Up till midnight...

Such a day of clocks and clutter, and hardly knowing where to begin, but looking forward to the end and that peace that must come to us all at the end of the day - even if it is disturbed.

Such a day of freedom and sandwiches.

Starting with the midnight clock, not mine but running out he says tick-tock, tick-tock.

A day of snowmen and angels and maybe elves (or at least something similar) and journeys, not quite wasted but not very successful either. A young man asking for the almost impossible and me (such a fool) agreeing to do it. A mother and daughter looking for the special and me (not a fool at all) helping them to dream it.

A word play, making myself and that other smile, an almost sale, an unhappy customer justified (not mine), and so much to do and so little time.

Tick-tock, tick-tock.

My grandfather's clock stuck at twelve, so forgive this brief post tonight.

And that's alright.

I’ll be up till midnight...

First frost…

When there isn’t much to say, there’s always the weather to fall back on.

Is it a trick or do I seem to remember frosty early Novembers in my youth? I certainly remember walking to school, up North Street, down the High Street, along Southern Road and through the recreation ground, with the fields all frosted white and the hill down to the little bridge over Cuttle Brook a treachery.

With Halloween and Bonfire Night over my thoughts would turn to Christmas, the boyhood excitement beginning to grow despite me being in my very early teens. I’d long given up believing in Father Christmas but that didn’t stop me wondering what he’d bring me. No more socks, I hoped.

Sometimes I’d stop at the gate to the bottom meadow, put down my satchel, and just look out across the field at the frost-whitened grass and think of skating on Dutch canals. Don’t ask me why I thought about that, I couldn’t skate and hadn’t been to Holland at that time, but I did - a racial memory? Or perhaps images stolen from the huge book on Breugel I poured over in the library every lunch time.

I’d look down towards the brook almost hearing the whoosh of skate blades, then, with the whoops of Stephen Castle and Luke Doyle carried by the frozen air from the distance, I’d snatch up my books and scuttle the rest of my way to school. I didn’t want to meet those two, they were at best snide and at worst outright bullies, often pushing and shoving and throwing my scarf into the mud.

I got them back though, oh yes, I got them back – but I’ll save that for another time.

So, first frost this morning. Cars all white windscreens and a chilly nip to the air. The smoky smell of yesterday’s after-bonfire air all cleaned up and replaced by ice sharp freshness.

Winter’s coming.

Tales from the glass painters table...

Guess what I'm getting ready for.

Well it is only 48 days,
or 1158 hours,

or 69, 4510 minutes,

or 4,167,015 seconds away.

This is my army of hand-painted glass-glazed snowmen candle holders painted ready for a Christmas fare on Wednesday night.

I've painted the orange carrot noses, the patterned woollen bobble hats, the metallic scarves and the tiny Christmas trees each snowman holds in his snowy hand.

What fun. The tea-light candles go inside the icy fellows and glow through the star shapes. Magic.

I hope I don't sell them all, I'd like one for myself.

Now what should I charge? Any ideas?

Other people’s fireworks…

I suppose it could be viewed as sad that tonight I shall watch other peoples fireworks explode in the night sky all around me and feel not need to join in the fun and frolics. Not so much as a single spark from a sparkler.

There was a time when I would plan my display for weeks in advance, building my bonfire ever higher and higher, carefully considering the best attire for this years Guido, getting the pop bottles lined up for my rockets.

It wasn’t that long ago either.

I don’t know what, when, or where it or I changed. It or I just did.

These days although I still appreciate the spectacle and beauty of the fizzing, whirling, pyrotechnical wonder of it all and seeing the first bright green rocket explode in the black November sky, showering sparks in all directions high above, can still make me smile.

My smile isn’t the one it used to be and it isn't there for the same reasons, but it remains a smile - take it or leave it.

Yes, I’ll watch other people fireworks tonight remembering other bonfire nights when I’d wrap up warm and risk my life and limbs by getting too close to that squibby one that hasn't lit properly. One year I almost lost an eye, another time I picked up a roman candle, shook it to get it going and, BOOM, it exploded.

Ah, the foolishness of twenty-something or other man-boys.

I might even mumble the chant that was forever on my lips at this time of year back then –
Remember remember the fifth of November
Gunpowder, treason and plot.
I see no reason why gunpowder, treason
Should ever be forgot...

I might, yes I really might.

Other people’s fireworks when I use to have fireworks of my own. I wonder where the sparkle went?

Automatic writing...

I took this picture last summer but I found these words for the first time in my blog folder this evening. They were written early this morning, very early this morning when I should (and maybe was) have been asleep.

How odd. I think it must be my first successful journey into automatic writing because I have no memory of writing it or where it came from. It could be old age, it could be last night's red, but I prefer to think I've managed to tap into my subconscious successfully at last.

Whatever, whichever, wherever... here it is:

---------------------------------

It isn’t me that’s weird or my life that’s weird, but somewhere in the heady mix of COMBINATION a strange type of gasoline was invented and, well quite frankly, BOOOOOM!

So combustible, so weird, so ‘just waiting to go off – tick, tock, tick, tock – no smoking – please turn off all mobile phones – DANGER, DANGER, radioactive materials in the vicinity… RED BUTTON…. Defcom One and counting…’

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!

You know when you are up on a hill and the clouds move across the landscape below?
Sometimes you see the reflection of the sun on the fields and you smile, and then sometimes the clouds scud across and darken the land and there is no sunshine to see?

Remember that fleeting frown.
Remember that fleeting frown?
Please remember that fleeting frown.

It is like being okay but only almost. Knowing that at any moment the sun can go behind that cloud and the world, your world, will turn dull - then grey - then black.

I call it life, but generally today there was more sunshine than cloud. It is what keeps me moving. More sunshine than cloud.

Why there was no blog last night...

No blog last night. Not that you noticed.

Well, not much happens between Halloween and Bonfire Night in this neck of the woods and to tell you the truth, well sometimes I simply can't be bothered.

Not often, but sometimes.

Sometimes I'd rather slip off my shoes, release my socks from my ankles, light a candle, and breathe in the sweet smell of lilies - and who wouldn't?

I don't relax much, I'm not a relaxing kind of person, but sometimes I just want to switch off.

Switching off is hard though. Switching off means forgetting about the shed that needs moving, the bank accounts that need checking, the essay that needs writing, the glass that needs painting, the soup (pumpkin) that needs souping, the Facebook that needs checking, the carpet that needs cleaning, the book that needs writing, the painting that needs painting, the blog that needs blogging, the....

Well, you get the picture.

Relaxation is something I'm learning though. It's taking time and is a bit of a stop-start process. It involves painting fence posts very slowly, white and blue alternately, making sure the paint never touches the sides. It involves slowly descending staircases to a place where I am totally comfortable, a mobile home by the sea, warm with a stove and low maintenance with the sound of waves and a decent rum to sip. It involves recognising that I can be kind to myself and that there is no need to beat myself up, realising my best is good enough even if I will never be Dali. It involves imagining a tall building... a skyscraper somewhere..... at night.... it has ten floors... and each floor is lit up... and with each breath out... I count aloud from ten down to one ... and with each breath out... one floor of that building goes dark.... from the top down.... and as I breath out... as each floor goes dark.... those numbers begin to disappear until I just can't find the next number... and each breath out takes me down and down... deeper and deeper... darker and darker.... it's good... and each breath out can make me so relaxed... so comfortable...

It involves trying to do small things that make me feel good each day. Kind words, small acts, recognitions, smiles, helping. Seeing the world the way that I want to see it, not the way it wants me to see it.

I'm learning, slowly but surely I'm learning. Time to take my socks off I think.

Spindel by Hannah...

Remember this guy?

Yes it’s Spindel the donkey - well almost donkey, as you know he has the udder of a cow courtesy of an orange rubber glove. Spindel was the creation of Hannah, Number 2's (RickShore) very creative daughter.

Yesterday Hannah sent me this fantastic drawing of Spindel. I was amazed by the detail she’d put into it and the skill with which she’d drawn it. There’s the orange rubber glove udder, the spiky purple ball nose, the yellow sponge face, and yellowish plastic bag main – she’s even got the blue rope on his back.

Spindel alive on the page for all to see – 2 photos 16p or 10 photos for a pound. Hannah’s an astute business woman too.

It’s been a while now since I wandered down Criccieth beach and I’m missing it, but Hannah’s drawing brought it all back to me. What fun and frustration we had that day, building a donkey from beach flotsam and jetsam. A happy few hours spent as a child, with children young and old, and at the end of it Spindel the donkey standing proud for all to see.

I’ve dreamt of Spindel a couple of times since then. Once he was a smugglers donkey with kegs of brandy on his back and I was his pirate captain - ‘Shiver me timbers and pieces of eight. Splice the main brace, yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum – hic!’

Another time he was wandering on the beach alone at night and I was following. The stars were bright and he seemed to be heading towards the brightest one of all. I’m not sure where we were going but I knew I’d be happy when we got there.

And he’s out there somewhere still I think, on Criccieth beach, waiting for me to come back, maybe he’ll let me climb onto his back and take me off to that special place where I’ll be happy again.

Thanks Hannah. It’s a magical picture, Spindel’s a magical donkey, and you made him happen. I'll have to think of a way to repay you for the smiles you've brought me.

Follow your star.