Fly Away

At the beach club

My parents are returning home to the spring frost and cold after enjoying their last Qatar holiday. They brought their spare kettle which I can keep and dispose of, or sell when we leave in two months time. Gulp! I hope there are no hidden exit hoops we have to jump through to escape, it's already more than challenging in many ways. Why, when driving past the local Police Station would I even dare think to myself,  'I have never been in there,' knowing my uncanny, prophetic nature at times? One anecdote for another time and place with a large, stiff drink in hand.

At a beach party they were warmly welcomed to join in, mum wanted to thank our desert friends for looking after us, but said she was too shy to stand up in the crowd. Saying thank you, like saying sorry, goodbye or I love you can be the hardest words ever to say, if of course, you truly mean them.
I'm a Yorkshire lass, so I say what I mean and I mean what I say. OK?

Dad, Me & Mum

I was enjoying my sea swim among a few fish and while contentedly breast-stroking alongside the safety rope, out of my depth, I kicked something soft and wobbly with my foot. It felt like a football does in the early stages of deflation. Shrieking a little, I swam inshore, stood on the sandy seabed and discovered that the unfortunate jellyfish may now have concussion. I have suffered this twice in my life which could explain a few things.

'Sorry Mr. Jelly,' I said sincerely.

No reply from Mr. Jelly. 'Oh goodness gracious!' Did I really expect one? While observing him for a while longer, a white plastic bag floated nearby, bearing some traffic light coloured words advertising the local shop. 'Oh calamity!' Its movements were similar to the milky-white alien I had just crashed into. Neither did me any harm.

Did you know that Roger Hargreaves was born in Cleckheaton, Huddersfield?

My writing/publishing challenge continues and everything I currently read tells me to keep writing, keep reading, find an agent, keep writing, accept rejection and persevere. I received a 'special announcement' via email, to apply for an online creative writing course, at a certain price, of course. My reaction was mixed. I felt, on the one hand, encouraged and yet on the other, more determined to write independently in my own style. And yet, I acknowledge that there is always room for improvement. I really do want to write and I want to write really well, to the best of my ability, and then better. Having discovered a free online Introduction to Screenwriting course which I thought would be fun and challenging, I signed up. Obviously, I will let you know how it goes.

There is a huge gulf between having the guts and courage to write your own way or let someone else mould you to write for the market. Then there is the reality of your guts and courage being criticised. A positive or negative reaction is surely better than none? Why else would Damien Hirst slice a cow and calf in half and display them as art? Victoria Wood, as indeed Prince, were creative, talented and unique performers who worked really hard to achieve what they did in their lifetime. No one said it would be easy, so I am awaiting some more rejection.
It is the waiting that is the hardest part.

Mother and Child (Divided) by Damien Hirst, (1993).

The little bird was struggling on bandy, broken legs. Eventually, it collapsed onto the floor beside me, spinning around on its back; bird breakdancing. Ants began to crawl all over it, no doubt irritating beyond ordinary tolerance levels. The comparison was obvious as I have been thinking of Dirtbag being like a tethered hawk or an eagle with a clipped wing. She has not trained for two months now due to constant hip and leg pain. We have seen a GP, physiotherapist and now await consultation with a specialist. Hopefully, it is just growing pains.

This fragile bird won't give up his battle easily. He is still thrashing around and it's painful to watch, so I carry on writing. Ten minutes later I notice he is dead; lying on his back with lifeless little legs in the air, neck lolling to one side, eyes open and beak shut. I gently shovel him onto the spade and place him right side up on the sandy soil in the border; he just looks asleep now.

I know why the caged bird sings and so I have to lovingly, delicately scoop my own wounded fledgling up and get her back on track.

Bee-eater birds

Reading: The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath and the poem And Still I Rise, by the brilliant Maya Angelou. Reference to the autobiography, I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings also by Maya Angelou.

Listening to: Bad Habits and Aviation by The Last Shadow Puppets from their latest album, Everything You've Come To Expect (2016). Two full albums: Brothers In Arms by Dire Straits (1985) and Solid Air by John Martyn (1973).

Singing & dancing to: Sign O' the Times by Prince (1987), Fly Away by Lenny Kravitz (1998), Runaway by Jamiroquai (2006), Roots by Show of Hands (2007) and Revelry by Kings of Leon (2008).

Watched: Human Remains, written by and starring Rob Brydon and Julia Davis (BBC 2000). It's a series of six episodes of black comedy which are absolutely brilliant. They made me feel normal.

Still swimming, walking, cycling and circuit training. How about you?

With Love xx
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NIqQOIRduIw
Don't Want To Know by John Martyn.

PS 'Somethin' ain't right....'  so I updated the actual link on the last post to get myself connected. Ironic.