The Cleaning Ritual

Last week I gave myself permission to be unbearably positive. I also set myself some demanding targets; I was to write at least one short story, one poem, one blog and finish a chapter. I wrote three short stories, one poem and one blog. I didn't finish the chapter because it’s Chapter Nine that needs finishing. Besides I need to read back through everything first. I need to be in the right frame of mind for Chapter Nine.

Let’s set a new target right now then: Chapter Nine by Monday 6^th April. The problem with these targets and this level of positivity is that I do not have a place or even a room of my own. I like most other writers do not have the luxury (if you can call it that) of just writing all day long.

I have a job, a family, two dogs and the cleaning itch. It’s spring that brings it on. A little bit of sunshine and all the dust, smudges, kitchen grease and general human mank need cleaning away. Why? Because it’s symbolic, wiping away the deadness of the winter months and bringing the freshness of the spring into the home. Quite how this involves cleaning behind and underneath both the fridge and the cooker is beyond me. I don’t feel I was procrastinating, maybe every piece of glass in the kitchen did need washing in soap and vinegar, and buffing with a soft cloth so that each time you open the cupboard your hit with the kind of sparkle you get in a jewelers.

There is something restfully rhythmic in the cleaning ritual. When my hands are cleaning, washing, scrubbing, polishing and buffing my mind is resting. I know it sounds bonkers, but at the right time the cleaning ritual is mentally resting, refreshing and meditative. I bit like weaving. I bit like crafting.

I had this target (another one) I was going to do the kitchen over the weekend; ready for Easter. Once the kitchen was done I would be able to do the eggs. I've seen them on Pinterest, someone has used dollies as stencils. As all my crockery is blue and white, mostly willow pattern, I intend to do the eggs in willow blue and white. I have given myself some interesting headaches as a result of blowing the eggs and we have been eating a lot of egg based food stuffs because I want a pretty Easter tree.

Because I want it to be nice. But, I've a sort of stress head-ache, there is a pain in the back of my neck and across my shoulders. (I got a poem out of it!) .

I have these expectations, an expectation that come Easter Day there will be a beautifully laid out table and we will all remember it with delight. If I’m not careful I’m going to be disappointed. If I’m not careful I’m going to be so knackered that I won’t be able to manage a mini egg.

Perhaps I ought to defer the targets; after all I am supposed to be on holiday.

Positive Alignment

Photograph supplied by a student.

Last week I realized that for someone who calls herself a writer, I wasn't producing much in the way of writing. Full of the kind of motivation that occurs as a often as a partial eclipse I drew up a day planner.

For a writer it should be entirely feasible to complete at least one chapter a week, to produced at least one poem and ideally to come up with a short story. I drew a square for every day between Monday 30^th March and August 31^st. I will make a cross each time I write. I will not break the chain.

These first steps inspired me and I found myself nosing around for writing competitions. And then things started to happen. Minuscule things; that a Mexican shaman might notice or perhaps an ancient wise woman who had uncurled the serpent at the base of her spine.

I went to the University to discuss options for studying a masters degree. I would return to the fold that nurtured me through my bachelors. I would work with the people I now correspond with. My chosen subject fits perfectly and there is a potential funding pathway, closing in three days!

The next day the sun and the moon aligned. A sign my heart cried out a sign! Later that day I had a great idea for a short story: another sign, things are coming together they are aligning.

How very New Age of me: I will ask the universe and it will respond accordingly. I will approach the world with optimism and an unshakable certainty in my own success. Why not? Apart from the fact that unending positivity can be slightly irritating to those raised not to blow their own trumpet and are reminded that no one likes a show off. As Morrissey said “Shyness is nice” “Shyness can stop you from doing all things in life you’d like to.” 

Same moon, different colour, different student

How often are we told? We were told? That only one in a million make it in the music, games, fashion, and film industry. Well why can’t I be the one in a million? Yes good luck with that the Pessimist responds. It has nothing to do with luck. My positivity, my enthusiasm is driving me, it’s a creative drive and it’s on a roll. The more that wheel turns the more opportunities arise.

How does my theory stand up then, if (dare I say it?) if I don’t get the funding, or win the story competition ? It doesn't matter, I’m already happy. These are things I should like to do, but my life doesn't depend on these outcomes, my creativity enhances my life and needs no one’s permission but mine.

I have officially granted myself permission to be unbearably positive, to have faith in spiritual alignment and to blow my own trumpet. Now if you’ll excuse me I’m off to light a joss stick and polish my crystals.

Walking in Madonna's boots

I rarely enter competitions. I have entered several writing competitions over the years and one came good for me. I did attempt to win a washing machine and long ago I enter a competition on Saturday Superstore. It was to win the boots Madonna wore in Desperately Seeking Susan. The question was the height of the Eiffel tower, and I sent the answer on a postcard. I didn't win.

As a size three, I knew those boots wouldn't fit.  I didn't need to wear them. I simply needed to have them, in the same way that millionaires need to have certain works of art. I keep my works of art in their boxes, wrapped in tissue paper. Once or twice a year I get them out and give them a clean, a dust, a polish. They are all beautiful and most are impractical.

Sexy and Vintage shoes

One pair of white and black Rococo heels that look like leather lace, have only been outside once: they were never really for wearing. Whereas my Minnie Mouse shoes purchased when I was seventeen have been to so many weddings and nights out that they are faded in their beauty. My Witches boots, purchased aged nineteen are routinely pulled out for Halloween and need their square heels replacing. At sixteen I had a pair of black ankle boots with big buckles on them; I made music when I walked. Sadly the boots fell apart, yet went on to see another day as they are now used to hold together a long black hooded cloak.

It seems I am old now and therefore my shoes are practical. This is due to the necessity of being able to walk around quickly and without falling over.

I generally consider myself a rather driven individual, with a strong work ethic and high levels of motivation. I am still re-writing the book, teaching, preparing, sewing, baking and blogging. I am keen that my blogs are in the main positive and uplifting and I have committed myself to producing one blog post a week.

I post on Tuesdays and immediately go looking for the next topic. On Wednesday it was going to be about using the old Singer Sewing machine, on Friday it was about the boys school report and then on Saturday whilst watching the Jonathan Ross show it simply absolutely had to be about Madonna.

Apart from the boots, I have never been a huge fan. I only have Like A Virgin on 7 inch and that was a gift. That’s not to say I don’t sing along to “Holiday” or show some interest in Madonna’s latest ventures, appearances at the Grammys, tours, marriages and so on.  She has always struck me as a completely driven individual and shows no signs of ever stopping.

So when a dark mood descended upon me and I struggled to find these words, when it seemed as though there was no positivity anywhere, I thought about those boots. I imagined they did fit. I just got on with it.

The Devils In the Detail

We are a stay at home family, my husband works online, we all play online, we socialise on line; in all we are too much online.

Determined to decrease our internet dependency, a £30 family rail ticket was purchased allowing reduced travel costs. I posted an online message to the husband and son explaining the plans. We would explore the nearby city of Exeter, take in the rich architecture, the lively culture and walk along the river.

Arriving at the train station we set off to collect the tickets that had been ordered online. There had been some sort of error resulting in tickets for one adult and one child. Nothing could be done, either one adult could go back home or we would have to purchase another adult ticket.    

Waiting for the Coach Train illustrated by AndyArtisan

Eventually we departed, on a coach! We were under the general impression that on reaching Tiverton Parkway we would then transfer to an actual train (after all we did have train tickets and a rail travel card). Unfortunately the driver was not going to Tiverton Parkway, though he did pass through Ivybridge, Totness and a handful of other little towns, arriving two and half hours later at Exeter.

There are, as any travel guide will tell you, many delights to be found in Exeter. The museum had exhibits that might have been organised during a drunken night out, and perhaps the person responsible for labeling them had a hangover because many of them had no corresponding information. Never the less there was education to be had and the neo gothic building was a joy in itself. In many ways Exeter is the buildings, yes it has the wide main shopping streets, but these are linked with narrow streets like arteries leading to the splendid Cathedral.

We looked in tiny shops, I bought some lovely beads, we walked along the river, and on the way back to the train station the child gazed into the window of The Patisserie Valerie; where his eyes rested on a Black Forrest Gateaux. We duly entered and purchased the delicious looking cake.

Black Forrest Gateaux illustrated by AndyArtisan

That scrumptious treat might have been placed in a paper bag and handed over to the child, but not at the Patisserie Valerie! To begin with service was supplied by a stylishly uniformed young woman with a genuine looking smile. The generous slab of cake, was first placed into a transparent container bearing the name of the Patisserie, the container was placed into a brown cardboard cake box of exactly the right size (this also bearing the Patisserie name and web address) until finally it was lowered with great care into a paper bag with carrying handles. The entire ritual was classy, the packaging a perfect balance of traditional and modern, and in short the rather mundane experience of purchasing a piece of cake had been turned into something very special. Alex Polizzi would have approved. Because presentation is all, the devil is in the detail and first impressions last.

If only, I lament, If only, my students, could get it: Presentation is all!

The Spring Miracle

We have been doing Narrative structures in class, or more accurately we have been studying Game Narrative and Contextualised Play. Naturally we discussed matters of plot and considered the notion that there exist only seven plots. Obviously you mix characters, sub plots, motive, various literary devices and theme, until, regardless of plot, you have created a new story.

I find it difficult to consider my story ideas in terms of theme. It seems to me that my themes are the same. They are all about developing self- identity within the wider social structure. Is this not simply the same theme as life? I read other books and see that they too work with the identity theme, maybe it’s a universal theme. Writers implement various devices to deal with themes. I think of those devices as motifs. In my recent reading, The Land of Decoration and now The Golem; the predominant motif has been miracles.

Spring Time illustrated by AndyArtisan

Just as I had early doubts regarding the existence of Father Christmas, so to, have I long been unconvinced by miracles: such as people returning from the dead, red seas parting and immaculate conceptions (to name but a few). That’s not to say I shouldn't like them to exist; I am particularly fond of the water into wine miracle and find the assumption into heaven one of the most profound and poetic visions. I especially enjoyed assumption when it happened to Remedios the Beauty in One Hundred Years of Solitude.

I don’t think it’s a miracle when someone has a near miss, walks away from an awful car accident or happens not to get electrocuted while living in The House of Death.  I consider such things to be remarkable.

As remarkable as the urban Poppy: a paper tissue delicacy, sprouting like a wish among building rubble, crisp packets and a polystyrene cartoon or two. It is a little early for the magic of poppies, but the treasure that is the jewel like beauty of the snowdrop is scattered all about us. My kitchen is ripe with the gold of daffodils and the scent is as heady as any orchids. The weather is wild and unpredictable. 

Last night I was woken from a crazy dream by the most torrential down pour. I left the house beneath a glower of grey black sky and yet now the sun is beaming down upon us and finally there is warmth in this sun. The bird song is brighter, it trills with enthusiasm, the dead bones of the tree are beginning to bulge with the buds of leaves and each day is perceptibly longer and brighter than the previous.

This is the onset of spring. I can smell it. I can feel it in my bones. It is joyous. It is not surprising that the pagans wondered at this magic and revered the death defying Mother Nature, nor that the Christians stole it and wove the motif of resurrection into their own belief system. What is truly remarkable is the timeless predictability of this process: spring follows winter, eternally and yet each time it feels miraculous.