Wood worms of memory

My Mum brought my Dad's old mouse boxes into the house to use as firewood. Unfortunately she discovered that the wood worm in the old wood had infested a standard-lamp her father had made in the 1930s. So she threw the wood out.

Today, I fetched my father's old saw from his old shed. It was the one I remember as a kid that used to make a whipping noise when you shook it. All his tools, golf clubs and odds and ends of wire, plastic bags were still there as he left them.

I fetched the saw and sawed-up my grandfather's standard-lamp. Close-grained wood turned on a lathe by my grandfather, sanded down and then varnished. I felt the gentle curves of it in my hand.

The wooden stand of the lamp looked like a shield crossed with the arms of the lamp's shaft; wreathed by flames.

A final sacrifice of something touched and shaped by his hands.



.

Commuting in my now

Close my eyes and ride the bucking train, my surfboard on rails.

Listening to music,

My earplug-phones

Listen to unheard lyrics

Listen to the full flavour of music

Listen.

Relaxed, warm, in my now.

A strong sense of me, in my now.

Poweful.

Exhilirating.

Confident.

Relaxed, warm and in my selfish now.

Legs stretched out, taking too much commuter space.

Irritating.

Heavy breathing.

Over-confident.

Eye closed,

Ears plugged,

Senses focused,

I am isolated,

I am selfish

In my now.

My selfish now.

But to know, to really know your now.

That silver thread to our soaring spirits.

But at what cost?

Nudging aside others.

Focusing on our my.

Memories like these

Stop.

Let memory still time.
Let the moment stay its hurtling haste.

I am the audience.

Lights are dimmed,

By the light of a fire Mi Mi dances.
Frank Sinatra croons

Mi Mi dances.

Memory be faithful.

Stay time.

Keep this paused eternity.




.

Two pink roses

Somethings in London still surprise me.

A group of monks in habits of grey or brown, walking across the road near Parliament Square. Such strange attire, long flowing habits, ordinary fabric jackets, everyday rucksacks, rosary beads at their sides. Even the tourists pause whilst holding-up "Heat" magazine as their mates take their photo with Big Ben.

Earlier in the morning I had seen a woman carrying two pink roses. She was in London for the same reason as the monks.

They have made the trip to London to visit the mortal remains of a modern saint, St. Thérèse de Lisieux, currently on display in Westminster Cathedral.

I wonder. I wonder how they got the body through the border checks? Did they declare it a religious artefact or human remains? Are a saints relics still considered mortal remains?

Considering the coverage this got in the free newspapers of London, Londoners were also intrigued by such an event. Such a surprise to feel we live in a world that can visit saint's relics, on their UK tour.

Curiousity, surprise, wonder.

Here are some of St. Thérèse's words:

"Love proves itself by deeds, so how am I to show my love? Great deeds are forbidden me. The only way I can prove my love is by scattering flowers and these flowers are every little sacrifice, every glance and word, and the doing of the least actions for love."

I would have liked to meet her.



...

Rattus norvegicus

I was happily observing my local murder of crows in St James' Park - the crows were queueing-up to wreck the bottom of a plastic bin liner through a metal mesh, to get at a discarded sandwich - when I spotted a brown rat, scurrying unnoticed in the leaf litter, about 10 metres from the busy footpath.

So I sat down to watch him or her.

They seemed to be gathering up some nuts - unlike the begging squirrels - and occasionally darting back into the herbacious border. Quite happy. Quite unconcerned, and quite big too. Unfortunately there was only one; if there had been more I could have used the most wonderful collective noun for rats, a mischief.

The only time I have ever seen a mischief of rats was in Swindon's "The Lawn", when they were busily digging up leatherjackets in an old graveyard. They were squeaking with delight with their little noses far down into the soil. They did not notice me creep up to within a couple of meters of them.

A lovely moment.

Far better than those begging, foreign grey squirrels, posing for tourists. Give me a stalwart brown rat anyday, much more fun.

A quiet night in

Tonight, I feel not well.

Tonight, I write not well.

I eat soft food - strawberry and kiwi fruit smoothie, scrambled egg, and a cup of darjeeling with a large slice of lemon.

I sit at the computer. I multi-task.

I chat with Ju Ju.

I email.

I listen to the "Wall" - Pink Floyd - it takes me back to my days of yore, sitting in William Rhodes Secondary School lower-sixth, wondering about the meaning in the lyrics, not knowing anything about relationships, love, life etc.. and why would I, a seventeen year-old boy, never been kissed...

Is this the modern world, the connected, networked world - the electronic cottage that I heard about in the late 1980s? Is this what my generation have made of the world? Connecting people via the internet, bringing entertainment to me through a PC?

After this I think I will retire to me snuggly bed with some of the books I bought today. Naughty library was selling off old stock - 4 for a quid. Some habits don't change - bed and books.

A blog post to myself

How recursive can you get, consciously enjoying a moment and writing it up as your next blog post in your head.

Always being watched. Always aware that you are watching yourself. Aware that you are writing your own story.

But then, what a moment and what a place.

I work for an organisation that has a balcony overlooking Parliament Square in London. After work I went up to the balcony to eat my neatly sliced apple with yogurt - a little snack before going out. From the balcony I could see the square and surrounding buildings and enjoy a moment of quiet to myself.

And what a view - The Houses of Parliament, a whimsical clutter of spires, when viewed from the fifth floor; Westminster Abbey, solid, squat and yet decorous; the new Supreme Court, all fussy and faux-medieval with its elegant gargoyles and statues; the Treasury, marbled-pillars projecting power; and a scatter of autumnal trees and black statues in the square, with the momentary coloured highlight, a flag of the anti-war protester.

My moment. My story.