Under the Lamppost

I don't "do" Halloween, I don't like to revel in darkness and the macabre but I made an exception on Saturday afternoon to attend an event organised by my friend Virginia Betts featuring the Dead Poets Theatre Company.

Virginia and her gang of spookily dressed live poets performed some of her poems and stories from her two books "Tourist to the Sun" (poems) and "The Camera Obscure" (short stories). 

Here's a link to her website to find out more virginiabetts.com

Virginia told us about her own writing journey, it's fascinating to hear how other people have been published - it always involves hard work and tenacity! 

She also mentioned how her dreams have inspired her writing and I think that got me thinking when there was a chance to get involved and write our own spooky tale using a couple of picture prompts.

This wasn't the actual picture but one I found on Google that works with my edited version. And I do recall having a similar dream a long long time ago...

picture credit: Daniel Petreikis - found on unsplash.com

Under the Lamppost

Lamplights dazzle brightly, full of hope, setting before me a path to guide my future. Staring hypnotically at them brings spots to my eyes so I blink and squeeze my lids tight to clear my vision. Once fully open I see you there, through the ether, under the lamppost, loitering.

I shiver, sensing you watching me.

You are the mysterious figure from my nightmare years ago.

Now I am older, more self-assured, I feel I should investigate, confront my demons.

But now I am older I am more cautious, aware of dangers that lurk in shadows.

Both of us stand, frozen, watching.

Until one by one the lights go out!

I dream...

They say your dreams are your subconscious resolving conflicts and putting the world to rights while you sleep. My night time dreams are usually just weird, colourful and complex, leaping about in time and space.

Love Heart
found at the Christian Writers Conference 

Writing can be a bit like dreaming, in that your words can be influenced by what is going on in life.

Last Wednesday evening at the monthly zoom meeting of the the Saltburn Writers Group. We started with a free write using the words “I dream…” as a prompt.

A free write is a great way to dump ideas on the page and clear your thoughts. Sometimes you can find the gem of a hidden sentence or idea in the middle which can be developed later.

I scratched my pen on the page, a little dismayed the ink didn’t flow – would I waste the whole minute finding a pen that worked?

When after some harsh scribbling it woke from its dreamy slumber, I wrote the start of the poem below.

I’ve dreamt of writing a book for a long time and although there is still much hard work ahead it actually seems possible. As I share in the writing success of other friends I’m beginning to believe. If they can do it so can I.

I hope you like my little poem and you never know if you do enjoy my words maybe one day in the not-so-distant future you will be able to hold them in a book!

 

 

A sign from the Primadonna Festival

I dream of a pen that writes smoothly

gliding across paper

spilling ideas with the ink-flow

never-ending narrative

a story to be told

 

I dream of crisp white parchment

being magically covered in words

long words,

short words

intelligent and coherent

 

I dream of everything

coming together

words and ideas

forming books

bound printed words

collected in one place

with a shiny cover

 

I dream of seeing my name

not in lights

but boldly printed

with a compelling title

attracting you

to reach out

 

Found on Facebook

            I dream of a book

that dances off the shelf

landing into your hand

caressed with longing

and intrigue

as you unfurl its pages

 

I dream of my words

reaching your heart

making a lasting impression

indelible

connecting

perhaps

inspiring your own dreams

Three Cheers for Middle-Aged Women!

 In the past week I have seen two new movies with the main characters played by middle-aged women – I am in shock, well Halloween is on the horizon I suppose.

Joking aside, how refreshing to see first Lesley Manville in Mrs Harris Goes to Paris and then Sally Hawkins in The Lost King.

Mrs Harris is incredibly put upon by her numerous employers. To them she is merely a cleaner, but they trust her with keys to their houses and all manner of secrets besides. She goes about her duties with a smile, always thinking of others. Until one day, with a bit of financial good fortune she decides to fly to Paris and buy a Dior dress. Not quite as simple as she suspects, lugging an empty suitcase with her and expecting to complete her purchase in time for her flight home.

The story started as a novel by Paul Gallico, who co-incidentally wrote the novel of the Poseidon Adventure, useless fact I know, but I found it intriguing.

There wasn’t a REAL Mrs Harris, although many of the characters working at Dior are based on real people of the time.

Anthony Fabian the director of the latest film adaptation says in Town and Country magazine “The key to this story is that it is magic realism, so it has to have an equal dose of magic and reality. If you go too far into magic, you won’t believe it; if you go too far into the realism, it wouldn’t have that uplifting fairy tale quality.”

The Lost King is a true story about Philippa Langley’s determination in searching for and eventually finding the body of King Richard III in a Leicester City car park. The film is also told with much magical realism as Langley interacts with the deceased monarch who sits on the bench outside her bedroom window. He only speaks to her once she has asked him a pertinent question.

Just like Ada Harris, Philippa comes up against great hurdles in her quest. She is not an esteemed academic and she dares to question authority, believing Shakespeare’s account of the king is grossly unfair Tudor propaganda. The Richard III Society are seen as a bit of a crackpot bunch but it is their crowdfunding that really gets the project underway. Only once the excavation is successful do the University get fully on board.

With a bit of Googling I have just found in the Telegraph that one of the academics is vowing to sue the Hollywood producer for their reckless portrayal of him. Boo hoo!

I am not interested in what’s totally true or not, the important thing to me is that both films are great stories of tenacity with inspiring female leads of an age that is usually unrepresented. Here are two “invisible” women who have the audacity stand their ground – horray!

Mrs Harris has a more sugary ending, I came out of the cinema euphorically happy, just as you should at the end of a fairy tale. With The Lost King I admit I shed a tear as Philippa continued until the bitter end to battle academia and the bigwigs with money who only wanted the prestige. She wanted to find her King and put the record straight.

Mission accomplished ladies – now three cheers for us middle-aged women everywhere!

And while the world is listening, let’s tell our own stories.

Being Thankful

Yesterday we had our harvest festival at church and a sermon filled with all the little things we should be thankful for, like blueberries in porridge. Now personally I wouldn’t thank you for that – I love blueberries but the thought of soggy oats in warm milk poured over them turns my stomach – bleugh!

I’m fortunate I can have my breakfast of choice, most days that’s crunchy nut cornflakes without milk to turn the crunch to mush – I think I was put off milk at primary school, those little bottles with pink straws that sat in the warm classrooms waiting for breaktime still give me nightmares. #firstworldproblems

Scrolling through Twitter this morning I came across a tweet about more bombs dropping in Kyiv. pausing for a second in comfort and silence I glanced up at a patch of blue sky out of my rain spattered window and let my thoughts meander.

The grass has only just recovered from the parched summer, the rain drops are most welcome. Sadly, there are places in the world where rains never fall and places that get far too much more than they need.

The world is an unfair place and sometimes it sounds trite to say we SHOULD be thankful. Almost disingenuous to be thankful for NOT suffering like so many others, but then our thoughts turn to prayers to lift the less fortunate out of their suffering – Oh God when will the madness cease?

For what it’s worth I offer you these words of thanks I wrote this morning – a prayer, a poem? Not perfect, maybe not as eloquent as I’d like think they are. As we say in our Open The Book assemblies – if you want to make this prayer yours say Amen after me…

Thank you that I live

In a land of blue skies

And gentle rain

 

Thank you for the softest breeze

To tease my hair

 

Thank you that my life

Is not filled with greater cares

 

But I pray for those who live

Their lives on a precipice

With daily shocks of bombs

Stained with

Grey rubble and dirty red blood

 

I pray for those

In lands parched and dusty

Children with hungry bellies

Or in lands where

The water rises high

Sweeping life and livelihood aside

 

So many lives in turmoil

And I wonder why

 I got to be so fortunate

By just a quirk of birth

To live in a land of plenty

Although there are still great extremes

Troubles and tears

Many hidden in plain sight

 

But today, just for this moment 

 

I have so much to be thankful for

In this land of blue skies

And gentle rain.