, where the very mention of her name sets in motion a treacherous and increasingly smoke-screened hunt for evidence and information.  Coincidences abound and history threatens to repeat itself on many levels, even down to the man from the past with the same name as Agatha’s would-be fiancé.  Can the echo be averted or is her premature death inevitable?  [150 words]

Week #21’s response to Lisa Ricard Claro’s Book Blurb Friday challenge and Sioux Roslawski’s fascinating photograph,    Each week Lisa posts a photograph which represents a book cover.   Participants are challenged to “Write a book jacket blurb (150 words or less) so enticing that potential readers would feel compelled to buy the book”  

http://www.writinginthebuff.net/p/book-blurb-friday.html

HoW now over

We met on line at Six Sentences, got to know each other through writing and comments and wanted to extend the many friendships.   Last weekend we met in North Carolina.    Imagine fifteen of us, in one house, sat in a circle, taking it in turns to read out our stories on a theme of 'freedom' written especially for the occasion, imagine the pleasure in hearing the voice of the person whose words had previously only sounded inside our own heads.   Later that afternoon, as had happened the previous day, we used the Thinking Ten format to write, using randomly-generated prompts to kick start a ten minute tale.   No-one could be in any doubt whatsoever that they were in the company of most excellent writers as each in turn demonstrated originality and a truly impressive turn of phrase.

Now the question is "When shall we all meet again?"

HoW now

Boarding pass for first hop printed
passport, visa, where to meet
to-be-packed clothes and open suitcase
pile of books to be thinned out
panic vies with anticipation:
I fly to Atlanta in the morning.

This not turning out to be quite the small stone it was originally  intended to be I've put it here.   'HoW' stands for 'House of Writers' or 'House of Words' which will be the second gathering of fellow bloggers on the Six Sentences social site, all of whom have become friends over the past year or so.   The first one was in New Orleans last September, this second event will be in North Carolina - three times the number attending and much anticipation of good chat and getting to know each other and, of course, lots of talk about writing.

Letters out of place - [Book Blurb Friday #19]

The places were always secondary to the people.   The men always secondary to the girls.   And sometimes Greg Hardstaff didn’t travel much further than his hotel bedroom.
Yet he never missed a deadline, never failed to entertain his readers.

And never EVER admitted to anyone that he kept a diary

NOW - transcribed by his long-suffering and regular travelling companion and in print for the first time - the FULL, UNEXPURGATED AND NEVER-SAW-THE-LIGHT-OF-DAY TRUTHS behind the words that appeared in print – and some that didn’t.   The scrapes and escapes, the sex and the lies:  death threats, one shooting and three attempted stabbings and no fewer than fifteen blackmail attempts – every colourful detail all here in black and white.   [113 words]

Week #19’s response to Lisa Ricard Claro’s Book Blurb Friday challenge and Lynn Obermoeller’s cannot-fail-to-inspire photograph,    Each week Lisa posts a photograph which represents a book cover.   Participants are challenged to “Write a book jacket blurb (150 words or less) so enticing that potential readers would feel compelled to buy the book”  

http://www.writinginthebuff.net/p/book-blurb-friday.html

Layers of change

 

At any one time

some part or other of the North East

is re-inventing itself

regenerating

expanding mental horizons

and revising the urban blueprint

It could be better

if only ‘retail opportunities’

and acres of car sales

weren’t always included

but could be a lot worse:

at present there is still space to live

still time

no rush

no over-crowding

and still air to breathe

   

Teesside’s industrialisation

arose from man’s exploitation

of its natural resources

and the subsequent creation

of infrastructure

to extract

refine

manufacture

and transport

the resulting products

    Necessary urban growth

to accommodate the workforce

paralleled

the industrial

 

Man’s intervention

seems solid

and irreversible

but obsolescence

and the passing of the years

obliterate

man-made constructions

and Nature’s

often beautiful

regeneration

of the abandoned

blends them back

into the landscape

under layers

of natural decay

For me

contentment lies

in knowing

that I can see the horizon

at the far side of the sea

without having to travel

too many miles

   And knowing

that when I reach the coast

I can stand in silent

and solitary contemplation,

absorbing

the grey green dampness

of the sea-fret

or the promise

of the early morning sun

while nourishing my soul

Plotting ancestors

In 2009, as part of an exhibition entitled 'Plotting ancestors' I attempted to comment on my husband's sixteen great grandparents who had emigrated into London from various counties of England.

City ‘portraits’ were produced for each person.   By combining, by overlaying, the plates for husband and wife an 'image' of their marriage was produced.   Where this was less than visually successful, the back of the plate was used as a ‘wildcard’ (the plates having been cut from a larger plate which had held a family history image), adding an interesting extra dimension.   It is, of course, impossible to say whether or not the marriages themselves were as successful.

This image is for Thomas and Mary Ann Goodfellow - Thomas migrated from Birmingham and was probably the wealthiest of all my husband's ancestors since he was a silversmith and electro-plater with a business in Hatton Garden, and at one time owned some thirty properties in London.   All sold after a dispute over a will.

What IS it about decay?

Peeling paint, weather-worn wood, corroded rusty metal - I have umpteen photos of such.

And will take many more

And I know I'm not alone ... but I do not know why the compulsion, why the textures are so often translated into 'beauty' in my eyes.

Pigeons home to roost [Book Blurb Friday #18]

Had Edward not been the sort of man who resorted to prostitutes when away from home and had Amelia not chanced one final week of ‘work’ before her husband was released, the boy would not have been born.

Had Caroline not had an affair with Edward two years later, she could be sure her daughter had inherited her husband’s genes.

Had Amelia not been Caroline’s twin sister there might not have been a serious problem at all particularly after Amelia emigrated to Australia, following a family falling-out.

But half a world was not unbridgeable and when, in an Israeli kibbutz, Charlie came face to identical face with Tamara questions were inevitable.  

Unearthing their genetic inheritance set off more than familial consequences since the truth threatened not only Edward’s re-election and the Tory government but possibly the monarchy itself – and Edward intended to use all necessary means to prevent exposure.   [150 words]


Week #18’s response to Lisa Ricard Claro’s Book Blurb Friday challenge and I anticipate that Becky Povich’s gentle photograph, will produce a wide range of ideas.
Each week Lisa posts a photograph which represents a book cover.   Participants are challenged to “Write a book jacket blurb (150 words or less) so enticing that potential readers would feel compelled to buy the book”  
http://www.writinginthebuff.net/p/book-blurb-friday.html

bravery award

For my dearly beloved spouse who yesterday, despite his fear of wasps (with reason because their sting may well bring on anaphylactic shock) climbed a ladder to the eaves and sprayed a wasp's nest.
Sadly the wasps have rallied.

First kiss - Summer Dare for Jo Prescott

Visiting my parents' friends who had the builders in. One with the looks of David, the warmth of the sun and the colour of honey. Labouring, strong-armed, at a saw-horse in the orchard and singing snatches of ‘Sloop John B’. Blue shirt, blue eyes, blue sky beyond September-edged leaves. Smiled, took pity on me (gazing in wordless, gormless, disbelieving, adoration). Warm lips tip of tongue taste of heaven. 


Originally on Six Sentences but recently submitted to Jo Prescott for her 'Summer Dare - theme 'Introduction'

Tedious

“Let us spray” he said, which might’ve been funny had it not been for the fourteenth time.   Rick was getting fed-up with this tribute to his recently-deceased granddad.  [140 characters]

Succinctly Yours – a weekly challenge to respond to the photo, and incorporate a word of the week  in less that 140 characters.    Week #14’s word was ‘tribute’

Asemic unravellings

I've recently had a couple of conversations on the subject of asemic writing and today jkdavies has posted some of Sean Burn's work as a  preview of a piece for Edition #7 of the blog Carnival >language>place.she is hosting.

This - writing which cannot be read - reminded me of some work I did a couple of years ago for an exhibition entitled 'Visualising Ancestors' much of which used words - writing - as a starting point.

Illustrated is a stage of a piece entitled 'London Migration III' which  incorporates names, birthplaces and occupations of my husband's great great grandparents, all of whom migrated into London .   As well as commenting on the difficulties of unravelling such information when tracing London-born ancestors, it underlines the need to reappraise conclusions in the light of new evidence.

The morning after

Out on deck – cool and damp, from an early, pearly, morning mist, and the sea calm grey, a relief to breath fresh air after the stuffy interior – Madigan tried to identify the land to the west – some part of Caithness obviously, but they were too distant, and none of the inland mountains sufficiently visible to give a further clue.   Not that she was that sure of being able to identify them anyway.   Plenty of fishing boats headed outwards though – reds and bright blues catching the morning sun, so they must be opposite a port ...   But she was stood in shadow and getting cold, so walked round to the sunny, starboard side, reminding herself of what one of her primary school teachers had told her long ago, as a way of remembering: the  three longest words together, right, green, starboard, and three shortest words, left, red, port.

Her satisfaction at her solitude – she presumed all other couples, being genuine honeymooners (with one exception, and she couldn't be sure that their relationship was entirely professional!) were otherwise occupied – was slightly dissipated as she passed the door into the ‘Whispers’ lounge.   Huddled in a corner, sat on the deck and wrapped in a blanket, looking at first glance incongruously like a street beggar, was a thin girl, her woebegone-face staring out towards the horizon.   Madigan nodded to her as she passed, as reluctant to interrupt her early morning contemplations as she was to have hers interfered with.   But the blank stare was unblinking and Madigan took only another couple of steps before realisation hit her – that disregarding stare was death, not indifference.



[Another Thinking Ten prompt kick-started this, along with ‘Wedding night’ and ‘Calm, calm’;  all plot-planning snippet, some parts of which might eventually be used for NaNoWriMo2011]

Web of life [Book Blurb Friday #17]

“Your future will be determined by the number thirteen, by one man whose name begins with B and by another whose name begins with A.   Choose wisely, child, the wrong choice will be fatal.”   Thus spake the gypsy fortune-teller to thirteen year-old Rathlin.

Thirteen years later Rathlin married Bruce Carrick, who, to ‘celebrate’ their thirteenth wedding anniversary - ‘lace’ for a marriage now as sadly shredded as a frosted web - has arranged a ‘murder mystery weekend’ at Bannockburn Castle.

Rathlin has good reason to believe that Bruce might succeed in bringing about her ‘accidental’ death on this occasion, his six previous attempts having failed, but which, if any, of guests Aidan (neighbouring farmer), Andy (best friend’s ex-husband), Amos (out-of-place artist at local Summer School) or Alexander (colleague of Bruce) is destined to be her saviour?   Who should she trust not only with her life but with her secrets too?

 

 [150 words]

Week #17’s response to Lisa Ricard Claro’s Book Blurb Friday challenge and one of my own photographs, which makes inspiration harder to come by, hence the more tongue-in-cheek approach this week.

Each week Lisa posts a photograph which represents a book cover.   Participants are challenged to “Write a book jacket blurb (150 words or less) so enticing that potential readers would feel compelled to buy the book”  

http://www.writinginthebuff.net/p/book-blurb-friday.html

'Wedding night'

It had been her choice to sleep on the pull-down settee in the cabin, and to be fair she was perfectly willing to do so - far easier than sharing a bed for all it was a large one – every cabin had been fitted out with ‘honeymoon cruise’ in mind.   Baz was snoring very gently, his back to her and although she was averting her eyes for the most part she was startled to see, in the pale light through the porthole, that the impression given by his naked back – she trusted he wore at least boxers below that sheet! - was of a powerful beauty: not a word usually associated with Baz Rose!   Smiling to herself, Madigan, as she was now calling herself:  not too difficult and a name she could get used to, reached into the wardrobe for her jeans and fleece and slipped into the bathroom to dress.   She smiled again at her reflection:  on-end hair could at a pinch look like a night of passion had been spent, but her faded, penguin-patterned winceyette pyjamas had been the least seductive she possessed.

 [Another fortuitous set of prompts from 'Thinking Ten]

Ignorance sometimes leads, if not to bliss, to creativity

The image that heads this lines of communication blog page is one I like a lot (obviously!)

It is a Photo-shopped variation of one of a series of photographs I took in my first year as a mature Fine Art degree student back in 2000.  We had been given, by our most obscure tutor, a project which, after much consultation, seemed to hinge on reflection.   I had been told specifically that I needed to 'make props' to facilitate my work.

With that sort of panic-stricken cluelessness, instilled when one does not wish to look a complete fool, I rigged up a frame, demolished a lampshade, acquired some acetate and borrowed my husband's digital camera (another previously undiscovered piece of kit).   Put the whole edifice in front of the window and snapped away merrily.   (This photo gives some idea of the thing)

Put the resulting photos on display in a 'resources' folder only to be gobsmacked (and smote again with ignorance) at my tutors' massive enthusiasm - undeserved since I hadn't had a clue that I was doing anything of merit.
But I have returned time and time again to that series of photos ... and am now much less chary of pitching in in total ignorance.

"Calm, calm"

“Calm, calm” she said to herself, through metaphorically gritted teeth, “stay meek, not the time to remember that ‘marriage is a field of battle & not a bed of roses’ thing, not now”   And she followed him, eyes downcast, her hand in his, past the Captain’s table and out of the Paradise restaurant, conscious of the eyes of most of the other passengers on them – either condemning him for such an ill-mannered display of temper, or pitying her – pitying! – for having such an ugly, inconsiderate brute of a husband.   She was certainly having second thoughts – hadn’t realised he had such a propensity for argument, was so touchy and inclined to violent abuse ... but she was stuck with him now, at least for the duration.

Once in their cabin, safe from prying eyes, she snatched her hand out of his, stopped just inside the door, hands now on hips, eyes currently more green than grey and glared at him.   “Just what the fuck was all that in aid of?” 

He turned and faced her, laughing.   “I knew you’d be asking that.”


[Today's Thinking Ten prompt fitted nicely with an idea I had for a snippet of plot for 'Not wanted on Voyage']