Sunday, 30 August 2015

nuit blanche, almost / pretty much / as near as makes no difference

Nuit blanche

Going onto Twitter gave me some photos I had never wanted to see. 5 year old children in clear water, over smooth looking sand, a foot deep.

This morning I sat with an acquaintance and we said 'Palmyra' to each other.

Things aren't all bad - I introduced my younger son to his little cousin in Oxford today. She had made ice cream mice for us. The little ears were pine nuts and the beady eyes were chopped up bits of raisin.

She read out the first page and a half of The Railway Children to us. She has the advantage of speaking English fluently. Some wonderful guesses at pronunciation. I hope I can make someone giggle with my Arabic one day.

We compared the sizes of our feet after I said hallo to her with my left one while she was lurking behind her mother :) It's so, so lovely to be able to relax totally with my beautiful family.

Friday was a wonderful day too, T and I spent hours talking in and around the small room he has and the furniture in it. Eventually he had a brain wave while we walked to get food and we had further strokes of luck in a furniture shop and in a mini industrial estate when I needed a delivery driver.

To top it off we made an unplanned family visit and were welcomed so warmly, taking a photo to celebrate. So that was my Friday Evening for this week :)

Hitting this wall - Other walls - Names

Hitting this wall

It has taken weeks to realise what caused me to hit this particular wall. It was reading a poem by my friend Julie Whiting. It is one of a series, not yet published.

I had thought I'd be drinking my Lebanese coffee with lots of sugar in the sunshine and generally feeling at peace.

Instead I was doing two things.

Looking across the street, gazing through the lamp posts and cars, holding thoughts in my head.

Then I would be looking at the words, perhaps two at a time as I read across the lines. The moment I'd start doing this I would sense the air touching my arm, face, neck. At the same time I would have in my mind the images or facts from a few lines further back in my head.

After that I would shift to looking across the street again and would stop perceiving the air moving over me, why?

This happened every time I looked down then looked up again.

I don't want to give the game away by talking about the poem. You might get to read it one day. Read it fresh, without expecting it.

Other walls

Not wanting time to move forward. Stay still, move slowly, don't disappear. If I have to wait for things, then that's how it is.


The Waterstone's in the centre of Oxford has the best poetry section. I read the names on the spines. All these names I know. I can't read the collections or even one poem, but I can read the names.

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