All posts tagged: diary

maritama

the imperceptible weight of light, i learnt as a little girl that the only proper way to count time, in the middle of may, is with dandelion clocks. cheeks pink as sea thrift, wishes on the wind. perfectly proliferous pappus, parachute, plume, they’re at their prettiest in the evening, floating gold filament and feather. sometimes in the springtime, even just the sight of them feels a sweet and simple glimpse of forever. Advertisements

the gods and the grasses (may diary)

we are such forest-trees, and our fair boughs have bred forth, not pale solitary doves but eagles golden-feathered, who do tower above us in their beauty, and must reign in right thereof; for ’tis the eternal law that first in beauty should be first in might somewhere between the gods and the grasses, the horse-chestnuts are flowering. the trees are all in candle, lemon curd and blush, and each inflorescence illuminates in the storm scattered light that rushes above us. brilliance brushes branches. eventually, each bloom will transform into their own conker, in the autumn, when the countryside once again grows cold, mist-covered. but, for now, it is May! and a showy clematis is climbing up the trellises of the thatched roof cottage, with the stained glass roses, to whom this garden belongs. and, at the bottom of the hill, if you will, you can scramble over a fence, hop over a stream, and then, you’ve found your way to the edge of the woods. dandelion wishes, ginger beer in glass bottles, i’ve a picnic, …

silver bells and drooping stars

the fading constellations are far away freckles, the dawn stretches the night’s skin thin, draws the curtains on the last of the cascading lyrids. and then, a circling chariot. the light turns to amber, dripping gold, it’s a honey-speckled morning. the clouds are silver lined, a revolving speedwell rising. i’ll bundle blackthorn, hang hawthorn at the door, light and dark brought together and then tethered, perhaps they’ll bless the coming year. their petals are as delicate as mulberry silk, they’ll tear between my fingertips. i’ve silver bells, and drooping stars, and the wind is carrying along with it May, which is now weaving its whispering way through the wavering wisteria that has draped itself all over my neighbours house. sunshine, showers. an oak leaf umbrella offers supposed shivering shelter from the rain. i spot bluebells like lanterns strewn about in the shade. do you see how springtime sings life into colour, pulls at the seams of things, stirs skeletons from slumber? puddles and gutters become silvery streams and tributaries, or else tiny swirling storming seas, …

where the willow meets the water

a walk in the park, a picnic on the hill, there are bluebells growing in the shade, birds building nests where the willow meets the water. the wind still has a touch of winter to it, i think, pale white cherry plum petals falling like snow. i lie down on the grass, daisies and dandelions dotted about, they’re drinking up the sun. the touch of now-not-quite-as-cold earth against crinkled coat against chiffon the colour of april rain clouds against bare skin. i drink the last of my karak tea, pull the hat over my eyes, see speckled light through woven straw sparkling, and once more, allow my thoughts their drifting, as they might decide. to love and loss and longing, and then to language and what might lie beyond all that, key to the cage or else divine diaphanous veil or maybe it’s all just easy enchantment. i’m so very uncertain about a lot, these days, but one thing i do know is that if i don’t have faith in there being some sort of …

diary 26/03/19:

rachael’s house. front door painted the colour of ivy and peeling. front garden filled with brambles scrambling. there are wellies in the hallway. there are packets of seeds neatly compiled in wooden boxes on the kitchen table. there are brown paper bags filled with bulbs. rachael is a to-the-point but ever so kind sort of a person, she’s got white hair and asks rather a lot of questions about california. from a chipped cup (i don’t know why it is that i find chipped cups so incredibly charming, but i do), i most gratefully drink the very hot tea that she has made for me. an eighteen-year-old cat, with the palest blue eyes, watches over the scene with some amount of lazy curiosity. it’s a five minute stroll to the allotments. on springfield road, there is a towering magnolia almost as tall as a house; goblets or stars or waxy white and pale pink petal porcelain cups and saucers catching and then spilling over with sudden springtime showers. though it’s still quite cold, the top …

lemon drop daffodils

enchanted, frightened, in equal measure. eloi, eloi. edges of the wild, evergreens, powerlines. a little too old-fashioned, english girl impractically nostalgic. abalone shells as altar of eros, ink stained fingers planting tomatoes and irises. foxgloves, forget-me-nots, pressed into the pages of heavy books and forgotten forever. feed the hummingbirds before breakfast, they’ll hover about the kitchen window, sing the songs that appear as they wish. mint tea in a mason jar, mountain on my chest. eloi, eloi. march 2019: saturday evening. lemon drop daffodils, saint julian’s day, heavenly protector of wanderers far from home and looking to find safe lodging. old man’s beard, traveller’s joy. english pear scented candles crackle. shadow and glow. earlier this afternoon*, probably the last of this winter’s snow, although it was eleven degrees and i don’t entirely understand how. tonight, though, now, raindrops race one another from the top to the bottom of my apartment windows. lavender’s burning, lilac perfume. a spoonful of elderberry syrup, a two cup teapot, i fall asleep under stars on the ceiling. the next morning, and …

sunken empires, seaweed forests

the sound of scissors through cellophane, upon returning home from a saturday spent with your grandfather. hours hovering about the kitchen, heart of home, heart of life, boeuf bourguignon and clattering conversations about crumbling down chapels, to be visited, along with sleeper trains to the scottish highlands, south of france summertime memories, how distant they all feel now, and there was a lecture on single malt whiskey, too. unwrap two bouquets of the sweetest scented gypsophilia million star, and breathe it all in. stretch out the moment. flood senses. place both in their own vases on your dresser, magellanic clouds under an antique map of california. splash rose water on your face, pour sparkling wine into a portmeirion glass, it’s decorated with hand-painted sunflowers. attempt to give all of your thoughts away, for the rest of the day. smile, and pull down the calendar that is pinned to your wall. scribble a few notes, flip a page, it is a new month, and there’s an illustration of alqualondë, or, the haven of the swans. a song …

freya (diary)

it’s a stormy sunday early afternoon, and i am walking around moseley park and pool. skeleton leaf veins, looking like the finest antique lace, are catching raindrops, suspended glass spheres or kaleidoscopic crystal balls, colour captured. and there are tracing paper petals too, wild pear blossom, cherry plum, blackthorn. i’ve got muddy knees, a soaked through coat, and am taking shelter from the (ever increasing in strength) rain under two very tall, and leafy even in the winter, trees. freya is almost here. later, when i’m home, and warm, and dry, i’ll light a few candles, the french ones, scented bluebell, and i’ll sit at my piano and listen to her as she pulls at branches, frees a tile or two from a neighbour’s roof, i think it’s possible that nature speaks only the truth.

winter bells

diary, last week of february, 2019.   catch alsophila aescularia in a mason jar. cirrocumulus clouds above you, baby’s breath in your hair. the sky is almost the same colour now as the persian speedwell that’s scattered about everywhere, and a bumblebee is hovering sleepily about bethlehem sage. it’s the first you’ve seen this year. set out a teaspoon of sugar water. an unusually mild february. everything is waking up early. * the sun is on your shoulders. you’ve jasmine petals in your pockets, and winter bells helleborus, too. watch as a blackbird plucks red berries from a holly bush, one, after another, after another. ** “there are snowdrop valleys and swiss mountain trains and by-the-wind sailors and sweet peas sprouting second leaves, there are children with clattering cans chasing bad spirits back into the ocean, the blackthorns are blossoming and they’re guarded by…” – what are you going to do? *** the sea is not a surface. you have called the gods by their names, and now they form within us.

c. angustifolius (x stellaris)

  lupercalia. crocus angustifolius (x stellaria). i’ve: – lunaria in a vase – abalone – seven plundered devon shells on a bathroom shelf – an antique map of nevada – and a framed black and white illustration of the aurora, dated 1823. i celebrate my new home, though it’s the size of a stamp, and there’s no pool or gym or balcony like i had in las vegas or los angeles, with a picnic on the floor. brie and raspberries and what’s more, just down the road from me, an elderly lady wearing denim dungarees and a straw hat is planting yellow and purple crocuses, to be part of a flower patch opposite my old primary school. later that day, i introduce myself, and offer my help. — my sister is in love. he, she tells me, is sparry light through stained glass, and sweeter than all the moroccan almonds, it must have been hundreds, pressed into the bottle of essence currently perfuming our mother’s kitchen. the smell is somewhat sickly, which means he’s really …