On reflection the most significant event of this trip to London was falling asleep.
After a day of taxi conversations,
reading poetry collections at the Poetry Library,
enjoying the pinky metal handrails and spaciousness of the Royal Festival Hall,
being splashed by the fine spray from a fountain,
squeezing into the tiniest bookshop ever in the Brunei Gallery by SOAS,
having more conversations in there,
being approached by a strange man in front of some photographs who turned out to be my brother,
walking past the Oasis pool which was on my way home from school,
taking part in the demo in Parliament Square,
trying to whoosh through the Tate as a short cut to home...
I curled up on the sofa under all the pictures I like in the drawing room,
shut my eyes and dozed,
then moved to my mother's side of my parents' bed when guests came for dinner,
and really fell asleep there for several hours.
It's a privilege beyond anything to just be there and sleep.
It may never happen again.
No one was asking me questions.
I wasn't arguing and trying to explain.
No one was preaching at me.
No possible disagreements.
Wordless something.
Showing posts with label parents. Show all posts
Showing posts with label parents. Show all posts
Monday, 23 June 2014
Monday, 7 April 2014
Reading a text and sharing our own reaction to it
Josephine Corcoran has written about exactly this today on her blog: how-about-reading-workshops-as-well-as-writing-workshops
We are doing this on the closed 52 group to a certain extent: fiftytwopoetry
A ModPo colleague is going through the Pushcart collection using a small group of us as sources for her blog posts on the poems she chooses: playing-with-words
What can I suggest? Find a friend, a welcoming pub and a phone with a timer to ensure you each speak for the same length of time. Just get on with it and get to share what you want with whoever you want.
I think I will try this out on my parents when I am next in London. The introductory discussion will be interesting, trying to explain what I mean and then finding out what they would like to experiment with.
Given that my father used to read out Saki to us and we once had a series of Lent somethings sitting on their bed, they should be ok about it.
My monthly poetry discussion group at the Fleur has accelerated to once a week. That was this evening's decision. Wow. Apparently I'm about to be taken through The Wasteland.
We are doing this on the closed 52 group to a certain extent: fiftytwopoetry
A ModPo colleague is going through the Pushcart collection using a small group of us as sources for her blog posts on the poems she chooses: playing-with-words
What can I suggest? Find a friend, a welcoming pub and a phone with a timer to ensure you each speak for the same length of time. Just get on with it and get to share what you want with whoever you want.
I think I will try this out on my parents when I am next in London. The introductory discussion will be interesting, trying to explain what I mean and then finding out what they would like to experiment with.
Given that my father used to read out Saki to us and we once had a series of Lent somethings sitting on their bed, they should be ok about it.
My monthly poetry discussion group at the Fleur has accelerated to once a week. That was this evening's decision. Wow. Apparently I'm about to be taken through The Wasteland.
Sunday, 16 March 2014
Shifting gears
It is a huge switch to drive back from a weekend of being with a large group. We were working together, chatting and eating together. Pruning, planting potatoes, doing things with wheelbarrows...
I found myself just sitting at home, half there and half elsewhere. I was by the phone, so after a bit I collected myself enough to call my parents and speak to them both.
I pay so much attention to their voices, listening for any changes, the slightest hint of something. Does this come from the years of working at Standard Life, hearing endless tales of woe from brokers and clients?
T is still out of the house. Being up here is no help as I need to be by the phone to get the call to go to the station to collect him.
I found myself just sitting at home, half there and half elsewhere. I was by the phone, so after a bit I collected myself enough to call my parents and speak to them both.
I pay so much attention to their voices, listening for any changes, the slightest hint of something. Does this come from the years of working at Standard Life, hearing endless tales of woe from brokers and clients?
T is still out of the house. Being up here is no help as I need to be by the phone to get the call to go to the station to collect him.
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