Catherine Mark-Beasant

re A hectic June/July...

2010-06-14T17:10:00.000-07:00

Hi all

Well, it's that time of year... and I'm pretty bogged down with exam marking work (on top of my full-time teaching job) so I'll be out of bloggy action for a couple of months. This year I'm marking 2 GCSE papers... R.S. and Citizenship (yikes!) Also, I'm still busy looking for more suitable/permanent work against September (fingers crossed, something turns up soon:) And, my MA Poetry portofolio is due at some point this Aug/Sept. Talking poetry... I leave you with a link to an e-book, an anthology of experimental poems titled 'If I knew where poems came from' by MMU creative writing students. Do have a look... as some of my poems feature in this anthology (plus there are other very inspired reads in the collection). Hope you enjoy the read until I'm back online. Hope to resurface properly by early August after a long weekend in Cornwall (my treat after an exhuasting couple of months). I will stay connected reading and commenting on blogs when I can. Cheers.

Catherine

re Wirral Photos!

2010-06-06T15:05:00.001-07:00

re Update on Wirral Walk

2010-06-06T15:01:00.000-07:00

It’s taken a while to blog about my recent charity walk of 23rd May. Fully recovered, here goes...

After making the 1-hour or so train journey from West Kirby (where the B&B was located) to New Brighton station, we proceeded to make our way towards Seacombe Ferry on foot. This was the start point for the 15 mile walk. What a mistake! Walking along the coastal front, it was as we were walking against a tide of thousands of walkers that we realised that something was not quite right. Trying to stay positive, I hoped that the start point wouldn’t be a long way off despite the fact that we’d asked a helpful lady what the distance was from the start. She’d replied that it was ‘a long way off’. My walking partner was getting visibly irritated at our mistake. Fifteen minutes turned into half an hour, and this in turn became 45 minutes. It took a good 4 miles in the steaming heat just to register in order to commence the walk. Not the best way to start an epic trek (grin!). Anyway, we got ourselves registered (just in the nick of time too), as the deadline was 11 am and we were stamped in at 10:45 am. After a brief pep talk, we both managed to get ourselves into the right frame of mind for the journey ahead of us.

In spite of the ropey start, it turned out to be an absolutely glorious day. This coastal walk meandered from Seacombe Ferry through New Brighton, Meols, West Kirby and finishing up at Thurstaston Country Park. Surprisingly, the terrain was varied and arduous in parts. We trampled across asphalt, sand and woodland. I found the sand (about halfway through the route) the most difficult to navigate through. Walking on sand for a lengthy stretch was incredibly wearing on the legs, even though, it was beautiful walking along the coastline of some truly gorgeous Wirral landscape. As I powered on, my walking partner (a 10 time marathon runner), laden with a bag full of fruit and water, had more time and energy to take in the spectacular scenery and snap some photos. All I had to do, was to focus on my pace as I aimed to clock in a time of under 4.5 hours. My earlier training suggested that I could do it, and indeed, the two months training paid off. I crossed the finish line in 4 hours and 15 minutes. Hurrah. What an achievement for me, who has been slowly regaining my general health and wellbeing over the last couple of years, and who has been out of a gym for almost a year with lower back pain and tendonitis.

The highlights of the day... the fab vibe of the 5000+ walking community that took part in this walk, a wonderful array of young, old and four-legged; the varied and interesting route even sporting a lighthouse mid-way; meeting a dear blogger friend of mine en-route (J who lives in the locality spotted me in the red Action Aid T-shirt and came up, introduced himself and said ‘hi’); scoffing a couple of ice creams to cool down; a much needed loo break in a designated men’s toilets (yep, the ladies had taken over ALL the toilets in sight (lol)); not developing any blisters, although I was well prepared with Compeed - a suggestion of a Birmingham friend of mine who’d recently completed a tough hill walk challenge raising money for Endometriosis UK; and my finishing time. The only negative was possibly walking in the searing heat for 4+ hours. And in fact, much to my surprise, I suffered from sunburn - sore and peeling skin for days after. Oh dear, I looked dreadful. Normally, I tend to steer clear of the sun, so I guess my rather delicate skin took a real roasting (no pun intended) and I suffered for it. I didn’t realise how affected I was until I took a shower later that evening and felt a prickly sensation across my forehead, nose and neck. On closer inspection, I saw the darkened wrinkled blotches. Thank God for my dark colouring which meant that I didn’t turn a humming red as my walking partner did (he too had failed to take a hat!) So that’s the lesson for next year... take a hat!

On this occasion, so far I have raised about £450 to be split between two organisations - Action Aid and PDI International. My ultimate goal is to raise £1000 this year to be shared between the two charities and I hope to do another event later this year to meet this target. Huge thanks to all those who have supported my Wirral Walk endeavours. Your contributions will go so far to the HIV/AIDS work of Action Aid and PDI International. Those of you who would still like to support this effort, it’s not too late... you can make an offline or online donation. Follow the link or contact me for more information on how to do so. Those of you unable to sponsor this effort, I hope you might be able help me meet my £1000 target by supporting my autumn endeavour. Stay tuned for what I’ll be doing next. Once again, thank you... thank you... thank you... for all your support!

Catherine

re Pumpkin Moon

2010-05-20T13:37:00.000-07:00

Chases my inky form or am I following it?
I’m reminded of pumpkin moon lodged
in Omoba sky; under which my young

fanny was fingered by Uncle Innocent’s paws.
On frayed mat in a camphor tinged room,
I wriggled; bewildered, until my movements
became bound by the spell of magic moon.

Now: I imagine pumpkin moon has the power
to reach into my skull and crack its wall,
scattering the pips of dormant gloom. It near-
succeeds, tugging the corners of Vaselined lips.

Catherine Mark

re Countdown

2010-05-16T13:43:00.000-07:00

Today’s training was an easy 2-hour amble... the wind down (in terms of training) before the big day next Sunday (23/5). Through a local forest land, it was lovely walking through the embrace of the warmish May sun among the chorus of chirping birds. I must say that after almost two months of active training and one month of fundraising, I am really excited about next week’s walk. So far, I’ve raised between £450 and £500 (to be split between two charities)... quite a way off from my £1000 goal. But as I started my fundraising efforts quite late to meet this optimistic target, I’m hoping to pick up some last minute donations over the next few weeks. Also, it’s likely that I will probably commit to another event in August/September to raise the difference in donations needed to hit the £1000 mark for this year’s fundraising goals. Well, I will be writing again and posting some photos on the other side of the walk. Many thanks for all your well wishes, support and donations.

Catherine

ps If any of you are in the Wirral area... I'll be the one in the red Action Aid T-shirt... do wave or come over and say 'hello'!

POEM: Cube of blue

2010-05-08T12:48:00.000-07:00

In this aquarium room;

metallic bile rises

- Yvonne’s death at

thirty-five, a red-ribbon noose,

marriage meltdown - loss

climbs on loss, like rats

scrabbling on rats

in this blue cube...

where the only sweetness

rising is the scent

of sawdust, a reminder of a time

before cubed blue.

Catherine Mark

POEM: Last laugh

2010-05-03T01:44:00.000-07:00

Last laugh

The goat with a slit throat,

tongue lolls, blood droplets

form burnt skin blisters

on baked Omoba soil.

My witchdoctor grandfather

cuts up the carcass, spending hours

cleaning, praying and cutting

as the stink of goat douses the air.

Seven-year-old eyes transfixed

by the smirk on the goat’s face.

This sufferer with mirth

as his song – has he breathed

his last chuckle, or has Imo miri

thrown him a lifeline?

*Imo miri - God of the Sea

Do stay connected with my Wirral Walk training updates HERE. This week's entry is titled 'Upping the ante' :)

Update on my Training

2010-04-25T13:59:00.000-07:00

Training under an April Sunday shower!

Today’s training was hard hard hard! I set off with my trainer friend, Al, at 11:30 am. Although, there was some promise of a splendid sunny Sunday, the skies gave way to a downpour midway through our 4-hour walk. It took us two hours to walk along the canal from Manchester City Centre to Sale (a pleasant suburb in Greater Manchester). In the dry part of the afternoon, it was lovely to share the wonderful sunshine with ducks, fishermen, all manner of narrow boats meandering past, runners, joggers and other walkers. It really was bliss! However as we arrived Sale the droplets turned into downpour and at this point, we did a U-turn and pressed on homeward bound. My pace slowed down, and Al (a hard task master) was on my case to keep up my pace. But the sludge and slippery pavings at various points on the course made it difficult for me to maintain my pace (well, that’s my excuse anyway :) By the 3-hour mark, I could feel a dull ache in my legs and the sharp pain jabbing my feet. (I’m still struggling with feet issues which is being managed by regular Podiatry and Physiotherapy clinics - apparently my ongoing tendonitis/foot/lower back problems are a result of my aging flat feet/damaged nerves). By the 3 1/2-hour mark, my lower back started on me and it took every ounce of energy to complete today’s training. It was agony!!! For my efforts, I managed 12 miles in 4-hours. I really need to up the anti next weekend, if I am to complete the 15-mile walk in May in 5 or 6 hours (being more realistic) as opposed to spending an entire day completing the route (lol). I must find an extra 1.5 hours in me to succeed in this walking challenge (yikes!)

All in all, my training hasn’t been too bad in the last four weeks or so. Prior to going back to full-time teaching, I was managing TWO 1.5 to 3 hour walks a week. Since returning to work, I am walking the 40 minutes each way to the school and then committing to a long walk on Sunday. Well, just under a month to go... so, keep supporting me through reading my updates and/or sponsoring me online (or via post). I really appreciate all your support and well wishes!

Until my next post...

Catherine

POEM: Textures

2010-04-18T05:55:00.000-07:00

On the windowsill

sits a feathery cactus

bulb and a silken candle.

Tidying fly-away braid

neatly beneath headscarf, I watch

yolk gel escape

into a milk jug.

A minute or so later,

heated gloop becomes

spongy eggs.

Beside the pan: creased silver

foil envelops flesh of freshly

baked bread.

For the meal later:

rice grains washed twice

in sieve, gravelly cr-ra-cr-ra

grating wired nerves while a few

grains scurry down

sinkhole

beneath tap

water, stream of cold

and smooth like the smooth sheet

which wrapped slothful curves - tangled

between thighs and whys? - the night

before in my lover’s den.

Catherine Mark

POEM: Bananas and buzzards

2010-04-05T03:12:00.000-07:00

I’ll race you to Oyiboland

where we’ll feast on

bananas and buzzards...

is what I might have said to my boy

cousin whose hands were chained

to a pole in the middle of our Umugbede

compound...

chained up all day and all night,

he cussed all night and all day.

Mad, he was.

Catherine Mark

Poem: Guinea Fowl

2010-03-26T08:23:00.000-07:00

This is one I'm reworking...

He traipses along with dog in tow
splattering of black and beige dancing

about feet. On his back rests a guitar
wrapped in bizarre colourful sarape.

Within minutes the pair arrive their daytime
destination: Sainsburys. He unpacks his tool –

begins to strum a stream of dated tunes,
bringing to life 1980s ghouls. Eight o’clock:

humanity ascends, fills the streets like humming
midges; man in tweed coat, paunched woman

with crucifix dangling from her throat, veiled woman
pushing silent pram. In the foreground: youth bristle

a gregarious animation of rooks. And he remains
unnoticed, a guinea fowl foraging beneath soggy leaves.

Catherine Mark

Walking the Wirral...

2010-03-25T05:34:00.000-07:00

On Sunday 23rd May 2010, I will be participating in the Wirral Coastal Walk to raise money for two charities - Possible Dreams International (PDI) and an Action Aid project. The goal is to raise £ 1000 (or more) to be split equally between the two organisations!

Possible Dreams International, Inc. (www.possibledreamsinternational.org) is a non profit organisation with a lion’s heart. Their vision statement is “to empower communities in areas of deep and immediate need throughout the world. Through the organisation and financing of community based projects and the raising of awareness regarding issues such as endemic disease, poverty and malnutrition we aim to bring tangible hope into the lives of those for whom the flame of hope seems to flicker on the brink of extinction.”

As a grassroots organisation they “work intimately with community leaders to empower and engage individuals as they walk the road to self- sufficiency. This is achieved through distinct community and family based projects.” To read about some of their recent projects go to: www.possibledreamsinternational.org/the-movement/ and www.possibledreamsinternational.org/swaziland/!

With a commitment to ending poverty Action Aid UK aims “to improve people’s lives every day. But we know that’s not enough. So we work relentlessly to change whatever is keeping them trapped in poverty.This means we have a better chance of ending poverty for good.” For example ActionAid in Burkina Faso: “Focuses on helping families to improve their farming techniques, improving access to health and education, and helping women to generate new sources of income. We have helped establish gardens in schools. One initiative has set up a drying unit to process local fruits and vegetables for sale at market. We support community-run health and HIV & AIDS awareness campaigns, and are working to improve local health services. We also support adult education projects to help adults learn literacy and communication skills and how to access local services.” To find about more about the work and projects of Action Aid go to: www.actionaid.org.uk!

The hope is that the monies raised from this walk will go towards supporting a PDI HIV project in Swaziland and an Action Aid HIV project.

For more information on how to support my efforts please contact me via email. Or visit:-

My Action Aid: Wirral Coastal Walk!

I hope you stay connected with my training and fundraising endeavours towards this event.

Catherine x

re POEM 30

2010-02-22T13:44:00.000-08:00

Well folks... I’ve done it! A poem a day, for thirty days... hurrah :) Gosh, what an endeavour but its been great fun doing this bit of fundraising for Haiti. I raised £100 from a single sponsor who inspired the project. But, of course... all your support in reading and commenting has equally supported me in this journey. So, thank you all... so very much! Btw, the money raised will go to Haiti via Action Aid (a charity that I remain committed to - as I sponsor a child in Lesotho through them, and I have done a 10K for them too, in the past). Well, just to let you know that this isn’t the end of the story... as some of the poems that were conceived during this process will be reworked for my MA portfolio in due course. That's all for now...

Banana spider

His photograph hung

for a year at the Urbis

locked in a dark frame

matching thick Latin brow.

Long delicate lashes

tickling time squeezed

into air-tight jam jar. His breath,

damp and dangerous;

his sting far-reaching, untapped

wet bite slides on slippery angles

of glass separating us. Every

day for a year I visited Banana

spider in his rectangular mount,

thinking I was safe from his fount.

Catherine Mark

re POEM 29

2010-02-21T14:38:00.000-08:00

Identity II

plantain and yam porridge,

goat pepper soup, okra or okazi

stew coaxed from mother’s kitchen

on special days;

on other days: pear pancakes

sprinkled with lemon and sugar,

peanut butter and jam on thickly cut

bread from a Beit Hanina store, or a bowl

of warm milky porridge with a swirl of honey

stirred in -

stir memories from another place,

another time; a timeless place

where the kitchen table funneled

wafts like grandmother’s tales

told under clamorous darkness as we sat

around on a straw mat in the veranda of our Omoba

summer house, always before she’d drop off; her head

bopping, swollen lips drooling, her snores

deepening, lengthening...

until her morning Milo. Like grandmother's cryptic

sleep-face, my identity is as obscure as a can of Malt.

Catherine Mark

re POEM 28

2010-02-20T13:02:00.000-08:00

Deansgate Platform

Sipping tepid coffee, Amante

and I trample over footbridge, descend stone stairway,

and rest black bike against platform bench; hard,

uninviting...

unlike the hint of his Jean Paul Gaultier

perfume tickling my cold nostrils; warm, familiar.

Thoughts interrupted:

by a woman in her sixties pacing

with a pinched ‘I’ve just missed a train’

expression; her short booted strides

clunk concrete. Her bright pink coat

and ash-grey layered cut gives me chuckle,

Growing old gracefully? I suppose. Just as I am; snagged

in sequined net of romance on Deansgate platform.

Catherine Mark

re POEM 27

2010-02-19T15:52:00.001-08:00

The city’s tunnels

Between Balloon Street

and Miller Street, a network

of tight-lipped subways and bricked-up

air raids occupy the ground below;

shelters which once served Victorian

Mancunians with tunnels linking hidden

dwellings, shops and bunkers. These cellar

dwellars also used busy waterways

as launch points for steam and ferry travel.

In steamier times, around the mid-1930s, these cruising

travelers would have passed arches (built into the Irwell

embankment) heaving with wine merchants, silk-dyers,

printers and cabinet makers - all clacking their cajoles.

Today, the chatter of these sellers is muted -

buried in the city’s tunnels and cellars.

Catherine Mark

re POEM 26

2010-02-18T15:01:00.001-08:00

In search of clarity

Curved desk lamp curves

allows eco-light bulb to shimmer,

it flashes against lavender screen

of MacBook, specked with stars

mirroring a slice of spiral galaxy

evaporating deep into cyberspace.

In the foreground: an email in Italic

script and 12-point font size;

an email to Him asking

for clarity in this grit clogged

intimacy. Like clean sheets now stained,

giving off a smell of rotten oyster

mushrooms, this email leaves a sour

taste on thick stale tongue.

Catherine Mark

re Poem 25

2010-02-17T14:11:00.000-08:00

Tendonitis

Thin cutting pain;
sharp stab - stabbing
the arch of my flat left
foot, vestige of three-

hour Sunday walk along
Manchester's cloudy canals ending
in Castlefield basin where narrow boats
(enveloped by night-life chaff) moor
as if sleeping the winter away.

Left brain responds to jabbing pain:
says, it corresponds to knotted
tissues of a relationship in knots;
where conversations around whether
the sofa-bed in the second room should be out

or not; and heated discussions over house hygiene
rules bubble over. If only Men are from Mars
and Women are from Venus could resolve
this current of conflicting egos. If only
marriage was as simple as tiffs over questions
such as 'Does my bum look big in this?' If only
matrimony was not bristly like tendonitis.

Catherine Mark

re POEM 24

2010-02-16T18:14:00.000-08:00

Regrets

A pile of these organisms

pool to form an organic Loch Ness

beastie,

latching on to miles and miles

of time spent in trial and error,

stops and starts, take-off and failure:

an unkind tone; a lie which morphed

into another lie and breathed a lateral

contrived existence -

this frozen pool of regrets fractures;

deep wounds refusing to heal.

Some call them learning curves,

others coin them mistakes of a kind,

whatever term of endearment is used,

the bottom line is that more often than not -

regrets tend to rot the gut.

Catherine Mark

re POEM 23

2010-02-15T13:11:00.000-08:00

In search of Blue Pearl

Rise and fall of breath,

each breath carries sacred words

and syllables; a dinghy

on steady stream calming

tumbling hot thoughts:

Haahm (inhale) saa (exhale)

Haahm-saa Haahm-saa Haahm-saa

Haahm (inhale) saa (exhale)

Haahm-saa Haahm-saa Haahm-saa...

bound energy uncoils

from saddle of spine

(interrupted intermittently

by a chattering consciousness)

until shaft of blue ascends

to the other self - blue pearl.

Catherine Mark

re POEM 22

2010-02-14T15:04:00.000-08:00

Greek mezze

platter of mini-

dishes: olives, humous,

aubergines, Feta cheese,

brushed with olive oil

and paprika; reminiscent

of Kefalonia home-grown taverna

tucked under Cephalonica trees,

the wafts and the mandolin-

strumming crooner transports

this basement Manchester eatery

into a sea turtle’s haven until Valentine

stomach is stuffed silly.

Catherine Mark

re POEM 21

2010-02-13T12:26:00.000-08:00

Inspired by a walking tour that I and hubby went on today...

The Smiths’ Manchester

fingerprints of murky murders

on moors in 1960s industrial decay,

bleak macabre bogey-man

surged out of Gorton soil

usurping grey-blue skies

into an eddy of raw-red scene,

against community of black tears

unsure of the lyrics of this intruder

in their midst - synonym of silent

nurseries, a final wave and ‘Bye mam’,

or fag-end squashed outside night-

club where Suffer Little Children

would play decades later

in jangly post-punk groove.

Catherine Mark

re POEM 20

2010-02-12T11:45:00.000-08:00

Identity

Bright flag flaps

high on pole

disappearing with clouds

the shade of coal.

The gnomes below

in circus colours

loop the ground, round

and round in crop circle

puzzle. Lingering

between the flag and gnomes

is the sweet smell of plantains

from Mother’s kitchen.

Catherine Mark

re POEM 19

2010-02-11T15:51:00.000-08:00

A Salford District

A Foster beer can, Walkers crisp wrapper,

left-hand leather glove and a disabled umbrella

looking like a treehouse crumbled in a Tornado,

scattered by the banks of the canal, strewn

between mottled ducks traveling at yoga pace

with the poise of a sublime Buddha. I even

suspect that these creatures are laughing

with incredulity at the profanity of human

split-second decisions; indifference in this fringe

of cobbled urban space. Or it could be they

are tanked on leaked 4.5% beverage - a leverage

in seeing roses instead of debris.

Catherine Mark

re POEM 18

2010-02-10T14:54:00.001-08:00

Between Us

an imaginary mercury line

connects his head to my toes,

then zigzags from my knees

to his elbows. Without warning

this strand of silver splices two

egos wrestling with Vegemite,

what-ifs and everyday mites.

Catherine Mark

re POEM 17

2010-02-09T13:04:00.000-08:00

Swinton church

on Station Road,

beside dark police station, overlooking

what was once the Village Green.

night lights shine over last rites

of ebbing Anglican persuasion;

mimicking a bowl of heaven’s honey

albeit laced with poison -

the poison of apathy packaged

as interdependence and self-preservation

in the vein of the tall steeple, gabled porch,

medieval Gothic flourishes glowering at me.

It’s a strange composition in the midst

of cut-and-paste Pizza shops surrounded by layers

of rubbish spilling over sidewalks, a sense of pride lost

in this place which thrived on coal and swine

in a not too distant past. ‘Where have all

the parishioners gone?’ I ask the Evening Light.

‘Retreated to the cellars’ is the reply.

Catherine Mark

re POEM 16

2010-02-08T12:00:00.000-08:00

Hoorah... I'm just over the halfway hump :) Many thanks to all of you who are supporting me in my current fundraising endeavour by reading and leaving a comment. I really appreciate your motivating kudos across the blogwaves :) Thank you, all...

Job hunting

convoluted as tracking

gulper eels across currents

(even if tagged with sensors

sewn into silk skin);

their migration through Atlantic

waters an epic jaunt, similar

to my job search in wintry

economic climate:

chasing jobs on-line,

in local papers, job boards,

pulling networking chords,

slippery... opportunities slip...

though I keep fingers firmly crossed,

in hope of something right

being clinched on time

for end-of-month billing chimes.

The oxygen snuffed, my gills

of survival suffering

from hours poring

over liquid laptop,

under the weight of residual

stress triggered by toxic

game of workplace ‘politics

and chess’; another experience

to survive in this ocean

that is life.

Catherine Mark

re POEM 15

2010-02-07T13:05:00.001-08:00

Training begins

Crook back (made worse

with a two-hour vacuuming

spree yesterday), seethes

in pain, a gravelly crunch,

fierce with each step along

Salford Quays canal pathway.

The metallic scent of white

gulls lined along a jetty

and seaweed-coated debris,

momentarily distracts ache

settled at the seat of my spine.

I exhale, turn slightly and catch

the gaze of a man with a bullish

face and heavy-rimmed frames

nursing a fishing tackle. He nods,

bends to fix his stare on the rods

splayed around his Wellington boots.

Again, I inhale, push my form

forward, resist the temptation

to pause or teeter to a halt; ‘no

pain, no gain’, I clutch this familiar

mantra knowing I must endure three

months of training for the event in May.

Catherine Mark

re POEM 14

2010-02-06T15:59:00.000-08:00

Distance

Threaded track trails

from here to somewhere

and back again. The distance

that has crept between us reminds

me of dotted phone poles,

communication masts

and parallel wires bounding

for miles and miles;

a continuum of the ‘here

and now’ dissolving into faded

sepia, like the static on a BT

line, we are nowhere, and the distance

between us continues to swell.

Catherine Mark

re POEM 13

2010-02-05T13:34:00.000-08:00

Autumn’s Answer

He who knows nothing doubts nothing (Spanish Proverb)

The hills yawn

gushing daylight dawn

which flood the valleys

as minutes coalesce into hours

lengthening

stretching

the span of Autumn’s glow

flickering in gold glass

between sighing winds

slapping cheeks and thigh

while sweeping coastal

tides

high high high

a spray of raspy white on teal blue

breaks my jump into you.

Catherine Mark

re POEM 12

2010-02-04T05:01:00.000-08:00

Another day

sifting shapes

shift

shifting

as if entering night’s half-open lips

shroud of emptied

effort and toil

foil

the passions which carved the day

until darkening skyline

presses city shadows

subdues... extends...

its shady length towards tomorrow

and

another day of crumpets buttered with bitty

marmalade,

another day filled with Wallace and Gromit

characters at work,

another day of ambitions drifting

like a mistress between the inky line

of today and tomorrow.

Catherine Mark

re POEM 11

2010-02-03T10:49:00.000-08:00

Sleep apnoea

an irregularity of nature;

an endless mare stealing

sleep, that is before the apparatus

the size of a 1980’s cassette player

became a part of us,

now

humming mask

intrudes on nuptial nook

regulating shallow breathing,

no longer shaking the walls

of cerebral drama,

now

a different visitor -

but where is the choice

between the two? I ponder,

as a strange scent of roasted corn

fills the room, mingles with the dramatics

of machine and man

falling into sleep’s well.

Catherine Mark

re POEM 10

2010-02-02T11:51:00.000-08:00

The Brazilian

lithe length

extended in horizontal

position, enveloped by silk

bedspreads;

fired up like a Rocky theme song,

he laughs, twitches a toe

strumming an invinsible steel

-string guitar.

Catherine Mark

re POEM 9

2010-02-01T06:00:00.000-08:00

In the Conservatory

Fifty-two boxes goad,

“need unpacking” I mutter

to watching walls - this clutter

collected from five years

living in Birmingham:

books,

photographs,

mementos,

handbags,

shoes...

flashbacks of whirlwind

romances; cranky colleagues;

illness which lasted months - all

crammed away in storage boxes

brown stacked on brown,

reminding me of boxed

sub-world existences:

prisons

boarding schools

nursing homes

psych wards

like yolk within albumen

I am unable to begin to unpack

the memories,

for whatever reason I want

them to stay in the yellow.

Catherine Mark

re POEM 8

2010-01-31T04:42:00.001-08:00

Small talk

is what fills the rooms

these days

punctuated, forced;

hours spent keeping up

appearances of fatigued

dreams stretched

across too many years.

We have become a card-

board cut-out of an original

ideal. The traffic light

no longer green, but

a pulsating amber.

Between the bowl

of milk-soaked muesli,

the baby monitor goes off.

Looking up our gazes meet,

hang in mid-air and I rise

to attend to the bundle

gurgling in the only room

that makes sense.

Catherine Mark

re POEM 7

2010-01-30T14:27:00.000-08:00

... feeling physically, emotionally and mentally fatigued today... it's been an ugly stressful week at work... anyway, I still managed a poem today, trying to maintain my momentum :)

Windmill

Blood drips

off knife edge

with clarity

in sleep’s windmill,

a screen of smoke apparent,

smokescreen

or revelation of what?

silent red

weeps;

longings

lost in hours

given to sorting out

recycling bins, de-cluttering

cupboards, washing out stains

on beddings, ironing out

wrinkles in waning relationship

circumcised between crisp linen.

If only dripped blood

did not stain sheets,

if only I could google

our memory map

to find the point of schism.

It is as if the bloodied drops

have accumulated to form

a pool the span of this windmill.

Catherine Mark

re POEM 6

2010-01-29T15:22:00.000-08:00

B&B

In Aberdeen

or a coastal Welsh town,

I imagine it to be a sanctuary

for the weary and wanderlust

traveller –

where after organic Full English

the eating area will function

as a literary lighthouse

where transients saunter

in to muse over Larkin or Muldoon,

perhaps linger (a cuppa in hand) with Coetzee

or Murakami;

while a subtle chime

sounds above doorway, making

way for footfall rhyme; a stream

of cold-blushed clientele

wrapped in fleece

and wool.

In the late evening: among

sagging book-shelves, a local

poet weaves simile and metaphors

in poetic effervescence; pattering like

soothing summer rain

until an Open Mic session evolves,

evolving to create a world

within itself, as I have

done in the wilds of a Welsh

or Gaelic landscape.

Catherine Mark

re POEM 5

2010-01-28T13:03:00.000-08:00

Drip

(a coffee house among many)

Yin-yang haven

hidden among industrial scars

of dearth and dirt…

Inside: inviting sleek-chic graffiti-style

artwork greets; the aroma

of fresh coffee, herbal teas

and home-made cakes tempt

an assorted collection of people:

stout Greek-looking woman

with a Maria Callas headscarf;

two lanky lads engrossed

in a game of solitaire; a brown

lady with a short afro laughing

at full volume with her awkward friend.

Unassuming music ripples

in the background, temporarily

washing away the crystal truth

lodged in my mind;

‘It is over.’

Catherine Mark

re What's going on?

2010-01-27T12:56:00.000-08:00

Hello all... for those wondering at my sudden flurry of poetic activity - well let me explain - after incessantly moaning about my lack of writing space in recent months and in view of a fast-approaching portfolio deadline... in a bid to stimulate some writing (any writing), a friend has decided to sponsor me if I write a poem a day for 30 days. The money raised will go to charity re Haiti. Wish me luck. And thanks to all those who support my efforts by reading and/or commenting on these poems (do keep in mind that they are all first pennings, hence WIPs :)

re POEM 4

2010-01-27T12:32:00.001-08:00

Accordion man

sat on the south-east side

of Piccadilly Gardens,

under the stern silence

of what were originally

Victorian cotton warehouses, now

obscured slightly by contemporary

glass and steel.

clothed in second-hand pass-me-downs,

and a slim scar, only an onyx ring

on his index finger seems

out of place on this forty-something face,

though might be younger,

if life had not dealt him a bitter hand;

handed him a royal flush

or a full house of cards,

a better hand to play

his gift in a London

orchestra. Instead,

head tilted sideways, he maps a fanciful

world with wiry fingers, as shadows

pass without a thought, journeying

towards perfectly stitched lives.

Catherine Mark

re POEM 3

2010-01-26T15:33:00.000-08:00

Trapped moth

moth-powder trail

on glass pane;

a grey smudge

circles naked candle

fleck, then retreats

again. It reappears,

travelling a parallel

circuit with eye-line;

now a sudden cerulean

as if searching for nature’s

sweet sap along cob-

webbed corners of barren

nuptial box.

Catherine Mark

re POEM 2

2010-01-25T14:58:00.000-08:00

Eloise

Scents of Identity

Sachet-blonde

hair gelled

in signature boy-band

style

permanent pout

peeks

from apricot

lips.

She is dressed

in French-chic,

a replica of haute

couture;

as if she’s walked

off a Chanel show

in Paris;

her glassy stare

through severe designer

frames catches my gaze

briefly as she unzips

knee-

length

pointy boots…

balanced on one foot,

then the other

she slips both off,

before sauntering

towards the kitchen area,

hollering: “teas, coffees…”

in thick Mancunian twang;

a togged-up faux-pas

of cultural conundrum –

she is no different from moi.

Catherine Mark

re POEM 1

2010-01-24T10:12:00.000-08:00

Cloud 23

From lofty Hilton heights,

floor-to-ceiling windows

reveal urban lights

flash and fade,

resembling space-capsule

beams

circling feast of nightfall

razzmatazz,

mirrors the sparkle

of frothy Fosters

grasped by weary

fingers that betray fingernails

needing a trim -

Tomorrow, tomorrow,

perhaps I’ll get around

to doing the million and one

things scrawled on my ‘To do list’

now the length of a full month

of not dones:

... pay car insurance

... catch-up call with Elise

... make appointment with dentist

... visit mum at Hathersage

... cut finger and toe nails

Another sip

from near-empty pint,

as my companion

returns to his place

opposite

He smiles a smile

which seems to have been

stitched on from birth

I allow the corners of my mouth

to twitch upward, despite

the dull mechanical ache

hammering the seat

of my spine

“You look beautiful” he says

I turn away,

look out into the glittering

page beyond the muted black

and wonder how life

became so confused, complicated.

Catherine Mark

re Poem

2010-01-17T06:52:00.000-08:00

Hybrid moralities

rend through this Northern

nest nuzzled

between Piccadilly

and Ancoats...

Distracting vinyl

and garish plastic

displays in off-beat vintage

boutiques, a new cool

dotted along

enduring cobbles...

On pliant breast,

this nipple of Manchester

cityscape titillates

with its neon milk

ducts along streets running off Victoria

station down to Shudehill...

Feeding senses

like a ubiquitous Babylon.

Catherine Mark

re Talking Walls

2010-01-06T06:34:00.000-08:00

Another snow day here in Manchester today so cooped up at home... giving me an opportunity to catch up with a number of things including updating my blog. Thought I'd post some pictures that have emerged out of a recent 'Photography as Contemporary Art' six-week course I did at the tail-end of last year. The images reflect two briefs given by the course tutor - 'the every day' (images taken around Manchester city centre) and 'portraiture' (of a friend willing to be my muse-of-sorts... lol). I have titled this project (for an exhibition) 'Talking Walls' - very much with the idea of a poem in pictures (or poetry in imagery) in mind. Very amateurish but it's my offering. Would love to hear your thoughts...

HAPPY HOLIDAYS!

2009-12-24T03:38:00.000-08:00

Hello everyone... it's been a while and I apologise for neglecting my blog space since mid Nov. It has been a crazy busy time in the last couple of months... searching for a place to rent (15 viewings later - I finally, moved into a house in Salford on 7th Dec)... anticipating Joel's arrival from Oz (he landed on 14th Dec)... juggling full-time work since Sept which has been quite busy and stressful in a difficult work environment... and thinking (yes, doing more 'thinking' than 'writing') about my MMU poetry portfolio due this summer '10... and engaged in a 'photography as contemporary art' course which was fab! fab! fab! - I'm hoping to post some of my work in the new year! Well, it's lovely having hubby around after quite some time living apart and it's great to be finally on holiday from work. Since Friday 18th Dec, I've been lazying around, resting, pottering, and vegging out in front of the tele. Having a quiet Christmas and New Year with Joel in Manchester. Back at work on the 4th of Jan. And I will try and be more active blogwise in 2010.

For now, I leave you with a photo of me and Joel taken outside my last residence (which I shared with my cousin since March)... very snowy and very Christmassy. Well, here's wishing all my bloggy friends, followers and readers (old and new) a fabulous festive season. Have fun whatever you get up to! See you all (virtually) in the new year :)

re City crawl [Poem]

2009-11-19T03:59:00.000-08:00

Dunlop tyres,
liquid headlights
streak above the river
Irwell - starlights of the soil

Below,
canal paths are busy
with end-of-day bustle,
while the daily 9-to-5 grind
washes the faces of desperate
drivers, grinding to a halt
in another traffic
crawl

teetering

caught
in heavy showers;
clear, caterpillars
wriggle down wound-shut
window panes,
I imagine

as I bite into an unripe
plum

Catherine Mark

re Poem

2009-10-27T16:10:00.001-07:00

Bus 37 - Shudehill to Eccles

“Not due for her biopsy

scan ‘til next week”

-^-^-^-^-^-^-^-^-^-^-^

“Able to go out for an hour

at a time each day...”

A dark lady with a meerkat expression

casts a dark glance at the bloated belly

of the loud-talking man on the phone

before

turning to concentrate on a photo;

the image of a baby, a wrinkled raisin

peers back -

she smiles

The bus hisses and throttles

through Industrial action bottle-

neck

of traffic jam

like the fatigue fogging

my mind

“The doctor thinks the problem with the kidneys

is nothing to do with the eyes”

-^-^-^-^-^-^-^-^-^-^-^-^-

“... the kidneys are down by 70%

but he reckons it’s not actually kidney failure...”

Mind wanders,

head jerks forward,

as the bus swerves round

bounds

through just-turning-red light at the roundabout

charging towards Eccles

Interchange.

Catherine Mark

re Poem

2009-10-17T11:51:00.000-07:00

Hello everyone…

Life in the last few weeks have been pretty manic - moving from part-time to full-time hours at my work place (a private college at the heart of Manchester’s city centre, where I’m teaching Business and English courses, in addition to coordinating the ESOL dept). I am also in the throes of house hunting as Joel (hubby) and I have decided to stay in the UK for the next couple of years before thinking again about moving to Australia (where Joel is from). Anyway, I just wanted to explain why I’ve been quiet blog-wise for a while… but please bear with me and I will post stuff whenever I can (although it may not be as frequent as I used to). I do hope to get a chance to catch up with some of your blogs soon. In the meantime, I leave you with a poem I penned last week…

Northern Quarter

Burlesque bohemia
tucked in the back streets
sprawled between Shudehill
and Victoria Station

tangible white noise
gutsy
tempo

a pulse injected into bubble-
wrap pods

as if daring

a pin-prick to syringe
its skin, to release apocalyptic
whiteness

pulsating heat
beneath blurred footfall
of outsiders
and those lost
within

this quarter of Northern time

Catherine Mark

re Poem

2009-09-08T11:40:00.000-07:00

Here's one I penned today (so definitely a WIP)... inspired by an aerobics class that I attended today, and the fact that it will be my birthday on 12 Sept... (I'll be away in Edinburgh for the weekend as a treat)... Happy reading :)

ps HAPPY BIRTHDAY to all the September born bloggers out there!

Turning 38

Green spun bars stare
hard at me
lying
below

in lateral stretch on aerobic mat –

blue padding a slight elevation
as I thrust my pelvis towards
their impenetrable gaze,

inhaling
exhaling
up, two, three, four,
down, two, three...
squeeze, lift,
and release
glutes;
simultaneously
with abdomen...

in a bid to dissolve
thirty-eight years of jelly
morphed on waistline, upper arms
and hips; steamroll out
worry lines and worms of cellulite...

Unfortunately, the thrusts and gusts,
the punches and jumping jacks,
can do nothing for the wiry grey hairs
that have over the past decade mushroomed
out between my pits and the patch
in the front right of my head – foliage of age;

the wild place, the wilderness
pushing up like weeds through Manchester
city tarmac, unlocking the moat
hidden in the hedgerows of life.

Catherine Mark

SNAPSHOT: Tortoise Eggs

2009-09-01T12:02:00.000-07:00

Hello everyone... Sorry I haven’t posted anything lately but since coming back from Scotland I seem to have succumbed to a cold/fluey thingy. So I’ve been feeling a bit rundown and out of sorts. Anyway, as I say, things have slowed down for me blogwise but I hope to be back in good form sooner rather than later :) I will keep up with your blogs in the meantime. For now, I’ll leave you with an extract from a short story that I am currently working on (having finally sorted out my short story portfolio for my course). As always, I’d love to receive your hullos and/or comments. ~Catherine~

Extract from Tortoise Eggs

In spite of all this enlightenment from Mr Henson and The Inspired Book, my father agrees for me to go with my grandfather on this excursion. The reason for this trip, from what I can gather, it seems that the gods have forewarned some imminent disaster on the village. To avert it, Papa Ukwu must bring a list of things to his witchdoctor’s pot, which he will use to appease the gods. Yesterday he showed me the list but told me not to ask any questions. He said, ‘A good apprentice learns by observation not by clucking like a housewife.’ The list: ostrich feathers, saffron oil, a live chicken, a fistful of red dirt, a rope, a pot of periwinkle soup, a casket of palm wine, a mixed bag of bones and seashells, and seven tortoise eggs. I dared to ask Papa Ukwu a question, ‘Why do the gods want these specific items?’ My grandfather twitched again and continued brushing his teeth with snuff. After many minutes, removing his smudged index finger from his mouth, he replied, ‘The gods don’t like being interrogated. After all, they are the gods and we are the lesser beings.’ I asked another question, ‘Isn’t it strange that gods of the greater spiritual worlds should request such earthly articles?’ My grandfather looked as if he wasn’t going to respond, but coughed out a globule of spittle and said, ‘By asking for earthbound things, they communicate with us in a way that we can understand. This shows their commitment and concern for us. Now, that’s enough with your questions.’
*
The journey to Calabar is full of obstacles and hazards. If you survive the pedlar’s den at the bus port situated at the far side of the daily market, behind Madam Ibe’s restaurant, and make it onto a bus, then you have to survive the bus journey itself, a tomb of sorts. It can easily send you to an early grave – what with half its nuts and bolts loosening with every bump on the pockmarked and eroded roads. Travelling in these parts, particularly in a car or by bus, as we will be doing, is always quite a momentous undertaking. In spite of all these real dangers and the fact that I am frightened of many things, I tell myself I am not afraid because I am travelling with one who is protected by a pantheon of gods. It is as if I have my own personal full-proof good-luck charm. Even though, to look at – apart from his smiling face – he is aged and as sluggish as the vehicle we are about to enter. He holds on to my arm until we have negotiated our passage and climb into the bus. Papa Ukwu’s profession quickly secures us a suitable seat. There is a round woman with a bleached face taking up an entire seat. At first, she refuses to get up. Then spotting the amulet round my grandfather’s neck, it is as if she decides that it is better not offend the witchdoctor man. The way she jumps out of the seat when my grandfather wags his walking stick at her you’d think she was about to be turned into a snake. Though, as I see it, it would require a tremendous magic to transform her barrel-bulk into a slithering creature. She moves off, places her large bottom on a crate at the back of the bus. As we settle in our seats, I notice the aisle heaving with people while others hang off the sides of the bus. The clamour and pong filling the bursting bus reminds me of our village clinic.

It is a six hour journey from my village to Calabar; six hours in which the driver has to negotiate the notorious two P’s: the potholes and the police. On board, those who have something valuable on them also have a third P to contend with, the pickpockets. At some point, I fall asleep, allowing my head to rest on my grandfather’s skeletal arm. Numerous times, the movement of my head bopping up and down like a coconut refusing to fall off its hinges causes me to wake up. In the murky shadows of restless sleep, I see my Mama Ukwu. My grandmother died many years ago from a disease that chewed her from inside. It ate her intestines until there was nothing left of her. In this dream address, she is on one side of the river. I am on the other side. She calls my name, ‘Emeka Simeon Nwankwo, bia’ – only my grandmother calls me in this way. ‘Bia, come,’ I hear her say but I do not move. I do not want to go across to meet her. Even in dream, I know it is dangerous to cross the river at a dead person’s beckoning. It is a bad omen when the dead visit the living in sleep. I want to wave to her, but again I am afraid. Instead, I turn away from her – and wake up to p-bang, b-pang, p-bang! Shattering glass? A burst tire? No –

Gun shots!

My grandfather throws his weight over my body as we instinctively fall forward enveloped by shouts and screams. Within seconds, a strangling silence descends inside the bus. Outside, there is a lot of movement and more shouts. I want to raise my head, to peer out of the window, to see what is happening. Under the strength of my grandfather’s chest pinning me down, all I hear are the footsteps of men clamouring up into the bus, followed by more yells at the driver. Their language is foreign to me but it is soon clear what their demands are; they want valuables. A man shouts in broken English, ‘Una – up up! Up!’ We straighten ourselves in our seats and I tighten my grip on Papa Ukwu's hand. The man addressing us from the front is dressed in a khaki outfit with a black bandana on his head. He wipes the sweat pouring down his face with the back of his hand, before gesturing, ‘Una – out out!’ One by one, we stumble off the bus, and form a queue along the road. I see the bleached barrel woman waddle to a position behind us, clutching her handbag into her breasts. Surrounding us are a dozen or so men. They look at us like hounds in heat; agitated, feverish. These are the type of men, my father has often warned me about: ‘They will kill their grandmother or have sex with a child if only to make a kobo’. I press into Papa Ukwu, who seems to be leaning on me for additional support. His haggard expression worries me, and even though Papa Ukwu, my good-luck charm, is standing right there beside me, I am afraid. I am afraid in the same way that I am afraid of the dark, of high places, and of my father’s Hamattan temperament. Under the searing sun, I am afraid of these men; their taunts and their guns. As they begin to search us – snarling, spitting, and slapping – I wonder which god, if any, will save us now. My grandfather’s gods or the god of Mr Henson’s Inspired Book. I glance again at my grandfather, his face reveals nothing though his lips are moving, slow and silent, and I wonder if he might be evoking the protection of his gods. I close my eyes and at this moment, I wish I could call on the white man’s imp-spirit so that I won’t be afraid.

Catherine Mark

re Update!

2009-08-09T14:56:00.000-07:00

Hi all...

Apologies I’ve been offline for a couple of weeks now. Well, I’ve just returned from a one week Arvon Writing Retreat Moniack Mhor Writer’s Centre. Moniack Mhor is 12 miles from Inverness (Scotland) and 1000 feet above sea level. Although the 7+ hour train journey from Manchester to Inverness was pretty exhausting (both ways), having the time and space to catch up with my writing, without the distractions of T.V. and internet, was absolutely exhilarating. And, to do so in the midst of such inspiring and stunning views was such a privilege and treat. I got heaps done ... hurrah :) Anyway, this is a quick post to let you all know that I will be touching base with all your blogs in the next few days once I catch my breath (around work and coursework commitments). In the meantime, I hope you enjoy the photos I took of my retreat location. Btw, my room was just through the blue door in the bottom photo.

Catherine

ps OoooH... and many thanks to all those who have read and commented on my last post!

Re: Found Poem II

2009-07-25T11:45:00.001-07:00

Where do aliens live?

caught between velvet foam of Frappuccino...

underneath soles of chapped feet...

riding pores of shimmering summer heat...

hidden inside shabby trunk where plasticine
and paint vie for space among Grandpa
Edward’s model trains...

wriggling among shedding autumn leaves...

a stream of telepathic light where, through stimulation
they stimulate imagination...

I found this answer in a Chinese fortune cookie once:

‘Aliens live in a small village on the edge of the Arctic Circle’.

Catherine Mark

SNAPSHOT: The Memory

2009-07-10T09:36:00.000-07:00

He jumps up, arches his frame. Fingertips spliced in missile formation, they slice the water first, trailed by the length of his lithe limbs. He hits the water hard and swims for several minutes beneath the silvery surface. His salt-and-pepper hair re-emerges behind the sharp strikes of each arm. Intermittently, his head turns to the left and right with every stroke. The splashes slapping about him create a cacophony of latte foam. His breathing measured; a humming sound matches the rhythm and tempo of successive breaths. As he twists his head from left to right, his narrow streamlined beard offers up the truth of a man in his forties. There is a severe energy in his movement through the pool. As if a legion of purple spirits are soaring through his veins. His motion akin to a man running away from some grave torment, on the other hand, could he be running towards a secret salvation? Under belligerent rays of the flickering sun pouring through the glass panels, his skin glistens with the vigour of a possessed being. On closer observation: his sunken cheeks strain tautly; pale eyes brim brightly, bristling with the tingle of tears and the sting of chlorine. Halfway through this joust, his body jerks, he sputters; coughing desperately as the prickling sensation creeps from nostril to cerebral cavity. He stops trashing and rolls onto his back. His breathing calmer, he closes his eyes, paddling the water with half-cupped palms. He begs silence to fill his consciousness. Instead, his shoulders sag as the memory invades the space which manic adrenalin has kept at bay since entering the wet for his early morning swim. The memory of crescent crimson fingernail fills his mind as he drifts nowhere.

**********

It must have broken when she slipped from the iron railings. While he struggled to hold on, her manicured nails caught his wrist, leaving a pronged scarlet streak above his watch strap. Hanging on to her right elbow with his left hand was difficult. Hang in there, he repeated again and again, as much to himself as to the stranger. Seconds earlier, from a short distance, he spotted the woman in the yellow dress perched on the railings. Swaying from side to side, it was as if she was hypnotised by the sun’s molten basin. Distracted by the sudden shrill squawk of a Welsh seagull, he looked skyward, tripped over a rock and landed on all fours. Wiping off the grit from his denim, a soundless fart hatched, escaped. When he turned again towards the iron barrier, the woman had clear disappeared. All he saw was the glint of yellow cloth tangled in the railings. Picking up his feet – he raced towards the yolk shimmer. When he got to her, the greenest expression of desperation looked up at him as he grabbed hold of her arm. He shouldn’t have done it, she said, punctuating each word with thin gasps.

Ignoring the stones chewing his knees, it wasn’t long before the twinge in his back arrived (an old injury from a motorbike accident). At this point he knew it would soon be over. He couldn’t hold on for much longer. He began to sing a Jeff Buckley tune. Her features softened with his soothing off-key growl. She was a striking woman. In her early twenties, he imagined. His grubby hand started slipping until it clasped her thin tapered fingers. Sweat dripped, large globules falling on her dark dank mane in baptismal splatter. The twinge in his back gained in sharpness. He should never have raced that day. Through dry lips he let out a heavy gauche wheeze.
-He shouldn’t have done it, she repeated.
He stopped singing.
-There’s no one to look after the goldfish, she said next.
-What’s your name?
-Louise Palmer. But everyone calls me Lou.
Again silence. He stiffened, heard the creak in his clavicle. It was as if the weight of the inevitable made her heavier with the passing of time. A tumultuous energy ebbed between the two. A generation apart, nothing connected these two unlikely companions and yet both were linked by circumstance, an invisible membrane of fate.
-I should thank you, she interrupted his mute thoughts.
-The name’s Ruben Jessop, he smiled, hoping it might give her some comfort.
-Thank you, Mr Ruben Jessop, she said, while he curled his thick fingers tight – tighter.

The decision made. Unable to look at the horror blanching her expression he counted – one, two, three, and let go. She let out a shriek which he didn’t hear – couldn’t hear because of the multiple screams exploding within him as he sank to the ground staring at his splayed fingers, overcome with a strange grief. In his furled agony he wondered if she hadn’t been a stranger, if she had been his sister or even a friend, would he have mustered up the strength to hold on for that bit longer. Perhaps it was because he had nothing to lose, his will to preserve a life he had never known had let her down in the end. While these thoughts accused him in the ironic emptiness that now surrounded him, he glimpsed the ruby chapped nail peering back at him.

Catherine Mark

Re: Found Poem I

2009-07-05T12:21:00.000-07:00

Dear readers

I’m back... HURRAH! Thank you all for your kind and supportive comments during my marathon work month. I survived June and I’m really looking forward to getting back into some creative pursuits i.e. writing and blogging. Around my work commitments this last month I attended a series of workshops which facilitated the exploration of ‘found poems’ (that is discovering poems through all manner of random places). These discoveries were uncovered via a series of interesting activities which I have enjoyed experimenting with. So, I start with a poem that was ‘found’ on a walk around MMU university campus. I hope you enjoy the read. A very different type of poem from my usual stuff (lol). Let me know what you make of it :)

“Music is the outburst of the soul”
~ Fredrick Delius ~

Do you see music...

in the glitter of star-spangled
gum portrait against tar?

in the limp mottled banana skin
tousled without care nor will?

on silver barrels settled by glass panels
of Royal Northern College of Music
beside P637SDX
behind MT07TOJ?

I wonder at the tales of
thick folded fingers
gripping steely steering wheels...

“Music has to breathe and sweat,
you have to play to live” – this James Brown
inscription sprawled around

classic
creamy
column

swims along the tide
of my mental Club Phoenix.

Catherine Mark

Re: Off the Bloggy Radar!!!

2009-06-06T12:47:00.000-07:00

Dear readers

Just to let you know that I’ll be off the radar (blogwise) this June due to a manic work schedule (weekday+weekends) – teaching, tutoring and exam marking (on top of study/workshop commitments)... ArrrgggHhh! I take this opportunity to apologise for my absence this month as I will not be commenting on blogs as regularly as I normally do – although, I will be reading your posts whenever I can :) Do bear with me and stay connected as I’ll be back in earnest by the start of July... posting fresh stuff here (hopefully!) and responding to your blogs. Until then... I wish you all a fruitful bloggy month :)

And, in the meantime I leave you a picture of a fountain in Albert Square, Manchester where I can be found passing through most days to'ing and fro'ing from one commitment to the other (lol)! [Incidentally, if you click on the image and view it large... you might spot a Starbucks in the corner of the frame... yep, I am often buying a grande cafe latte from that very Starbucks... I'm needing lots of caffeine at the moment to get me through my gruelling daily schedule (rueful smile!)]

Catherine

POEM: Ella

2009-05-23T09:25:00.000-07:00

Ella

flautist with brick-brown
curls twisted in snail
shapes; up close, she whisks
a scent of spicy ginger

from Wales – Cardiff or Llandudno,
I don’t know which. With a tiny
waist and squirrel eyes that dart,
surprised. Her chatter

rolls in ripples – excitable,
kooky. She pecks an apricot
while peering at me through
pale glassy greys...

in the lens of my camera
I glimpse the shadow of nipples
pressing cotton vest, as she leans
against the wall nibbling, munching

after some minutes, with a silky laugh
she offers a fork and says: ‘Yolanda,
come have some sushi.’ I uncurl
from my stoop, release the shutter
of the digital, and accept the invite.

Catherine Mark

POEM: Tram tempo

2009-05-15T16:03:00.000-07:00

Tram tempo

A child with a fist plunged in his mouth,
a bundle of clothed rivulets nestled in his mother’s lap.
Beside them, an elderly man taps an umbrella
on the floor; it’s been spitting all day – the gathering gnashing
azure threatens a downpour later…

‘This is the Eccles service. The next stop is Ladywell.’

Ahead, a girl preens in front of a mirror, retrieved
from her stained clutch-bag, getting ready for her weekend.
To her right, a middle-aged man avoids the bulge of her breasts,
averts his eyes behind the spread of the Evening News. He sports
a broad wedding band and I imagine him
to be married to a Joanna or Julie,
living in a semi-detached house at the end
of a non-descript cul-de-sac.

As the tram jaunts onward, my mind veers to a time
when my life’s sextant calculated more than
the narratives of strangers –

a time when my life had character and plot.

Catherine Mark

Poem: Madness

2009-05-08T14:00:00.001-07:00

The sun hovers, an unwanted guest,
he stands on the hillcrest – glaring

while my mind simmers – a pressure cooker
of black thoughts in black pot...

Then, serenity is my playmate
for a time, that too brief interlude

when the chirrup of blackbirds no longer
sounds like the drone of a four-wheel drive,

nor the yellow sprawl of azaleas
emerge as a grey net of frozen moths…

But the black thoughts shifting in my cerebral cortex
soon return. It is almost as if the blackness has been

watching and waiting to encircle me in its sap
of sinking sand, where we plunge and fuse with the dune.

Catherine Mark

POEM: Boundaries

2009-05-01T09:03:00.000-07:00

Potent passion corralled
in a bullpen; penned by society,
defined by religiousness,
enforced by decorum.

Tantalizing, unspoken, illicit,
veiled; like the liaison between
a monk and a whore, or the sons
of God and the daughters of men,

freedom knocks, yet mocks
at the apex of the boundary
where insanity and sanity
become one – a Ferris wheel

promising to take the curious
somewhere but circles nowhere,
the ecstasy and agony
of knowing that I will never

be master of my own destiny.

Catherine Mark

ps. I took the photo of this Manchester Ferris Wheel a few weeks back :)

Long Overdue... BLOG AWARDS!

2009-04-22T16:05:00.000-07:00

Finally… I’m passing on the wonderfully affirming ‘Bloggy Awards’ that I have received in the last six months or so. There are many noteworthy bloggers that I visit regularly (and who stay connected with me) – just check out my blog list :) HOWEVER... in line with the ‘spirit’ of forwarding on blog awards... I have decided to keep it simple by nominating 5 blogs per each award! The bloggers I have passed on these awards to - through their blogs - have touched or affected my life in one or more of the following ways (since I started my blogging journey the autumn of 2007 - pre-empted by a devastating event in my personal life that year):- ... show a generosity in spirit ... keep it ‘raw and real’ ... ooze with individuality... are a fount of creativity (in words and images)... are a channel of inspiration ... and/or... provide a kool bloggy connection or friendship...

I take this opportunity to thank all those who stay connected with me... and to share some blogs that I regularly visit and enjoy on my bloggy journeys through the presentation of these awards. Please click on the highlighted names or blog titles to peruse their sites (and do excuse the inconsistency in colour coding).

~~~~~~~~~~

The Best Blog Thinker Award… From Linda & Cynthia

“This award acknowledges the values that every blogger displays in their effort to transmit cultural, ethical, literary, and personal values with each message they write.” I pass on to…

~~~~~~~~~~

The Lemonade Award... From Rebecca, Grace and Tracy-Ann
"The Lemonade Award is for sites which show great attitude and/or gratitude!" I pass on to…

Michelle at Colour My World
Christopher at View From the Northern Wall
Calli at Within Shades of Grey Exist A Place
Faith at Just Hawkweed on the Hill
Melissa at Musings

~~~~~~~~~~

Blogging Brings Us Closer Award… From Maithri

“This award recognizes connections and friendships that come about through blogging.” I pass on to…

~~~~~~~~~~

The Zombie Chicken Award… From John

“This award acknowledges bloggers who regularly produce content so remarkable that their readers would brave a raving pack of zombie chickens just to be able to read their inspiring words.” I pass on to…

Rebecca at Just a Thought
Khaled at Khaled KEM
Chuck at My Quirks & My Compass
Cynthia at Epiphany: End Note
Lilly at Lilly’s Life

~~~~~~~~~~

[Awarded blogs... please feel free to do what you will with the said awards. As usual, I set no rules... but I wanted to share my appreciation of you and your blogs through this post :) Please copy award images from my side bar :) Thank you! ps apologies if I don’t manage to visit your blog and ask you to come collect your award before you spot it on this site.]

pss please do inform me if I've made an error with links, etc... this post has taken me forever to create (lol). I made a start when I got home at 10 pm this evening and it's almost 1 am (in the UK)... so, I'm sure I've made some mistakes somewhere... lol... anyway, do let me know... thanks!

SNAPSHOTS: Lost

2009-04-16T08:29:00.001-07:00

The kernel of inspiration for this short narrative is a photograph by Christoph at BW Photography (which he has given me permission to use and post… thank you, Christoph!) I do love his B&W photographs and although he hasn’t posted for a while his work is really worth having a look at! Many of you will have sussed that I do enjoy the visual arts very much… paintings, photographs, sculpture & architecture… so, it was a real treat writing this story from a genre that gives me so much pleasure. I take this opportunity to acknowledge all the visually artistic blogs out there (especially those I visit regularly)... thank you so much for sharing your 'light and creativity' with the blogging community! [Well, as with all my work on this blog this remains a WIP]. Hope you enjoy the read!

Lost

There is a certain cruelty in the cycle of the rising and setting sun which forges on irrespective of circumstance or tragedy. Perhaps if Mother Earth would weep with me I might find comfort in her tears. But she persists in her rolling rhythms. Even on the day of my loss, the sun shone with autumnal song. There was not a speck of black or grey in the skies, no rumour of thunderstorm or gale. Nothing to warn me: of the arrival of the emptiness that was to become my nesting companion.

On the morning of the day, which will forever be laced with heartache, we went through the motions of our Saturday routine. After breakfast, I slipped on a pair of yellow plastic gloves and made a start on the cleaning; scrubbing every inch of the bathroom and kitchen. I remember he commented on how the house ‘stank to high heaven of Dettol and bleach’ before he disappeared to potter in the garden. I remember being cross at the fact that he’d ruined a load of washing the night before; all our whites stained, a sepia hue. Once the cleaning was done, I hung the disasters out in the yard, muttered several obnoxious comments in the direction of his auburn curls, and returned indoors to make a start on the ironing. I remember I spent a good hour doing the ironing (mainly his work shirts) because we’d agreed to go to Cannon Hill Park in the afternoon. That morning, I’d been interrupted by two phone calls. The first was from our neighbour, Alice, who asked about borrowing the lawnmower. The other was my mother checking to see if we’d still be coming over to lunch the next day. It’s funny what I remember of the day which changed the course of all my tomorrows.

We cycled to the park. I trailed behind him keeping an eye on the guitar strapped to his broad back. He always took the lead in this way, like the time we hiked up Snowdon and he’d led the group from the front. And whenever we planned trips abroad, he’d take charge and make all the necessary arrangements – organising the passports, and the hotels we’d stay in. He hated the all-inclusive package holidays and preferred the pick-n-mix approach – ‘we need to be in control of our destiny’ he’d often say. After turning left at the roundabout, he pulled to the side of the pavement and waited for me to reach him before continuing. At the park (bikes in tow), we strolled over the bridge spanning over a small lake, paused momentarily to enjoy the sight of squawking ducks, and wandered the short distance to our usual spot. There, we settled under the large oak tree – engulfed by a collage of yellow, red and brown; the tide of changing season. I threw the rug he’d bought on a trip to Brazil on a patch of grass. He emptied the picnic basket: ham slices, pickle, a baguette, yoghurts, orange juice, strawberries and cream (we’d picked up from Tesco during a late night shop the previous evening). After lunch, we fed each other strawberries and cream. I giggled as he missed my lips and splattered cream on my cheek. He kissed it off. ‘Tasha, I must get a picture of you like this,’ he whispered, reaching across to collect our camera from the rucksack. As I lay flat on my back – spread like a windmill – he took a snap. Then a succession of poses: on my belly, chin supported on my knuckles; peering round from behind a tree; looking away from the camera into the distance allowing my gaze to take in Birmingham’s sky rises. They towered and surrounded the park like silent guards. He came over and tickled me – shattering the stillness of my pose. I tried to wrestle him off but he didn’t stop until I gave up in a heap of exhausted giggles. It was then he decided to strum his guitar while I withdrew into my Alice Munro book, the short story collection I’d been reading at the time. That’s how we were – Morten sat with his back leaning against the tree while I lay with my head cushioned on his lap – until the afternoon glow flickered and began to wane.

This is the last memory we shared. Even now I wish I could remember the songs he played on his guitar that day. Beatles or Bruce Springsteen? I can’t be sure. When we got home just after six or so, he left me to unpack our load, gave me a quick peck and said, ‘Sweetheart, I’m just popping across to the Newsagents to get the paper.’ That would have been our evening. I’d spend time fixing dinner while he’d catch up with the day’s news. I’d planned on preparing some lasagne or maybe it was cannelloni? It didn’t matter in the end… because he never came back.

Like a comet streaking the skies in an unexpected flash – he was there one minute and gone the next. Twenty-four hours later, I notified the police. Then a blur of conversation: ‘Did he leave a note?’ ‘No, no – he didn’t leave a note’ ‘Did you have a row?’ ‘Nothing major - I was upset about the laundry this morning but we didn't row about it...’ ‘Was he depressed?’ ‘No, he wasn’t depressed – stressed with his job but who isn’t?’ ‘Is this out of character?’ ‘Yes, very much so…’ ‘Has he ever run off before?’ ‘Run off? No – no, he’s never run off before…’ ‘Is it possible that he is just timing out?’ ‘Without telling me? No – no, this is just not like him…’. In the events that followed: the police report, the search, the investigation, it was as if some deity had pressed the pause button on my world. My family, his family, and our friends all said that he’d be back but intuitively I knew he was lost to me forever.

In the first few weeks after his disappearance I carried on with the business of living. A part of me willed him to find his way home, but he never did. The sadness and unanswered prayers became lingering ghosts in his absence. As the days and weeks ticked on, with the cyclic tempo of dusk to dawn, I had to accept he was gone – for good.

Six months passed before I began to sort his things. I couldn’t bring myself to donate any of his belongings to charity so I boxed them up and hauled them into the cellar with the help of my sister and a friend. I don’t think I could have got through it without their support. With each item I packed away, I buried any future I might have had with Morten. I shed silent tears for all the dreams we’d had. The wedding we’d planned for the summer; the child we’d never adopt; the trip to Singapore we’d chatted about… The only item I kept was his guitar. It stood – a sombre shadow in the corner of the room we'd shared for six years. It was the only thing knitting the memories we’d created. I remember how we first met when he was playing at a concert in a Custard Factory venue. From the moment I spotted him on stage, he captivated me. There was something about him; his reddish hair caught in a ponytail; and the intensity in his pale eyes that would occasionally close as he vanished into another world fashioned by acoustic melody. It was during the interval that I’d finally plucked up the courage to say ‘hi’. He’d looked up and smiled, that lazy smile I fell in love with. That is how we’d started. Now, with his laughter gone, all I had to comfort me was the anthem of his soundless guitar.

Catherine Mark

Lovely Sunday surprise...

2009-04-12T12:29:00.000-07:00

I am totally chuffed that Khaled at Khaled KEM has showcased a new 'Untitled' poem that I posted on my site (although revised) on his blog. He is a gifted poet and one of his recent poems 'I love you' is a favourite of mine. But this month due to his graduate study commitments he has decided in his own words to: “...Since April is National Poetry month here's my plan: I will post daily a poem, from the most well known of poets to the newest and freshest of poets, as well as selected poetry of my friends...”. A poem I’ve thoroughly enjoyed from his April showcase is 'Home Street' by Gary Hyland. Do visit his blog and have a browse through an eclectic selection of his own poems and those of many others. Hope you enjoy the read!

Happy Easter Sunday!

TAG: '15 Influences'

2009-04-10T04:05:00.000-07:00

It’s long overdue (as with forwarding on AWARDS which I must do soon) but I’m pulling my finger out to respond this TAG by a fellow blogger LINDA S at Psyche Connections whose '25 Influences' list is an interesting read. Do pop in and have a peek! Well, in making this task manageable I’ve decided to include primarily people/things/places I can think of as I write this post up who have, and/or continue, to influence my life in some significant way (consciously or subconsciously) – be it my thought patterns, life interactions and lifestyle, or have added some knowledge or understanding on how I choose to view the world. I begin with this preamble because there are countless of encounters; people (individuals, personal friends, strangers, poets, authors, etc); books; artwork; and films that add some nugget of wisdom to my life which go beyond the scope of this list. So I’m going to be very strict with this list. It has been really fun reflecting on who and what influences my life...

1. The Bible: As a Christian (albeit one that struggles terribly with her faith) I cannot deny the fact that the Christian faith (God, Jesus and the Bible) – indeed Christianity and all its precepts (strands espoused by the Anglican, Evangelical, Pentecostal, Methodist and even the Baptist) have influenced my life (both positively and negatively) in the sense of the person that I am today. I think I do try to adhere to the moral code of the bible e.g. its ideas on love and forgiveness... so in that sense it influences my life and worldview significantly.

2. Corrie ten Boom: Her childlike faith – inspires me to seek that deeper ‘trust’ relationship with God in my faith journey.

3. Anne Frank: Her courageous spirit – reminds me that even when life boxes us in, it is still worth fighting for. And she always reminds me of that haunting Martin Niemoller poem ‘First they came for me...’ and it encourages me to always be observant of what’s going on in the world around me --- and to act on the behalf of others when appropriate.

4. Simone de Beauvoir: Her courage in her faith journey – where she moved away from a religious (Catholic) background to a place where she could say: ‘God has ceased to exist for me’ – gives me the impetus to ‘find my way’ through my faith journey (as a Christian). There’s something very courageous about finding one’s spiritual self – coming to that point of realisation and revelation and be able to say, this ‘spirituality or non-spirituality' (however one chooses to define it) is what works for me.

5. Nelson Mandela: His sacrificial courage – reminds me each day that ‘sacrifice’ for the sake of change is a choice available to me. I can choose to be the difference in someone else’s life!

6. Edwin Cameron: His courage and exceptional work (as a judge) in the work of hiv/aids – fuels my ambition to engage with, and contribute to the work of hiv/aids nationally and globally.

7. Robert Frost’s ‘Road less travelled’: This poem daily encourages me not to opt the ‘easy option’ i.e. the route of less hassle, or less pain...

8. Kate Winslet: A fab actress... she inspires me to be the best that I can be in my writing craft. Funny that!

9. Yvonne A: A very good friend of mine from Ghana, we grew up in Israel together and remained close when we were both studying in the US. She was in Maryland and I in Virginia – but we’d meet up regularly and hit the nightclubs together. She died almost two years ago during childbirth (aged 34). She was such a vivacious person and her life and death inspires me to ‘live life to the full’.

10. Abba: They gave me music. Whenever I hear Abba playing my whole spirit begins to dance (lol).

11. Damien Rice: His music makes love to my soul every time I listen to him. And, in turn he inspires me to create/make love around me.

12. Enid Blyton: She gave me the possibility to imagine and dream up fictional worlds.

13. Jerusalem: It gave me a ‘point of reference’. Everything that I am today emerges out of my upbringing in Israel. It opened up my world and gave me an interest in interfaith dialogue.

14. Katherine Mansfield, Virginia Woolf, Sylvia Plath, Anthon Chekhov, James Joyce (among countless other authors and poets, published and unpublished): They all inspire my short story and poetry writing.

15. The Blogging Community: Gives me purpose and inspires daily to engage with the conversation and dance that is LIFE.

I hate rules and tend to break them (tsk!)... so in passing this TAG on... anyone who reads or follows this blog is welcome to participate in this TAG. To those that I TAG specifically (and others who choose to join in)... I have no rules... even though it’s meant to be '25 Influences’ it doesn’t have to be (as per me)... feel free to play or not... and feel free to pass the TAG on or not. So the people I’ll tag are:-

John at Smoke Rings & Matterings

Lillian J at A Voice on Fleming Road

Andrew (Rogue) at Rogues Retreat

Annie (Strawberry Girl) at Creatively Written

Rebecca at Just a Thought

Matthew at Wasteland of Words

Judith at The Being Brand

Thanks all for reading, commenting and playing along (if you do)! It's a lovely way of getting to know a bit more about me and hopefully others too :)

Poem: Untitled

2009-04-09T14:43:00.000-07:00

Today a swell of speckled-grey
stopped me dead in my track,
a pigeon rolled like a lump of dough
caught between a narrow crack.
How it met its end I’ll never know –
and yet its silent song
brought to mind forbidden love
beckoning from a world beyond.

Catherine Mark

Poem: Eternal Silence

2009-04-03T15:52:00.000-07:00

To think that one day I will not feel
the sun’s rays kiss my skin as spring beckons
the bluebells and honeysuckles in
to droop and arch in bell and lantern shapes

while under my feet the crackle
of twigs against earth disturb
a blackbird with an orange
beak; it warbles and tweets a sanguine

tune as it skips off its perch on a bark
up high. I close my eyes and recall
with a sigh the kite I flew when I was eight
running through a narrow graveyard gate...

To think that one day I will not raise
my hands in midair and twirl in a circle
without a care, breathing in the smell
of freshly-cut grass, or admire the dimpled face

of a child peppered with freckles
while he suckles on a popsicle, or of the twins
lolling on swings in the village green; their glee
merging with the natter of mothers and passersby...

To think that one day I will not share a laugh
nor a tear with a friend or more:
over love and loss, or a disgruntled boss,
the missed flight last summer, the lasagne gone sour,

the parking fine, the baby I always dreamt of having –
as the years drift like blossoms fluttering off a tree
these images and sounds will one day cease, become a fibre
of fiction woven in the flesh of an eternal silence.

Catherine Mark

I came across a great quote today and thought I’d share it with you (I’m dipping into a wonderful collection of short stories by Anton Chekhov, 'About Love & Other Stories' (translated by Rosamund Bartlett)): “...Everything is beautiful in this earth, everything that is, except what we think and do when we forget about the higher purpose of existence and about our human dignity.” (Checkhov, The Lady with the Little Dog).

POEM: Tower of Babble

2009-03-25T15:12:00.000-07:00

There are two things that frighten me –
sex and dying.

Although both offer a peculiar beauty,
I’m afraid of the process of dying, and the state of not existing,
in the same way that it unnerves me the control and power sex wields
and its ability to blemish and erode

Sometimes, as I stand on this bridge overlooking the motorway,
leaning against its railings with my eyes shut, battered by the surge of a biting
wind whistling in my ears and clawing my skin like a fearless feline,
I wonder what would happen if I jumped –
leapt over the iron barriers and became a ‘jumper’?

I imagine I’m on a trampoline, bouncing high, higher
ready to spring off into the swirling abyss,
but I can’t grasp it, what it might be like to no longer be
this flesh wrapped around sinew and bones,
arranged to form the DNA that is me,
this shell which over time
is destined to perish

then I think of the ladybird and how it scuttled
up the length of my arm; the plasticine I moulded
into a heart or a shape resembling a ginger bread man;
my first kiss with a boy called Ellis at an end-of-year school disco
when I thought no one would propose – but he did ask me for a dance,
I said ‘yes’ and at the end he kissed me. I remember he tasted of liquorice...

to choose the abyss would be to erase all these memories
and that scares the hell out of me, because doesn’t the sum of our memories define us?
Who am I without these details – the gorgeous, the grubby, the gaudy?
Each experience: a stitch that is part of the grand design that is my life...

I will stop being me, and yet there are things that make me ponder about dying.
Is there an art to death? Will the angels break my fall as I imagine they would have done if Jesus had taken up Lucifer’s challenge and flung his weight off a precipice? Would they catch me or let me land in a s-p-l-a-t on the ground, watch as my blood is given over to the soil.

Dog to dust...
Ass to ashes...

Life begins the cycle of dying,
all the cups of peppermint and fennel tea
I’ve consumed; all the rows with my father whose hurts
squeezed the joy out of my innards; the prank I played when I covered
Dan’s entire room with old newspapers; the time I sprained
my ankle and was out of action for six weeks; the sexual encounters I’ve indulged in (I once read that sex is a metaphor for death) – all to come to a nought on this bridge...

The people I wished I’d known: the burly man with the beard
and eyes that smiled at me as our gazes met across Kings Cross escalators;
the larger-than-life waitress who served me a mocha at the Starbucks
in Ladbroke Grove; the youth who picked up a fiver that had escaped my handbag
and fluttered to the floor of the corner shop in Wood Green;
the pensioner who held my hand in hers at St James Church boasting a wafer-thin smile...

so many missed opportunities to give more meaning to a life gone sour

the confusion of the Tower of Babel,
the babble in my tower is confusing me
as I contemplate if there is life after death?

Catherine Mark

A-Z FACT FILE: I... J...

2009-03-19T06:09:00.000-07:00

Dear reader, I’ve decided to intersperse my fiction writing (short stories, snapshot narratives and poetry) posts with some facts about myself... my way of inviting you to get to know me better ‘up close and personal’ (lol). My remit... three key words for each letter of the alphabet... which lead to three brief facts about myself... and, I hope to cover two letters of the alphabet per post (whenever I do post). Hmmmmm - this should be an interesting journey. It’s so easy to hide behind the liquid interface of cyberspace however in these A-Z Fact Files about yours truly I do intend to keep it ‘real and honest’! Please feel free to simply read, share your thoughts/comments, or ask any questions. [For earlier A-Z facts please scroll down... Thank you!]

I: Identity. India. Interests.
Identity... the discordance in my sense of ‘identity’ and indeed ‘belonging’ has been a root cause of the feelings of worthlessness that has blighted my life. I am not unique in this struggle as many third-culture or trans-culture kids, who in turn become third-culture or trans-culture adults, often struggle with issues around identity and belonging for most of their lives. This desire to have an identity and to belong to something or someone led me to indulge in a self-destructive lifestyle in my teens and twenties. I pursued excessive and reckless life choices and behaviour patterns to fill a ‘gnawing void’ in my life, and each proved to be less than fulfilling or satisfying. Not surprisingly, many of these choices had disastrous results (both in the short and long term) and significantly eroded my self-esteem in the process until I became numb and invisible. I searched for a semblance of identity and belonging in all sorts of strange and unhealthy places... such as, the deadness of the clubbing/drinking scene; in the arms of questionable choices of boyfriends; I even joined a sorority (Zeta Phi Beta) when I was studying at VCU wanting to be a part of the popularity scene of the campus at the time; and then in my twenties, I turned to church and God. As I reflect on this now, it’s interesting that these ‘bed-mates’ – the booze, the boys, the nightclubs, the sorority, and the church... all failed to bring any enlightened ‘sense’ to the brokenness arising from my quest for ‘identity and belonging’. In fact, rather than help me, each in turn has hurt me... well, to be honest – I have hurt myself by loving myself so little in my irresponsible pursuits. I have now stopped trying to find/fix something that was lost/broken a long time ago. The truth is that I will never have a singular identity... I am a sum consisting of many parts... I am many broken pieces... I am all my experiences (good, bad, ugly & unforgiveable) and journeys... I am 2+2=nothing & everything... I am a nomad (spiritually, emotionally and physically). Yes – I have stopped trying to qualify or define ‘who I am and what I am’. I just am. I guess the biggest regret is that it’s taken a lifetime of mistakes and wrong turns to come this point of realisation! India... I have always been fascinated by this country – its textures, its sounds, its colours. It never ceases to amaze me the diversity of peoples and culture contained in that vast and densely populated landscape. When I was very young I was enraptured by Indian movies such as ‘Mother India’ and ‘Sholay’. Going on a working holiday for 3-6 months in India remains on my ‘top 10 things I would like to do before I die’ list (lol).... Interests... in a previous A-Z fact file I mentioned some of my creative crafting interests... other interests of mine include the study of the Arabic language which I’ve pursued through short courses over a period of two years... at one time, I had mastered the alphabet and its script... and I knew a good bank of basic vocabulary, however in the last few years I’ve not been able to continue with my learning of this language and so a lot of it has gone but I do hope to pick it up again later at some point in the future... I have always been fascinated with the Arab language and culture...

J: Jerusalem. Journeys. Jogging.
Jerusalem... my happiest memories can be found in my Jerusalem childhood. We lived on the Arab side in Beit Hanina (about half an hour away from Ramallah). My sister, brother and I went to the Anglican school in the city – a schooling experience I thoroughly enjoyed and will always remember fondly. Even at that age, I fell in love with the mesmerizingly beautiful stony landscape. I loved our weekly expeditions to the Old City which always culminated in my parents buying us a bag of almond sweets from Saladdin Street to share. Lots of memories... of giving milk to stray cats, climbing trees, picking ladybirds from their perch on a stem and allowing them to crawl up my arm, playing in fields of anemones with friends, etc. After many years away from Jerusalem, it’s been great to stumble upon Dina’s wonderful blog and reconnect with the wonderful images of my childhood home - do check out her blog space and have a look! Journeys... I love travelling to places for short visits. I especially enjoy train journeys and I sometimes book weekends to spend some ‘me time’ at a B&B. At those times, I eagerly look forward to the train journey involved travelling to and from the B&B. On those journeys, I tend to watch the undulating green landscape float by. Or I’ll read a book, or I'll simply spend time jotting down ideas for a short story or a poem. Places I’ve journeyed to that stand out for me are: Wales, The Malverns, The Lake District, The Cotswolds (e.g. Cheltenham, Cirencester, Tewkesbury) and also Devon – each region beautiful in its own way. Places I’d like to travel to: Edinburgh, Cornwall, Bath and York. Jogging... after an extensive phase of illness and slowly becoming ‘right’ health-wise towards the end of 2007... I am finally resolved (this year) to get my fitness level back on track with a jogging routine – 3 or 4 times weekly (20-25 minutes). In the past, I have always been addicted to fitness and the gym but for the last 3+ years it’s been so frustrating not being able to do much because of poor health. It’s so nice to be getting things back on track – exercise wise... and especially, with the arrival of Spring... it’s lovely to hit the streets early in the morning and breathe in the life-giving freshness of each new day...

News News News!

2009-03-09T00:45:00.000-07:00

Exciting News!!!
... I'll start with the good news first. Some of you will know that this year I am committed to two main writing projects. The first: to complete the first draft of a fantasy novel that I started working on last year. The second: is a short story collection in which a number of the short stories will form a portfolio for my MA project. Well, one of the short stories, Blessing, which I hope to develop for this said portfolio has successfully been published HERE in the March/April issue of Munyori Literary Journal. There are lots of strong contributions on the online journal so I encourage you to have a good nosey around (lol)... Anyway, I’m keen to share this story with you because it gives a different example of the kind of short stories that I do write. To give you some background... here is an extract from my working synopsis of the short story collection (which we've had to prepare this term): “Walls Have Ears gives voice to the voiceless in its delicate portrayal of characters hemmed inside silent walls across two continents. In the dense landscape of Nigeria a journey to Calabar in search of tortoise eggs decides the fate of Emeka; Nnamdi finds his destiny determined by a basin of bulging yam heads; and Celeste finds her answers to womanhood in The Outhouse. Meanwhile, as the world turns providence falls on the children of Britain, Emma finds clues to the loss of her sister among a collection of butterflies; and Indigo witnesses the brutality of man strewn between bales in a barn.” As always, it'd be great to have your thoughts and comments on this short story... :)

Grim News:(
... now unto the bad news. This weekend, late on Sunday, I was unfortunate in that I had my personal yahoo/hotmail accounts compromised. Some unscrupulous person(s) managed to hack into my accounts (which incidentally are linked) and sent out a spam email to my entire contacts list (that included a whole host of people that I hardly know since my yahoo, particularly, automatically saves addresses in my contact list). Not only that, they deleted my entire yahoo address book in the process. I've been using these accounts for nearly 12-15 years and I've never encountered this problem in all that time. Anyway, I spent a good four hours into the wee hours of the morning trying to regain control of my accounts. Through the process, I found that I was not alone – there is an increasing rise of spam scam which seems to affect many of the web based email systems. And of course there was the very recent incident where Jack Straw’s (a UK politician) email account was breached in very much the same manner and his entire constituency contacts list received a dubious email. For that news story check it out HERE. To re-establish the security of my account I was assisted by this excellent SITE and I basically had to spend time re-securing passwords on all my yahoo and hotmail accounts, and ensuring that my firewall and anti-virus were loaded and working – which they were – but I thought to double-check because I do get a lot of spam traffic injected in my yahoo and hotmail accounts daily. It’s never been much of a problem, as more often than not, the spam emails arrive in the spam folder but recently (a problem with my favoured yahoo account) the spam nonsense has been arriving in my inbox proper. It has concerned me quite a bit in the last 2 or 3 months... but I have been on the move a lot and I have been using (both secure and unsecure internet wireless networks) whenever I’m on the road... so that may be part of the problem. I shared my angst with a few friends last night as the troubles were unfolding and said that sometimes I think technology poses more problems than it solves and I wondered how on earth we survived without all this internet technology in the past. But as I was cursing, ranting and raving (oh - I wasn't a pretty sight to behold last night... chuckle)... I decided that as with many things you have to take the good with the bad. To be honest, I wouldn’t give up the worlds that the internet has opened up for me, such as blogging where I've met, and continue to meet, so many great and interesting folk... so I guess I do have to take the grime with the glory (lol). Well, I thought I’d share this stress with you guys and get it out of my system (hee hee). They do say that a problem shared is a problem halved. Feel free to comment and let me know that I am not alone in my spam scam misery.

Other News!

For recent A-Z Fact File: G & H... please scroll down to preceding post...

Books I'm reading... I'm just finishing off a fantastic book: The Poisonwood Bible by Barbara Kingsolver and I'm also dipping into an Anton Chekhov collection of short stories: About Love and other stories... another gem of a read! It'd be great to know what others are reading at the moment... as I'm always looking for inspiration as to what my next 'amazing' read will be!

Thought I'd end on a positive note (smile)!

A-Z FACT FILE: G... H...

2009-03-06T17:17:00.000-08:00

Dear reader, I’ve decided to intersperse my fiction writing (short stories, snapshot narratives and poetry) posts with some facts about myself... my way of inviting you to get to know me better ‘up close and personal’ (lol). My remit... three key words for each letter of the alphabet... which lead to three brief facts about myself... and, I hope to cover two letters of the alphabet per post (whenever I do post). Hmmmmmm - this should be an interesting journey. It’s so easy to hide behind the liquid interface of cyberspace however in these A-Z Fact Files about yours truly I do intend to keep it ‘real and honest’! Please feel free to share simply read, share your thoughts and/or ask any questions. [For earlier A-Z facts please scroll down... Thank you!]

G: Glasses. God. Glass half empty.
Glasses... for those of you who haven’t met me in the flesh... well – yes, I do wear glasses. I am short-sighted and therefore need glasses to ‘see’ things clearly at a distance. Despite the fact that I own a relatively trendy pair of spectacles because I can be quite vain I tend to use my ‘trendy’ glasses only to watch television or movies on the big screen – which in a way defeats the ‘trendy’ aspect of the glasses... if you follow my drift (chuckle)! This (refusal to wear my glasses all the time) renders me ‘blind’ most of the time and can be quite problematic. I’ll explain. When people I know catch sight of me on the street and greet me from a distance often I don’t respond because I haven’t recognised their blurred outlines with my weak eyes. Unfortunately, if the person is not directly in front of me all I perceive is a hazy image. This has got me in many a pickle with folk. I have thought about doing the whole contact lens thing and I had an optician slot in a pair for me once to test if I could get on with them. This was about 3 years ago. However, I didn’t enjoy the experience albeit very short lived (I think the contacts lasted about twenty minutes before I insisted that they be removed). Perhaps I didn’t give them enough of a chance but I just can’t imagine subjecting myself to that fiddle every day, even though many of my friends say it gets easier with practice and it soon becomes a real doddle. Another friend of mine has had laser surgery to correct her eyes and she swears by it. Apart from the huge upfront cost involved (although that same friend reminds me... that the upfront cost should be seen as an investment because spectacle wearers, like myself, actually offset that cost in about 4 or 5 years – that is, if you routinely check your eyes and change your eyewear every 2 or 3 years). I’m pretty squeamish about the whole laser treatment thingy – although, apparently, you don’t feel a thing and it’s over before you even know it. Would you believe it that some people have known me for months and years (especially colleagues at work) and would swear that I don’t wear glasses (lol)? God... under my earlier ‘C’ posting – I mentioned that I am a Christian. Having said that - I am realising that the older I get the more uncomfortable I am with the label of being a ‘Christian’ primarily because of all the negative baggage that comes with it (in terms of what others perceive a Christian to be or not). To be honest, I now simply consider myself as someone who believes in God and has a relationship with God. In 2003/4 (before I entered the teaching profession) I went to Redcliffe Bible College and completed a one year course. The reason I mention my time at Bible College at this juncture is because my relationship with God was sorely tested that year. As we were confronted with ‘theology’ - I grappled with my 'personal faith’... trying to make sense of the God of the Old and the New Testament and his relevance in my life, and indeed in today’s world. It’s very strange that I went to Bible College with an extremely narrow perspective on God, that is to say, my view of God was ‘too small’ and ‘quite limiting’. My thought processes were challenged and, if I’m honest, I had a major crisis of faith – to the point of wanting out of the whole Christian lifestyle. Suffice to say, in as much as, my time at Redcliffe was a painful process as I had to sort out the religious clutter - it was a defining year in my life. Though I learnt a great deal about myself and God that year... I confess that I still have very little answers about life... and I continue to struggle in my relationship with God... I always find it hard admitting to my struggles in my faith journey because it seems like a huge failing on my part - but there you have it... Glass half empty... I hate to say this, but it’s true... I am a pessimist by nature. I wish I knew what dictates our temperament in this way... is it genes or environment? I don’t tend to see the positives in situations and can be very melancholic in this regard. But as with many of my character flaws... I am working on it (smile)... I do admire people who are naturally optimistic – I think it makes them relaxed and easygoing... rather than being uptight, moody and intense as I often can be...

H: Hope. Horror Movies. Hmmmmmm.
Hope... is the name of one of my brothers. He is five years younger than I am and is currently completing an MA in International Development from a university in Boston. His interests lies in micro-enterprise in the developing world. There is a reason behind his unusual name (which I hope he won’t mind me sharing). Well, the reason my parents called him 'Hope' is because he was born three months premature in 1976 Israel and there was a high chance that he wouldn’t survive. In fact he lived in an incubator for those first three months of his life. Funny, one of the earliest memories I have as a child is the day he came home from the hospital... and my parents asked if I wanted to hold him. I remember being panic-stricken and absolutely petrified at the idea of holding this strange miniature bundle... I mean to look at him was mind-blogging enough... so I shook my head frantically and hid behind my mother and just stared at the new arrival. Horror Movies... I do not tend to watch horror movies. I think any chance of engaging in this genre was crushed when I watched The Exorcist at a very young age (around 7 or 8 years) and I had nightmares for weeks after that. Hmmmmmm – reflecting on this now as I write this, perhaps this is the source of my fear of the dark (which I talk about in my ‘F’ post under ‘Fear’)... anyway, I’ve watched a handful of horror movies over the years and I don’t enjoy them as they just scare me silly. Hmmmmmm... You may have noticed that I do tend to use this expression a lot in my conversational writing speak and also when I respond to some of your blogs and leave a comment. In my normal speech, I equally use an emphatic ‘hmmmmmm’ quite a lot... to express a plethora of things... (lol)...

SHORT STORY: The girl in the barn

2009-03-02T07:13:00.000-08:00

...This remains a WIP... it’s a reworked version of a story I’ve posted previously... I continue to tinker with it (lol)...!

I blow a bubble of cloudy O on the window. Follow it with another, and another. Then, with my stubby, half-chewed finger, I trail my initials through the mist formed by my mouth. The door slams. Mother enters the car. ‘Indigo,’ she clucks, ‘why aren’t you wearing your seatbelt?’ she says, casting a nervous glance in the front mirror. I struggle with the strap. Tug – tug – tug. At last, it extends. I press the buckle in, and it lodges with a click. Mum gives me a fleeting look before revving up the car. The engine sputters in the icy cold. Reluctantly, it springs to life. We are on our way to see Aunt Mavis and Uncle Jock.

There is a purpose to our visit today but I can’t remember what it is. We have visited their home many times before, often during the holidays. Their cottage sits nestled like an ostrich egg on a large farm in the Cotswolds. I am looking forward to exploring the stretch of land that surrounds. It is a grand dwelling and rumours a great deal of wealth. Aunt Mavis and Uncle Jock don’t have any children. Too busy making their millions, my mother often TUTS. Sometimes I imagine I am adopted by them. The things I would do with all that money (I’m sure I’d have a huge allowance). I’d have my room painted a carroty orange with lots of polka-dot cushions. I’d have a large beanbag positioned by the window where I’d sit for endless hours reading. I’d learn how to play the guitar and with all that money maybe I’d even own one. And I just know that I’d travel to the ends of the earth. In Geography we learnt about a place called Papua New Guinea and I want to go and see the pygmies of that land. I’d like to taste the snake soups of Malaysia and ride the elephants in Sri Lanka. Unconsciously, I doodle on the steamed window: India – Japan – Russia – Kenya... If only I were adopted by Aunt Mavis and Uncle Jock.

When we arrive, Aunt Mavis and Uncle Jock meet us at the door. Aunt Mavis is looking immaculate, perfectly coiffed like Nicole Kidman in that perfume commercial. Although well presented, Uncle Jock – short and stout – looks awkward standing beside my aunt. He is dressed in a mustard coloured jumper with a cigar dangling from his lips. Greetings and kisses are exchanged. Mother and Aunt Mavis head off to the kitchen while Uncle Jock mutters something about going for a walk. I decide I will explore the woodland around. ‘Don’t go too far,’ Mother says, disappearing down the hallway behind my aunt. I watch until they are gone before making my way back out into the crisp afternoon.

I embark on a new route: winding my way round behind the stables and vanish behind a veil of woody area. The trees look solemn as I stroll between them. Their bare barks are bleak and barren. With each breath I exhale, a conical cloud rises as it hits the freezing atmosphere. Even underfoot, the ground is glazed with ice. There is no plan in my mind as to where I am going. I simply walk – ambling along a sodden path.

It takes me by surprise when I stumble on a disused barn at the far side of a clearing. Non-descript, it resembles a shack. Even at this distance, I can tell that large chunks of the flat timber are rotten through – dead wood. My size-fives break a twig, surprising a black bird. It swoops off a branch and flies away. I watch until it becomes a black prick against the November sky. Averting my eyes back to level ground, I walk around the rectangular structure. I am quiet. A strange feeling overcomes me and I sense that I am intruding. On what, I do not know. That is, until I hear a sound.

It is a whining sound. Like the whimpering noise cats make when they are sick, or suffering. I stop. Listen hard. Perhaps, I have imagined it. But: it comes again. I lean against the wooden wall, as if seeking some sort of camouflage. I wonder if I should make my escape. No: my curiosity gets the better of me. I am now at the rear end of the barn, and I move closer to the wide window, and crouch low. I take a deep breath, trembling slightly: a mixture of cold, excitement, and fear. I count to ten before edging my body upwards. My eyes hover halfway and peep through the dust streaked panes. I blink, widen my eyes, and press my face against the window – flattening my nose. I see nothing, only the outline shadow of a pile of hay and a scattering of disused farming equipment. As I extend myself fully a wave of disappointment drifts through me. There is no mystery here. In that moment of contemplation, in the stillness that envelops, I hear a strained, soft moan. Following the direction of the breathy whimper, I move past the window and notice a loose panel – no longer overlapping – revealing a slit-hole.

I see two figures. First, I see the fresh, freckled face of a girl. Not much older than me. Fifteen? Sixteen? I cannot see her eyes, but her clenched fists tell me she is frightened. Her red curls are sprawled in a tangle on a bed of hay. She lies still, pinned down by a fleshy mass. His back – a blanket of grey wiry hairs – faces me. I recognise the thinning patch on his head. He is still wearing the mustard jumper he greeted me and my mother with. My chest tightens. I cannot think what to do. Transfixed: I watch the rhythm of his bulge move back and forth. With each thrust a moan escapes; a cry of pleasure and power. I will the girl to kick herself free and run. She doesn’t. She remains as silent as I am.

By Catherine Mark-Beasant

A-Z FACT FILE: E... F...

2009-02-26T03:00:00.000-08:00

Dear reader, I’ve decided to intersperse my fiction writing (short stories, snapshot narratives and poetry) posts with some facts about myself... my way of inviting you to get to know me better ‘up close and personal’ (lol). My remit... three key words for each letter of the alphabet... which lead to three brief facts about myself... and I hope to cover two letters of the alphabet per post (whenever I do post). Hmmmmm - this should be an interesting journey. It’s so easy to hide behind the liquid interface of cyberspace however in these A-Z Fact Files about yours truly I do intend to keep it ‘real and honest’! Please feel free to simply read, share your thoughts, and/or ask any questions... [For earlier A-Z facts please scroll down... Thank you!]

Embarrassing moments. Embroidery. Enid Blyton.
Embarrassing moments... well, in the spirit of honest sharing there’s no time like the present to release those skellies from the dust and cobweb coated cupboard (lol). I’ve had my fair share of embarrassing moments in my topsy-turvy life but I’ll just share a couple with you here. Brace yourself!!! I must have been about 18 yrs old when I went to a ski resort in Virginia (I was completing my first degree at VCU at the time) and I was a novice skier, that is to say, I couldn’t ski an iota. But I was persuaded to take a Beginner's Lesson that day and I ended up in a class with about twenty kids aged between 5 and 10 (honest). I was the only ‘big person’ amongst all those little kiddies. Anyway, I went along with it – thinking how hard can it be to slide on the white fluff? To my horror, as I took my first ski-steps – I slid, lost my balance, and landed on my bum. It wasn’t a delicate and dignified Jane Austen topple (well that’s what I imagine her fall might be like). No – my fall was ungainly and awkward; definitely more Gerard Depardieu (no offence, Gerard – I do like you as an actor). Then I had to get myself back up on my feet engulfed by the laughter of the kiddies. I’ve never been so embarrassed. To top that day of embarrassment off, when it was time to be airlifted on the ski lift... as I stood in line waiting for lift-off and went to sit on the seat of the ski lift (when it arrived) – I missed the target by a mile. Yep – you guessed it... for the second time, I landed on my backside AGAIN. Humiliating! Not surprisingly, I’ve never been skiing again and to this day I still can’t ski an iota (chuckle). BUT my most embarrassing moment must be the time I wet the bed at the grand ole’ age of 19 or 20. Yep – you read it right – I wet the bed AND (it gets worse) someone was in the bed with me at the time. Too embarrassing for words... cringe cringe cringe... (lol). Thank goodness the boyfriend at the time was good enough not to make a big deal about it. And before you ask, no – I don’t suffer from any unfortunate bladder problems rather it was a case of being bladdered up with booze after a heavy night clubbing. I’d had way too much to drink and used the loo in my dreams. Hmmmm... thank goodness for the beautiful phrase of life coined ‘I grew up’ - I'm such a different person from the girl I used to be (chuckle)! Embroidery... In the last year or so I’ve started doing lots of crafty stuff such as embroidery, cross-stitching, knitting, and creating collages, card and jewellery making. I also started my first scrapbook a few months ago and I’m really enjoying that. I’ve had fun hosting some cool ‘Craft & Chat’ socials and also attending invites of others. I find these crafty circles very therapeutic, almost meditative, and a great source of inspiration. Enid Blyton... I was going to go with Epitaph for my final E-word but decided on Enid Blyton – the author who opened up the realm of imaginary worlds to me. I read and loved most of her books which kept me sane by giving me worlds to escape to during my boarding school years. My favourites were: The Wishing Chair series, Famous Five series, Mallory Towers series, The Magic Faraway Tree series... I just loved Moonface and the Saucepan Man...

Fear. Feet. Ferdinand.
Fear... of one thing or the other... I have lived with fear most of my life. I am afraid of many things. Some irrational. Others real. As a child I was afraid of the dark and would creep into my younger sister’s bed at night (she's a year younger). To be honest, right up until my early twenties if I was in a room alone, I would always sleep with a light on. These days I am now well over my fear of the dark. Another big fear of mine is that of heights. So if I’m on the sixth floor of an apartment block I would not be comfortable on the balcony. Saying that, I’d be happy to look at the view from the window. Biggies... as with regards to my fear of heights are walking across bridges, especially if they are crossing over a major motorway and thrill seeking rides. I’m absolutely no good with fun-rides. Anything that dips, swoops, slams or dunks from any height is NOT my thing. Well, I could go on and on in terms of my fears and phobias which include the physical, emotional, spiritual, etc – but I’ll spare you the details... after all don't most people live with one fear or another? Feet... I’m a UK size 7’s and not only that, my feet are broad and flat. Unfortunately, I have my father’s feet (perhaps, that’s part of the reason for my earlier oaf-like fall). Anyway, I digress... I dislike my feet because I’ve always viewed them as unattractive and unladylike. Matters weren't helped by the fact that it was always very difficult to find decent shoes to fit me in Israel (where I grew up) and I hated that. In my thirties, I have come to accept them. But I remain evermore a FLATS person, never HEELS. Ferdinand... the name of my first true love (age 22)... always special and never forgotten – even after all these years... funny that!?!

SNAPSHOTS: Lauren and Aaron

2009-02-22T05:47:00.000-08:00

Dear reader... This was a task in which I took a scene and wrote it from two different POVs. I find it interesting how one's writing takes shape and alters when you re-write the same scene from another’s lens or worldview i.e. the details, the observations, the choices, etc.

A brother and sister visit their elderly mother in a nursing home.

Lauren
A sour smell hung in the air. Though similar to the tell-tale odour of charity shops that I frequented – here, it felt intolerable. More stale somehow. I tasted the mucus rising to my throat. It took every ounce of willpower to stop myself from covering up my nose with my hand. It wouldn’t do. And I didn’t want mother to imagine that I thought it was she that stank. I fidgeted with my handbag, fumbling for a stick of gum while Aaron began to make small-talk. I popped the Spearmint in my mouth and started to chew. It was our first visit to Cedar Lodge Nursing Home, on the leafy-side of Erdington. ‘This all looks very nice, mother. You settled?’ I heard him ask as my mind wandered, taking in the space. It was a simple room. On one side of the window, slightly ajar, was a washbasin; tucked beside, stood Mother’s folded-up wheelchair. Next to it: a desk where the posies we’d bought from M&S now rested; and a chair, that I’d earlier pulled out to sit on. To the far side: a narrow high bed, where mother sat propped up in a C; and an armchair, which Aaron had decided on. Fleeting, I noticed the strawberry hue to his face. I knew he needed a cigarette. Mother was in full flow, chatting animatedly: ‘… the garden is so therapeutic… lovely to see the bluebells in bloom…’ I heard her say. Above her diminutive head, a Van Gough replica of The Olive Trees. I knew the painting well having studied it in great detail at Leeds Art College. Such delicate beauty weaved in its artwork of swirling trunks and branches; a voluptuous epitaph, I’d written in one of my assignments. Beneath the frame, a sharp contrast; mother’s gnarled features. Mother had been handsome, if not a sterling beauty, once. But the good looks had long faded over the course of eighty-nine years. All that was left heaped before us; her leathered frame, her thin smile. Instinctively, I reached across and stroked her hand, caressing her fingers, a mangle of knots. Fingers that had held mine on the first day of nursery, wiped my tears on my wedding day, and cuddled her grandchildren. Fingers, that no longer clung to the tresses of time.

Aaron
A slight irritation crept into my voice during Lauren’s phone call. The appointment had been booked. We were to travel down to visit our mother. It’s not that I didn’t want to see Mother but the time scheduled simply hadn’t suited my timetable, and I’d been forced to take the afternoon off. Lauren and I travelled separately. We met in the lobby of the Cedar Lodge Nursing Home at 2. Visiting hours are between 2 and 4; apparently, the residents – as they call them – need their rest before dinner. As we settled into our hour with mother, I thought she looked rather well. Perhaps, a bit frail, but that was to be expected at her age. I propped her up on the bed using four pillows, and then buttoned up her cardigan. I offered to make her a cup of Tetley just the way she liked it: weak, milky. ‘Water will do me fine,’ she declined. So, I filled up a glass, found a straw, and helped her with the drink. She took several sips before giving up. I placed the cup on her tray, and made myself comfortable in the armchair at the foot of her bed. Since her stroke, conversation with Mother has been a challenge. As usual, Lauren left me to do all the talking. I asked her, if she was settling in well. That set her off. She went into her ramble, which now sounds like a muffled slur, and it’s bloody hard work listening out for the few words or phrases that still make any sense. I nodded and grunted a lot, while Lauren remained quiet. I knew she had a lot on her mind. Marianne’s divorce was taking its toll; she and her three children were lodging with Lauren for the foreseeable future. It was a difficult situation. I understood why she just sat there with a vacant gaze – that is, until she leant over and took mother’s hand. It was at this point, I realised I was gasping for a cigarette.

A-Z FACT FILE: C... D...

2009-02-17T01:09:00.000-08:00

Dear reader, I’ve decided to intersperse my fiction writing (short stories, snapshot narratives and poetry) posts with some facts about myself... my way of inviting you to get to know me better ‘up close and personal’ (lol). My remit... three key words for each letter of the alphabet... which lead to three brief facts about myself... and, I hope to cover two letters of the alphabet per post (whenever I do post). Hmmmmm - this should be an interesting journey. It’s so easy to hide behind the liquid interface of cyberspace however in these A-Z Fact Files about yours truly but I do intend to keep it ‘real and honest’! Please feel free to share your thoughts or ask any questions. [For earlier A-Z Fact Files please scroll down... Thank you!]

C: Chinyere. Christian. Cats.
Chinyere... is my middle name. It means ‘God’s Gift’. In the Igbo language, Chi = God and Nyere = to give. Apparently when I was born my father wanted me to have the longer version of this name which is ‘Nkechinyere’ (which literally means 'what God gave') however my mother insisted that she wanted a shorter version so it would have to be ‘Nkechi’ or ‘Chinyere’ – both very popular Nigerian names in Igbo culture (as popular as Catherine used to be once upon a time). Because of history (the missionary movement and the colonisation of Nigeria) often Igbo names are Christian in meaning. Christian... in a generation where a faith stance comes across as extreme and overzealous, bordering on being ‘not politically correct’, I confess that I am a Christian. I was raised an Anglican in a nominal way (attending Christian schools, church, Sunday schools, etc.) – but it wasn’t until I was 21 when I decided to take my Christian faith seriously and made that commitment. It hasn’t been an easy path with regards to the practical outworking of my Christian faith in my personal and public life. Many times it has felt as if my journey with God rather than being smooth has been full of twists and turns – ‘two steps forward and ten steps back’ – as the old saying goes. However, the older I get the more important my relationship with God becomes. So in spite of the times when I struggle with huge doubts (over what I believe and why I believe what I believe) I know that truly without God I would be nowhere. Simone de Beauvoir, an author and philosopher I admire in many respects, once said: ‘God has ceased to exist for me’ but in my experience ‘I cannot exist without God’. So in short – being a Christian (in terms of having that personal relationship with God) works for me. Cats... I’m more of a cat lover than a dog lover. I do like dogs and have looked after them for friends in the past but they are such hard work. I love the independent spirit and mantra that cats espouse: ‘spruce, sleep, scoff...’ (lol)!

D: Dad. Depression. D-grade.
Dad... or should I say ‘father’ as ours is a rather awkward, formal and distant relationship. I have never had a warm relationship with my father. Aside from the fact that my father travelled a lot with his work with the UN he can be a hard man by nature. He ruled his roost (our home) with harsh words and discipline not dissimilar to an Idi Amin style dictatorship (no exaggeration). The sum total of our relationship (or non relationship as the case may be) – is that ‘he barks and I bite’. Inherently I suppose I do love my father and I’ve always yearned for a closer bond with him but years of unforgiveness and bitterness due to perceived wrongs on both sides have done nothing to bring us closer as 'father and daughter'. Hence now even as an adult I feel unable to relate to him as ‘dad’. Oh - how hard it is to claw back lost time and relationship. Depression... I struggle with periodic bouts of deep depression in my life. Depression (and, indeed mental health issues) runs in my extended family although I don’t know the specifics as the African culture is still very hush-hush on such matters. How I cope with my depression? Not very well... and often with the support of: friends, meds and/or counselling. At the moment, I’m basking in a ‘good spell’ – HUZZAH!!! D-grade... yep – I got this in my Chemistry ‘O’ level. In case you are trying to work out my age (lol), I was among the last year group that did the dreaded ‘O’ levels at a UK secondary school. I took 9 in total and failed Chemistry twice (with a ‘D-grade’) much to the disgust and disappointment of my parents who had been keen for me to pursue medicine or pharmacy at university. They had great dreams for me as a doctor (chuckle). To say the least, I wasn’t a strong scientist in school and I remember always getting the experiments wrong (accidents with the Bunsen burner, test tube leakages and breakages, if anything blew up I was right at the centre of it all... hee hee!) and man did I panic when it came to all the equations in Physics. The only science subject I did alright in was Biology. Incidentally, at that level, my strongest subject was Religious Studies. My weakest was Maths – even though I scraped a ‘C’ in it – don’t ask me how on earth I managed it! p.s. In those days, anything below a ‘C’ was considered a fail at worst, or at best something to be ashamed of... unlike the perspective of results today where a ‘D-E-F’ grades are considered passes at GCSE levels! In many ways - the world has really changed... (lol)...

Hoorah...

2009-02-08T06:41:00.000-08:00

I know I’ve just posted a short story, The Window, which I hope many of you will read, enjoy and comment on. But I just had to share this bit of good news. I’ve been successful in having another short story, titled: James’ Mojo, published with UNMADEUP. I’m totally stoked... chuffed... deliriously happy (lol)! Well, I hope you’ll visit the link and have a read. Anyway, Happy Reading!

SHORT STORY: The Window

2009-02-06T11:28:00.000-08:00

It is our special place. Our meeting place. He stares up at me from his two-storey bungalow and I peer down at him through my third-floor window. He is Arab, the son of a local farmer. I am African, a diplomat’s daughter. It is 1980’s Israel. We live in Ramallah on the West Bank of the city. Under Jerusalem skies I have never heard his voice. We have never spoken to each other. Only our eyes and the gestures of our hands have communicated our friendship – so rare, almost sacred. Every evening, after our family meal, I retreat to my bedroom to rendezvous with him. He is always there. On time: watching – waiting –wanting. With a shy smile I wave, tapping gently against the pane. He presses close against his window, grins and salutes back. He is older than me; eighteen or even twenty. And he smokes. Whenever he lights up I tell him off with a stern expression and a forceful wag of my index finger. On one occasion, I even took the liberty of drawing him a picture of a furious looking heart. It resembled an enlarged pea, crayoned in black. A black heart. When he saw the image, he threw his head back and laughed (out loud), and proceeded to light a cigarette. But then he paused, gave me a quizzical look, and without taking a single puff he stubbed it out again. My pout unravelled into a ripple of chuckles. How absurd it was to think that he could ever have a black heart. His brown eyes tell a different story. They bubble with laughter as if his face is bursting at its seams. Sometimes we play a game. We breathe moisture against the window and trace letters to each other. Once, he wrote: I-B-R-A-H-I-M. That’s when I first knew his name. At other times we fill our hour without games or words. We do nothing but undress each other with our eyes and our thoughts. This evening, as he has done many times before, he writes: C-O-M-E.

His gaze searches mine and I drown in a pool of deep longing. Bottomless. My breathing is shallow as I long to be in his reach; to feel his breath on my skin, to succumb to his fingertips, to taste his lips. Except I am only fourteen. In the last two months or so, I have been tempted with the idea of sneaking out of the house to spend an hour with him. Even thirty minutes. Even five minutes. Five minutes caught up in his embrace. In my dreams: we are on a raft navigating through the strident seas and storm. It is here that I find him. I thread my fingers through his tousle of chestnut curls, and wrap my hands around his stomach, placing my head on his strong back. The bluster sweeping around us goes unnoticed. He turns and collects my trembling limbs in his arms. After holding me for a while, he lies me down on the wood, and runs his hands along the smoothness of my skin; the plump of my cheek, the hollow of my clavicle, the ridges of my ribcage, the swell of my thigh, down to the tautness of my calf, foot and toes. Just as he is about to start on the right side of my length, he drops a kiss on my forehead, then always – at that precise moment – a sudden squall tips our raft, tossing us overboard. As I scramble in the water all I see is the sparkle of splashes in the moonlight. I manage to hold on to the raft. I strain to find him. I don’t see him. I drift... drift into the deep. On the other side, I awake to his letters: C-O-M-E.

It hasn’t happened because I am terrified. Frightened of my fiendish father. If I am caught, I will be punished. I will be whipped with a cane or a belt, the reward for such disobedience. Even now, I can imagine my father bearing down over me with the cane in his hand, running the stick under my nose with the taunt: Smell it. Smell it. This is what I’ll use to scourge your skin, a dark anger flushing his demeanour. Or perhaps the buckle will teach you a better lesson, he’ll bark, disappearing into the bedroom he shares with my mother to retrieve a long leather belt with a succulent steel buckle. If he is in an amenable mood he’ll give me a choice. Through his gapped teeth, he’ll hiss, bamboo or buckle? If I am caught out of the house my mother will be of little use. She offers no source of comfort or protection. My mother is a weak reed spun by my father’s savage streak. Feeble, her cowardice masquerades in the silhouette of co-conspirator. My whole being aches to break free. I long for freedom from my father. His cruelty is a constant in our lives. It lingers like the stench of a rotten carcass. I spin back round to the present. And I see that Ibrahim has written: T-O-M-O-R-O---8-P-M. Against all common sense, I start to nod. It begins as a slow movement, and then it is forceful. Determined. Adamant. Resolute. I want to spend time with him. I will C-O-M-E.

I do not tell them I am going. I leave the apartment with the stealth of a burglar and the covertness of a spy. I glance at my watch and make a mental note. I have an hour before I’m discovered. I’ve told my parents – who are now engrossed in a re-run of Magnum P.I. – that I’ll be busy with my schoolwork for the next couple of hours. But I know my mother. She’ll come checking up on me in an hour’s time. It is her way of control. I walk steadily down the stairwell, deciding against the old-fashioned elevator which serves the six-storey building. It creaks when you slide the door open, groans when it comes to a halt, and growls between floors. I emerge from the apartment block and notice his outline under the street lamp. He motions for us to meet at the top of the street. There, there is a stone shack which operates as a general ‘nik nak’ store although it is now locked up for the night. Beyond the store, it’s a dead end. Apart, that is, from a rocky and thorny lane leading to the back fence of a Jewish settlement. We stroll up the slight slope separately. Both of us: walking on the pavement on our sides of the street. At the top, we make our way to the back of the store and find ourselves in a narrow space; hemmed between the walls of the store and a wall of prickly bushes. With only the light coming from the stars I feel the slight strain while my pupils adjust to the night cover. We face each other, saying nothing. He edges nearer to me, and says with a heavy accent: ‘You come.’

For the first time, he is looking down at me, and I am looking up at him. He reaches over and takes hold of my hand, strokes it as if it were a prized Persian kitten. The gentleness of his touch, all I can do is smile. Eighty days of waiting for a moment to connect in an intimate way and all he chooses to do is to caress my hand. Suddenly, we hear the sound of a lone car pulling up on the street side of the shop. He pulls away – instinctively. There is something wrong about our need and desire, even though, I cannot put it into words. I flinch. I am about to spin and sprint off – a wounded buck; but he grabs hold of me and draws me into his chest, into his strong support. I sink in his warmth. Comforted; a tingling sensation soars like the rising heat of rich hot cocoa layered with marshmallows. ‘No. No...’ he whispers again and again into the cavity of my ear, nibbling gently at my lobes. ‘I want but we can’t...’ he says abruptly, and pulls away for a second time. I understand, yet I’m hurt.
‘I better go...’ I mumble.
‘Miriam, please see me again.’
‘When? How?’
‘Next Saturday. At this time.’
‘I’ll try...’ I say in a low voice. How I’ll be able to slip away to see him, I’m unsure. But I want to see him before I return to England.
‘Please, come!’ he pleads.

In the days that follow: around my chores; completing the rest of my holiday homework, a history project on the Tudors; and fiddling with the goldfish in the fish bowl; we meet each evening. From our glass bowls we laugh and flirt, viewing one another like a TV screen. His goodbyes always end with: M-I-R-I-A-M---C-O-M-E.

Saturday morning. I’m brimming with excitement at tonight’s tryst; beside myself with imagined and anticipated pleasure. All day I keep busy with nothing. A strange restlessness lurks within me and I’m not even able to concentrate enough to fill the blank pages of my diary. It has been three days since my last entry. I try and get into the book I’ve been reading all summer; Wilkie Collins’ The Woman in White. However I soon abandon the idea because as I perceive the words on the page they appear to be gobblety-gook. In the end, I potter. That is until I hear a collision. It is around 5 o’clock when the crash that is unfolding sounds. A cacophony of: screeching metal, shattering glass, and squeals. All this: right outside the front side of our apartment block, on the main road. From the balcony, I hear the commotion, the shouts of onlookers. My mother is busy with the laundry and I hurriedly make my way outside to the scene. On the ground, I see him first. Sprawled, a few paces on the raised pavement. At the sight, my mind descends into confusion. It is as if a jigsaw puzzle has been scattered on a table. Or the wires of my brain have been short-circuited. Nothing makes sense. As I continue to push through the clucking crowd I hear the far-off cry of a siren. Then: I come face-to-face with the offender. My father’s maroon Mercedes which rests smashed against a lamp post. The windscreen is shattered in the pattern of an intricate web, and my father is arched over the steering wheel. In the haze that follows my mother arrives on the scene. We, my mother and I, are rushed off to Mount Scopus hospital with my father strapped in. He is barely alive. From the ambulance: through the window, through a blur of tears, I see Ibrahim’s body being covered with a single white sheet.

By Catherine Mark-Beasant

POEM: Snow Dust...

2009-02-02T15:28:00.000-08:00

Snow dust

scatters on the asphalt,
cars, sheds, trees, lamp posts
and settles in a seamless
white awning – a sail
it signposts the landscape
to the coming spring.

By Catherine Mark-Beasant

A-Z FACT FILE: A... B...

2009-02-01T02:30:00.000-08:00

p.s. as I post this today... on 1 Feb... outside the window is Birmingham's first snow flurry of 2009!

EXPERIMENTAL SHORT STORY: 11:55-12:00 noon

2009-01-27T02:39:00.000-08:00

Dear reader... this is an experimental piece (building on the earlier SNAPSHOT: The Russian doll) ... imagining a snapshot of five simultaneous stories in a five minute time span... while weaving a common thread of humanity through all five narratives to build a complete short story (I wonder if you can make the connections?)

Your thoughts, comments and suggestions are welcome...

11:55 – 12:00 noon

28. July. What were you doing between 11:55 and 12:00 noon? Five lives, five stories, connected by five minutes...

Kate knocks the Russian doll off the bedside table – Minx (the cat) scarpers away swiftly – as she staggers to the bathroom. On her knees, hovering facedown over the toilet, Kate clutches her stomach and succumbs to retching and spewing. Her bloodshot bleary blues watch as last night’s consumption floats in the bowl. The strong waft of stale alcohol-laced vomit causes her body to heave again and she yields to another frenzied exertion. Head halfway down the can, her fingers fumble blindly for some toilet paper. She uses this to wipe off the sweat and the puke. The result of a heavy night of: vodka shots, glasses of wine and pints of beer. The cheap roll with the texture of tracing paper does little to wipe the mess. She feels her matted mane moaning for a wash. She needs a long, hot soak. But her limbs slump and refuse to budge. Now: sitting on the wooden floor, holding on to the toilet seat she tries to recall the events of the night before. It comes back to her. At some point, in the midst of the eddy of booze, bopping and boys, there’d been the text from Marcus. I can’t go thru with it. I’m done with you. She feels her anger rising again. This red rage begins as a stabbing pain in her chest; becomes a prickly sensation in her throat; before it transforms into a fire burning up her clammy cheeks. Clammed-up, the tears refuse to come. At this point, she rises to flush down the rest of the bile.

Lena swallows back the threatening bile while he rolls his weight off her. She checks her watch. A few minutes left. Just enough time to freshen up. She watches his movements. He sits up on the edge of the bed and pulls the white IBIS towel to. He wraps himself awkwardly as if he is embarrassed then turns to look at her with a thinly drawn smile. Everything about him repulses her. His kind face, his paunchy frame, his wedding ring. Without a word between them he enters the adjoining bathroom. Lena uses this opportunity to get dressed. She scrambles into her g-string panty and bra set, stockings, a black pencil-skirt, purple sweater and 3-inch boots – in that order. Next, she pulls out a mirror from her bag and uses a few seconds to arrange her hair and make-up. While she is applying her lipstick, he emerges; now wearing a striped shirt. He is doing up the buttons and talking. He says: That was good, Lena. I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did. She hates the charade but she plays along. She says: Yes – yes. It’s always good with you. She forces a beatific smile. He comes over, caresses her chin, and notices her necklace. He touches the cross. And asks: You religious? The irony of their relationship creases her up. She begins to giggle. He looks at her as if he is going to ask: What’s so funny? He doesn’t. Instead, he turns to the mirror and fixes his navy tie. In less than a minute – at the stroke of 12 – he will pay her and she will leave. That will be the end of their session until he calls again.

Imagine that you’re in a counselling session with your therapist. That was the director’s brief in his email the night before. Attached; the script: Eudora’s Mania. She decided to draw on a previous experience. Last spring, she’d had a role in an amateur production titled: Schreber’s Nervous Illness. She’d played the part of one of the twenty inmates in the experimental asylum. It hadn’t been too challenging playing a lunatic. After all, she felt mad most of the time. It hadn’t been a major role but it proved very useful when it came to practising her lines last night. At the moment, sitting rigidly on an uncomfortable bench in the audition hall, she strums her fingers on her lap. Nerves? Perhaps. Even though she is as prepared as she can be. Her five lines continue to swim in her head. I don’t know how much more of this I can take. I have been locked in this nightmare for years. I don’t want to dig further. All I want to know is can you fix me or not. It is hell for me – do you understand? The earlier argument with her mother surfaces on the waves of Eudora’s dialogue. ‘I can’t sit by and watch you throw your life away.’ ‘Mum, it’s my life. This is what I want to do. I’m a performer.’ ‘Is this my fault? Is it the divorce?’ ‘God, Mum – stop! Why do you always bring that up? This has nothing to do with you or Dad.’ ‘If only your father hadn’t made such a mess of things.’ ‘Mum. Leave him out of this. This has nothing to do with either of you. This is what I want to do.’ Her mother was still talking when she’d slammed the door. Not the best way to prepare for an audition, she mutters to herself. In a bid to regain some composure, she gets up and walks over to the water machine. With the polystyrene cup full she heads back to her seat. On approach, she notices a guy in her place. A mop of orange curls, a splattering of freckles – he grins and says, ‘Sorry – have I taken your place?’ She thinks it’s obvious, but says, ‘Not to worry. I’ll find another spot.’ Before she can make her next move, he asks, ‘Hey what’s your name?’ She observes him dubiously and mumbles, ‘Emily.’ His grin broadens. ‘I’m Nathan or Nate.’

‘Nat... coffee or tea?’ Natalie looks up to see Sue holding up six fingers. ‘Coffee. Black.’ Sue raises a seventh finger and moves on. Second coffee of the day and it’s not even noon, Natalie grumbles to herself. So much for her resolution to: ‘eat and drink healthy, plus get fitter’. Drink less coffee – one mug a day or two small cups – that was the plan. Ah well, better to focus on the positives. That’s what the self-help books say. At least I’ve weaned myself off the ciggie addiction, she muses. It’d been Guantanamo hell trying to break the tobacco spell. And it’d taken eighteen months. Nowadays the nicotine patches were working a treat. At the beginning she’d placed two, even three, patches on her arm just to ease the cravings. She’d often wondered if she could die from an overdose of those Nicorette patches. The coffee arrives. This signals her break. She takes a sip. Fuck: it’s tepid, bland and wet. Like this job; a year of incessant monotony. The suffocating boredom had set in from the first day. Shift work; eight-to-eight – staring at the computer screen hour after hour, day after day, for eleven months and ten days. Data inputting! Fuck: what sane person did this mind numbing work? At times, the maze of numbers took on a life of their own, resembling the scurrying of green ants with a mission to build a spaceship – that is, if ants did think about such things like exploring space. She groans and takes another sip. THUD! She swivels round to see Louise jump out of her seat, fall to her knees, and begin to gather the papers which have escaped from her portfolio and now lie scattered in a wheel-shape on the floor. The office windows are tinted and the air conditioning is permanently on (apparently to keep the machines cool). Fuck: no thought for the skivvies who work here. The artificial light is stark. Natalie longs to be outdoors breathing in some natural air. SPUTTER! SPUTTER! Without looking she knows the cough belongs to Simon. Overweight and bald he’s had this cough for several months now. Natalie wonders if it is signifies something sinister. Smokers cough? Bronchitis? Some other sort of lung disease? Who knows? He hasn’t looked right for months; chapped lips, crusty skin, and this toxic sounding cough. Thank God I've given up, she thinks, about to take another sip of her drink. A sneeze gets in the way – a succession of three. Fuck: she hopes she hasn’t caught anything. There’s a bizarre bug going around. She pinches her nose in an effort to stop another sneeze. ‘Bless you.’ ‘Bless you.’ ‘Thank you,’ she responds. She stares at the clock and watches it tick off the last ten seconds. Her time is up. The green soldiers on the screen summon her attention.

With the determination of a soldier, after several hours of trudging up the rocky incline, he arrives at the summit of Helvellyn Cliff. He sits on a boulder and for a moment, in the stillness, he watches the damp green expanse extend around him. He retrieves a flask from his rucksack and takes a swig of the brandy. Its heat warms him up against the blustery wind. His eyes are bright and translucent. As he looks on, a collage of emotions and flashbacks – images, conversations, events – flood his mind. Dad, will you make it to dinner on Saturday? The boxing trophy he won at fifteen. Charlotte asks for a divorce: I love you, Warren, but for goodness sake we can’t go on like this. Exhaustion. Warren, the company’s sunk (his business partner shouts down the phone). Camping holidays with the boys. The mini stroke he had three years ago. Martin is hiding his tooth under the pillow. Pug (the family dog). The garden, he and Charlotte, had fallen in love with. He is staring at the bankruptcy certificate in his hand. Bitterness. The pretty therapist who says: time heals. The family holidays in Turkey. He is hurtling full speed to the hospital to make the birth of Ally. That dance with Charlotte on their wedding day. The accident Zac had on his sixteenth birthday. Fear. The unshed tears bottled up during Pop’s funeral. The grey churchyard in Co. Cork. Putting his mother in the care home; and that first day, thinking how old she looked. Kissing Ally on the cheek with tears brimming. Laughter. Dad, you will make it to dinner on Saturday? How could he when he was carrying around all this pain: dead weight.

It is as if the weight of the doctor’s words hammers her to the floor. Inch-by-inch, she sinks lower and lower. Once she hits the ground, she hugs her knees, and fixes her gaze on nothing; seeing, yet blind. She hears a loud rhythmic b-dum, b-doom. It sounds like a rapping on the door but she knows that the culprit is her racing heart. She wants to stand, to get away – to run. Instead her body shakes, and she begins to rock. It is an unconscious movement – forward, then backward; slow, then fast. A scream erupts in her mind though the room remains silent. A wave of madness washes over her. She wills herself to pass out, but nothing happens. Rather, things become clearer – sharper – in focus. The white walls of the consultation room look whiter – pristine – even sterile. It must be a mistake, she thinks. She doesn’t belong here. She needs to lie down, she tells herself. The response is automatic. Her mind guides her frail frame sideways on the tiled floor, where she curls up in a foetal position. Her head: pounds. Her body: trembles. Struggling for breath, her eyes half-close, flutter open, then shut again – shutting the diagnosis out. Numb: she descends into a dream state. Delirious: she falls – is falling deep inside a well. After what seems an age, the dark waters give way to gray shadows. Her mind’s eye adjusts to the haze, and out of nowhere she notices a reddish glint. Without thinking, she follows the red speck. The object seems to be running away from her, in the same way she is running away from her reality. She chases after it – as if chasing an answer. At the basin of the well, she comes face-to-face with what emerges to be a red figurine. It is then she realises that it is only a Russian doll.

By Catherine Mark-Beasant

SNAPSHOTS: The woman at the cafe

2009-01-19T07:42:00.000-08:00

A post that Lilly at http://www.lillyslife.com wrote over the Christmas/New Year holidays reflecting on conversations ‘overheard during the festive season’ reminded me of the importance (especially as a writer) of ‘active observational and listening skills’ i.e. being keen observers of the world around us! This short piece was written (some time ago) while I sat people watching at a Starbucks cafe in Birmingham – an activity I so enjoy doing as I love creating stories around the people I encounter through my eyes and imagination (smile). It fascinates me the glimpses or snapshots we get of people's lives (in this way) - real or imagined or fabricated (lol)! I often wonder what story would be written about me if I were the one being observed in this way (giggle)!

The woman at the café

She orders a skinny latte and settles herself at a corner table, overlooking the honey stones of St Martin’s and the aluminium-bubbles of Selfridges. She rises again – as if an afterthought – and unbuttons her knee-length coat, revealing a dark striped skirt-suit. Underneath, a marigold blouse, its frills spill out of her suit-jacket, which she also unfastens, removes, and hangs over her coat. Taking her seat again – cross-legged and boasting three-inch heels – she rummages through a large leather handbag and pulls out a mini-glossy: Vogue. Her latte arrives and she caresses the mug absent-mindedly, while flicking through the magazine. After a few minutes, she takes a delicate sip. I notice her face, heart-shaped; it whispers that she’s forty-something. The mannequin-stretch of skin over sinew declares a daily gym routine – more Esporta babe, than L.A. Fitness.

Suddenly, her phone rings. I recognise the Escala signature ringtone. Half closing her magazine, she picks up the call. Leaning into the phone, her long hair falls around her shoulders in cascades of chestnut-brown. She listens, and then responds. As the conversation continues, she has stopped taking sips from her drink and begins to tap the table edge, as if playing an imaginary keyboard; her nails are neat, well-manicured. The call ends and her fingers freeze. There is a strange look on her face, tight – somewhat agitated. Her blue eyes have darkened. They turn and stare out of the glass panes. The evening sun has faded inviting the shadows, so I cannot tell what it is she is looking at – if anything. She remains rigid for several seconds. Then, without warning, she collects her bag for a second time, from the floor, and begins to search for something. She empties its contents on the table, around her drink, and on top of the now abandoned magazine. A couple of things fall to the floor: a lipstick, an inhaler. She lets out a curse under her breath as she retrieves them. She starts to inspect each object, paying close attention to the paper items. Halfway through, she pauses – opens up a slim glasses-case and puts on her designer pair before carrying on with her search. Her lips are pursed. When the waiter comes to ask if she wants anything more – she is abrupt, with a terse nod of her head. After many minutes of frantic movement, she stops. Her whole body visibly shakes and she allows her bowed head to be cushioned in her hands. She doesn’t make a sound but her trembling body tells the story of someone awash with some curious grief. After a time, as if remembering her public surroundings, she straightens herself and picks up a napkin. With it, she wipes her eyes and blows her nose. Her breathing calm again, she tidies her face using a small decorative mirror – a gift from her mother, or a lover? She touches up her pale cheeks with a foundation brush and applies some lipstick, strawberry-rouge. By this time, she is sporting a forced smile. Raising one hand to the air she motions to the waiter. I think she is going to request the bill, instead she asks for another skinny latte.

By Catherine Mark-Beasant

Re: Making Connections!

2009-01-12T05:51:00.000-08:00

This weekend I was honoured (and, totally CHUFFED) by my first ever blog award (titled: Blogging Brings Us Closer Award) from a dear friend – Maithri Goonetilleke; a gifted and talented poet, writer, singer and doctor. His blog is a real ‘treasure box’ – full of compassion, inspiration, affirmation and a generous blogging community. Please do check him out at: http://soaringimpulse.blogspot.com/! Maithri’s ongoing commitment to the work of hiv/aids and his current post and song raising awareness on the issue of breast cancer brought to mind a short piece that I wrote some months back(which I post following). I just love the connections that the blogging world opens up - don't you (smile)!?!

The Russian Doll

It is as if the weight of the doctor’s words hammers her to the floor. Inch-by-inch, she sinks lower and lower. Once she hits the ground, she hugs her knees, and fixes her eyes on nothing; seeing, yet blind. She hears a loud rhythmic boom-boom, boom-boom. It sounds like a rapping on the door but she knows that the culprit is her racing heart. She wants to stand, to get away – to run. Instead her body shakes, and she begins to rock. It is an unconscious movement – forward, then backward; slow, then fast. A scream erupts in her mind though the room remains silent. A wave of madness washes over her. She wills herself to pass out, but nothing happens. Rather, things become clearer – sharper – in focus. The white walls of the consultation room look whiter – pristine – even sterile. It must be a mistake, she thinks. She doesn’t belong here. She needs to lie down, she tells herself. The response is automatic. Her mind guides her frail frame sideways on the tiled floor, where she curls up in a foetal position. Her head: pounds. Her body: trembles. Struggling for breath, her eyes half-close, flutter open, then shut again – shutting the diagnosis out. Numb: she descends into a dream state. Delirious: she falls – is falling deep inside a well. After what seems an age, the dark waters give way to gray shadows. Her mind’s eye adjusts to the haze, and out of nowhere she notices a reddish glint. Without thinking, she follows the red speck. The object seems to be running away from her, in the same way she is running away from her reality. She chases after it – as if chasing an answer. At the basin of the well, she comes face-to-face with what emerges to be a red figurine. It is then she realises that it is only a Russian doll.

SHORT STORY: Caroline's butterflies (Prt 3)

2009-01-04T02:14:00.000-08:00

Dear reader... I confess that in writing this final part to 'Caroline’s butterflies' I get a sense that this story is itching to be a greater narrative – possibly a novel (as some, including my hubby, have suggested). Lots of characters that want to speak and have their motivations explored (lol). But in the meantime, here’s part 3 of its presentation as a short story. Hope you enjoy the read & as always I value all your comments.

[For part 1 & 2 please scroll down. Thanks.]

The crumpled bit of paper flutters to the floor, and comes to a rest underneath her desk. Caroline hesitates, picks it up. It reads: ‘We’ve got something of yours. Want it back? Meet us at Monks cave. After school.’ Caroline swivels round to the author; sitting two rows behind: Beth – pretty, popular, perfect. Beth smiles sweetly, and Caroline’s cheeks redden as she pulls away from her gaze. Madame Murielle stops in mid-flow: ‘Qu'est-ce que c'est, Caroline?’ Her lips tightly drawn, irritated by the interruption. ‘It’s nothing, Madame,’ Caroline mutters, hiding the note under her exercise book. Madame Murielle’s pinched brow gives away that she is not convinced, but with a little cough, she moves on and begins to scribble on the board.

Something tells Caroline it is a trick. But she is curious. If they have something that belongs to her – she wants it back. ‘I’m not afraid of them,’ she mumbles, making her way up the familiar path that leads to the cave. A hint of pink begins to spread across the horizon, brightening up the sullen skies. On approach: she stumbles over an overgrown bush; then a few paces later, over a rock – tumbling and scraping a knee. ‘Wrong shoes, wrong clothes,’ she scolds herself, ‘I should have gone home to change.’ She picks herself up, and waves off a stubborn wasp humming around her. As she wipes the trickle of blood, she notices a tear in the hemline of her yellow dress. ‘Mum’s not going to be happy,’ she sighs.

At first she sees no one. Then she hears Beth’s call: ‘Come on, Caroline... we’ve been waiting.’ She enters the cave. The damp hugging the limestone assaults her senses. She blinks momentarily while she adjusts to the dim enclosure. Its darkness illuminated only by the glow of six torch lights. She takes several steps forward, and slips on a slippery stone. The laughter that follows is cutting and hideous. Caroline trembles when she finds herself inside their circle. Their shadowy silhouettes loom large as they hem her in. Like a butterfly trapped in a bottle. Thankful for the darkness concealing her fear, she says: ‘What do you want?’ Her tone is calm and steely. Beth is the first to speak again, moving in closer until they stand nose-to-nose. ‘We want to be your friend, Caterpillar Caroline,’ she sniggers. Her angelic face – fuelled by her venom – contorts into a demonic caricature. The others join in: a chorus of sneers and taunts. Then: someone hurls a bucket of biting insects all over her. She can’t tell who. More laughter. More scoffs. Ignoring the prickling sensation on her skin – Caroline runs.

They are not far behind; hunting her like a wild deer. Uphill: she runs. The clearing has closed in with stretches of thick trees. Through the green and brown, her feet wind up a steep slope. They: continue to chase the blur of yellow in the distance. Their taunts soar louder and louder; echoes ringing in her head. She reaches another clearing – leading to a ledge overlooking a lake – and stops. She has run as far as she can. For a second time: she is cornered. Gasping, sweating – she waits for them.
‘What are you going to do now, Moth Girl?’ Kayla asks. She is the second in command, the tallest of the six.
‘Leave me alone...’ Caroline shouts.
‘What are you going to do now?’ They edge towards her. One pushes her, and she loses her balance.
‘Leave me alone...’ she says again, scrambling on all fours, before getting up. The tears are welling up, blinding her. In front of her: six pairs of vultures eyes. Behind her: a sharp drop into the lake below.
‘What are you going to do, Caterpillar Caroline?’ they cry in unison. ‘What are you going to do, Caterpillar Caroline?’ They charge at her, lurch forward with the energy of a bull to a red rag.
‘What are you going to do, Caroline?’ an inner voice asks.
‘I’m going to fly...’

Caroline’s body was found floating in the shallow river – a broken butterfly. ‘She slipped and fell’... ‘It was an accident’... the six girls said when questioned by the police. Everyone believed them. After all: they were only kids. No one thought it could be anything more sinister. Their innocence never doubted.

By Catherine Mark-Beasant

SHORT STORY: Caroline's butterflies (Prt 1 & 2)

2008-12-28T13:59:00.000-08:00

Flat on my back, I lie and watch the crisscross of cobwebs across the light bulb. From one angle, it takes the shape of a cirrus cloud. From another: a butterfly. ‘Butterflies...’ I think out loud. Butterflies were my dead sister, Caroline’s, thing. She’d spent hours and hours poring over butterfly books. The Orangetip had been her favourite. She’d even won a school prize for a poem she’d written titled: The Bountiful Butterfly. ‘What does bountiful mean?’ she’d asked again and again while she’d been penning the poem. She’d only been six at the time.

Caroline visits sometimes. She simply materializes in my room without warning. Often: she’ll sit on the edge of my bed, or stand by the window gazing out at the surrounding farmland – where she’d exhausted countless hours exploring. ‘I’m off Butterfly scouting’ she’d yell as the door slammed behind her. On days like this, I can still hear her sunny voice. At other times: she lies beside me – as we are doing now – and we stare at the ceiling saying nothing. Since she died, Caroline hasn’t spoken to me. I talk to her all the time. But she says nothing. It’s as if there is a barrier between us. When I look at her, pools of sadness fill her eyes. She offers no tears, no words – nothing. In spite of this, her silence strengthens me. I’d rather have her wordless presence than nothing at all. Now: in the stillness of our thoughts, I squeeze her hand – the way I’ve always done.

Then: as if on cue, she bolts upright, stands up – shatters my reverie. With a finger, she urges me to follow. She wanders to her bedroom across the landing. As we enter, an abrupt sneeze escapes and is caught by my cupped hand. ‘Dust everywhere...’ I mumble to no one particularly. Her room is just as it’s always been; untouched since she died. It's been six months. Butterflies of all descriptions crowd the room. Butterfly patterned wallpaper, butterfly toys, posters and decor – resting and hanging from all directions. When she was around this Butterfly Zoo seemed to come alive. Buzzed with life. Nowadays, it felt... feels cold and lifeless. I notice Caroline open the wardrobe. She begins to rummage around for something. I watch her bent head; her pale curls bounce with the movement of her search. After many minutes, she retrieves a shoebox and places it on the bed. From it, she brings out a scrapbook-cum-photo album. Together we flick through each page. Inside: more butterflies. Images of: Orangetips, Brown Elfins, Edith’s Coppers, Cabbage Whites, and on and on. Each labelled in her scratchy scrawl. Eventually, from the back of the book, she pulls out a postcard. She stares hard at it, takes a deep breath, before handing it over to me. I fix my attention on the postcard settled in my grasp. But I am confused because it is blank. Her manner tells me that my eyes are deceiving me. I do not see what she knows. A secret lies in the note.

Today would have been Caroline’s tenth birthday. Unnoticed: she appears in the kitchen where my mum and I are busy pouring ingredients for a cake. She watches, wearing a strange expression, as eggs, sugar, flour, milk, cocoa and melted chocolate are poured and whipped in the bowl. Chocolate Fudge cake: our favourite. Mum stirs the lumpy mix until it is silken and smooth. I hover – waiting for mum’s nod; my permission to lick the thick rich mixture off the ladle. It’s not long before I’m lapping the sugary goo. With the corner of my eye I catch Caroline smacking her lips – plump and wet – I see her eyes are bright with green longing. In her halfway-house existence I wonder to myself: if hunger pangs are a thing of the past for her. It is peculiar that even though the room is full of our laughter, mine and Mum’s – a blinding sadness lingers. But somehow in this moment of reprieve, we are able to escape the sadness that has been eroding our life for months. Our pain suspended. This thought moves me to wrap my arms around my mum from behind, while she washes up. Caroline is settled next to us; leaning beside the sink, looking out the window – captivated by something: a bird, squirrel – I can’t tell what.
‘I sense her very strongly,’ Mum says with a short embarrassed laugh.
‘Perhaps she is here –,’ I whisper, tossing a glance in Caroline’s direction.
For a few seconds neither of us speaks – until Mum says: ‘Your father thinks it’s time we clear out her... Caroline’s... room...’ Her words tail off and dissolve with the air. My breath catches a little – as if the next word spoken will break the spell. It’s the first time Mum has mentioned Caroline by name since she died. Caroline has stopped what she is doing. She straightens herself, reaches over and places a kiss on our mum’s cheek. I see a slow smile spread across Mum’s face. ‘It’s as if she is in this room... standing right here,’ she says again, ‘maybe your father is right and it’s time to move on,’ she whispers.

After lunch and an indulgent slice of cake, Caroline and I walk up the lane to the village church. Once there: I sit on a patch of faded grass by her gravestone and pull out the postcard she handed me last week. Caroline stands at a distance, with the soft sunlight dancing around her like a honey shower. I turn back to the card in my hand. The one side remains blank, so I peer at the image on the other side. It is strange, because the longer I stare – the image becomes sharper – in the manner of a camera lens adjusting a blurred picture, bringing it into focus. At the centre: a delicate yellow butterfly. Circling it: six black butterflies. The more closely I look into the picture, the six butterflies appear puffed up, somewhat menacing. The dawning realisation emerges as a thread of clarity making a direct connection with six girls I knew. For almost two years these six had made Caroline’s life a misery. Even as my eyelids flutter and shut I can hear their taunts: ‘Butt Fly’ ‘Moth Girl’ ‘Caterpillar Caroline’. My anger and fists had only gotten me in trouble every time I had tried to protect her. I blink away the rising tears – squint slightly – and look up to find Caroline facing me, sitting cross-legged. Her sudden proximity startles me. She has been as soundless as the shadows emerging among the trees. Our gazes lock in a knowing look. An unexpected shiver travels through me. Something ugly – uglier than ugly – had happened that terrible day.

...to be continued in part 3...!

Boxing Day Reflection

2008-12-26T08:04:00.000-08:00

Two things occupying my time at the moment, around the merriment of Christmas and New Year festivities are:
(1) Reading: The Shack by WM Paul Young, and
(2) Completing an assignment (3000 words) for my current MA in Creative Writing. The title: What, if any, is the significance of tradition for poets we have studied? Your answer should refer to at least two poets studied on the course. The two poets I’ve decided to focus on are W.H. Auden and Philip Larkin.

It is always interesting when different elements of one’s life seem to come together and link in to formulate a ‘word of wisdom’. I’ll explain what I mean. In researching Larkin – I came across his poem titled: Aubade (which I post below), a poem that contemplates death in an honest and straightforward way. Underlying the poem is that age-old question as to the meaning and purpose of our lives – especially when we are being ravaged by difficult and traumatic circumstances. It is this same question that is ultimately presented in an intelligent and different way in the book: The Shack. Indeed, I heard about this book in the summer but for some reason resisted jumping on the bandwagon at the time – and I have only finally picked up a copy this December. And on reading it (absorbed from beginning to end)... all I can say is: WOW! It is a book that discusses an old narrative in a vibrant, new way – causing the reader to re-think ideas and paradigms of one’s understanding and truth about God (or that ultimate power or supreme being... however you choose to interpret or define ‘Him/Her/or It’). Even though this book is a Christian book – it transcends the religion or system we call ‘Christianity’ – and asks for serious reflection and consideration of the question posed by Larkin’s Aubade – to both Christians and non-Christians alike. It provokes and challenges pre-conceived notions and ideas of humanity’s relationship with a supreme being (however, you interpret that!) Hence, both Larkin’s Aubade and Young’s The Shack has illuminated for me a quote that I read recently by the contemporary artist, Francis Alys: ‘Sometimes, to make something is really to make nothing; and paradoxically, sometimes to make nothing is to make something.’

I find it poignant to be reading and reflecting on these things at the dawning of a new year. A reminder to myself that in my anxious moments when my mind is shackled by deep and dark fears and feelings of uncertainty about the future, that the key to living in the now and present is to: ‘trust and let go’ – allowing each day to take care of itself.

HAPPY BOXING DAY TO YOU ALL!!!

Aubade by Philip Larkin

I work all day, and get half-drunk at night.
Waking at four to soundless dark, I stare.
In time the curtain-edges will grow light.
Till then I see what's really always there:
Unresting death, a whole day nearer now,
Making all thought impossible but how
And where and when I shall myself die.
Arid interrogation: yet the dread
Of dying, and being dead,
Flashes afresh to hold and horrify.

The mind blanks at the glare. Not in remorse
- The good not done, the love not given, time
Torn off unused - nor wretchedly because
An only life can take so long to climb
Clear of its wrong beginnings, and may never;
But at the total emptiness for ever,
The sure extinction that we travel to
And shall be lost in always. Not to be here,
Not to be anywhere,
And soon; nothing more terrible, nothing more true.

This is a special way of being afraid
No trick dispels. Religion used to try,
That vast, moth-eaten musical brocade
Created to pretend we never die,
And specious stuff that says No rational being
Can fear a thing it will not feel, not seeing
That this is what we fear - no sight, no sound,
No touch or taste or smell, nothing to think with,
Nothing to love or link with,
The anasthetic from which none come round.

And so it stays just on the edge of vision,
A small, unfocused blur, a standing chill
That slows each impulse down to indecision.
Most things may never happen: this one will,
And realisation of it rages out
In furnace-fear when we are caught without
People or drink. Courage is no good:
It means not scaring others. Being brave
Lets no one off the grave.
Death is no different whined at than withstood.

Slowly light strengthens, and the room takes shape.
It stands plain as a wardrobe, what we know,
Have always known, know that we can't escape,
Yet can't accept. One side will have to go.
Meanwhile telephones crouch, getting ready to ring
In locked-up offices, and all the uncaring
Intricate rented world begins to rouse.
The sky is white as clay, with no sun.
Work has to be done.
Postmen like doctors go from house to house.

SHORT STORY: Caroline's butterflies (Part 1)

2008-12-17T01:28:00.000-08:00

Flat on my back, I lie and watch the criss-cross of cobwebs across the light bulb. From one angle, it takes the shape of a cirrus cloud. From another: a butterfly. ‘Butterflies,’ I say out loud. Butterflies were my dead sister, Caroline’s, thing. She’d spent hours and hours poring over butterfly books. The Orangetip had been her favourite. She’d even won a school prize for a poem she’d written titled: The Bountiful Butterfly. ‘What does bountiful mean?’ she’d asked again and again whilst she’d been penning the poem. She’d only been six at the time.

Caroline visits sometimes. She simply appears in my room without warning. At times, she’ll sit on the edge of my bed, or stand by the window gazing out at the surrounding farmland. Often, she lies beside me – as we are doing now – and we stare at the ceiling, saying nothing. Since she died, Caroline hasn’t spoken to me. I talk to her all the time. But she says nothing. It’s as if there is a barrier between us. When I look at her, pools of sadness fill her eyes. She offers no tears, no words – nothing. In spite of this, her silence strengthens me. I’d rather have her wordless presence than nothing at all. Now – in the stillness of our thoughts, I squeeze her hand – the way I’ve always done.

Then as if on cue, she bolts upright and stands up - shattering my reverie. With a finger, she beckons me to follow. She wanders to her bedroom across the landing. As we enter, I sneeze. I've always been sensitive to dust. Her room is just as it’s always been; untouched since she died. It's been six months. Butterflies of all descriptions crowd the room. Butterfly patterned wall-paper, butterfly toys, posters and decor – resting and hanging from all directions. When she was around this Butterfly Zoo seemed to come alive. Buzzed with life. Nowadays, it felt... feels cold and lifeless. I notice Caroline open the wardrobe. She begins to rummage around for something. I watch her bent head; her pale curls bounce with the movement of her search. After many minutes, she retrieves a shoebox and places it on the bed. From it, she brings out a scrapbook-cum-photo album. Together we flick through each page. Inside, more butterflies. Images of: Orangetips, Brown Elfins, Edith’s Coppers, Cabbage Whites, and on and on. Each labelled in her scratchy scrawl. Eventually, from the back of the book, she pulls out a postcard. She stares hard at it, takes a deep breath, before handing it over to me. I am confused because it is blank. Her manner tells me that my eyes are deceiving me. I do not see what she knows. A secret lies in the note.

SHORT STORY: Dying to be free

2008-12-14T08:53:00.000-08:00

The horizon hummed in the distance. The silence of early dawn drowned by the waking landscape. Laurie took a sharp intake of breath, drinking in the freshness of first light. Martin stood apart lost in his own thoughts. Both figures: reflecting on their future.

Their conversation the night before had been difficult. In thirty-five years of marriage there had rarely been a raised voice.
‘I can’t do this anymore. I want to die,’ she had told him, in a muted calm tone.
She observed the anger carved in the heavy lines of his brow.
‘How can you ask of me such a thing?’ he had shouted.
‘I need permission to die with dignity. I have nothing more to offer this world in this condition. I will only get worse. I choose not to live like this.’ There had been very little emotion in her words. Dead-pan, she had delivered her thoughts with a steely look.
‘What about me? And the girls? We need you.’ He declared before dissolving in a torrent of tears with the distress of a petulant toddler. No more words had been said as she cradled his head on her lifeless lap.

This morning it had been her wish to see the sunrise. The cold air lapped around her face and she closed her eyes. She allowed herself to be submerged by the atmosphere’s embrace. Her mind travelled to a time in the distant past. She recalled the house she was raised in: the old, rambling cottage in Port Talbot; sprawled on a hill. Nine years old, her legs worked then. A tom-lass, she’d loved running through the overgrown grassland or climbing up the oak, birch and ash. A laugh rose and rippled in her throat as she remembered their honey-coated Labrador chasing after her, drooling and wagging. Ringo Starr, he’d been called; after one of the members of the Beatles - her mother’s favourite rock band.

In the depth of her daydream, she was transported to the cycling accident that had taken her life. Sure, it’s true that physically she wasn’t dead, but the spinal injury had destroyed her life. Or at least, any life that was worth living. Her strength, her joie de vivre, her independence – all gone. ‘Her independence,’ she sighed heavily. Since the accident, it had been up to Martin to care for her. Ten years of routine that she no longer handled on her own. Never again would she be able to: brush her teeth, blow her nose, cook, dress up, or walk their dog – Millie. Even after ten years, she still had days like this… when she ached to be her old, able self. She longed to walk again away from her wheelie, as she affectionately called it – like the invalid in the bible who ‘got up and walked’ when Jesus gave the command ‘get up and walk’. If only.

‘You alright, love,’ Martin whispered from behind, rubbing her shoulders in a gentle massage.
Her eyes darted open. ‘Yes – yes. This spot is beautiful.’
‘A beautiful place,’ he echoed.
‘Martin,’ she began.
‘Uh-huh…’
‘I want you to help me with something.’
‘Go on…’ he changed his position and knelt in front of her.
‘I’d like to create a memory box. For the girls.’
‘We’ll have to tell them soon.’ Hs eye-lids drooped, and his head fell forward. Reminiscent of a sad clown, Laurie thought. But said nothing. Only turned her face away from his gaze. She didn’t want to think about it. Telling Poppy and Zahra, it would break their hearts. It would be hard on both of them. Twins, they were in their second term at Brunel. She imagined how they might react; probably, not dissimilar to Martin’s reaction.
‘Yes – I will have to find the time to tell them. First things first... I want to create a memory box for them.’ The thought of the project brightened her spirits and forced the other niggling, not-so-uplifting thought to the back of her mind.

Poppy called a few days later and Laurie asked if she and Zahra would visit during the long Easter weekend coming up. ‘I’ve got some important news to share with you both.’ It was a matter-of-fact request in her bid to keep the conversation light. ‘Is anything wrong?’ ‘No – no. Everything is fine. It’s nothing to worry about.’

After this phone call Laurie summoned the energy to begin creating her memory box. ‘I want every item to mean something,’ she told Martin, as they began rummaging through the boxes Martin had lugged down – almost twisting an ankle – from the attic. It was a time-consuming and tiring process. Martin held up each item. If Laurie shook her head in the negative, he returned it back in the box. When she said ‘perhaps’ he placed the item in Laurie’s hands. Sometimes, she would be silent and at other times she talked about the memories behind each article – resurrecting them from the buried years. Over the course of a month, she decided on her ten items. The diary she kept during her first year of marriage; a scrapbook she had created in secondary school; a pair or earrings that had been passed down from Grandma Alma; an empty locket her mother had given her on her sixteenth; a collection of short stories by Katherine Mansfield; and five journals filled with poems she’d written over the years. Martin, she told him, was to give Poppy and Zahra the box after she’d gone. She hoped that by leaving a part of her in this way, she would ease their pain somehow.

‘Zahra, you’ve lost a lot of weight,’ Laurie reproached when the younger twin stooped low to give her a hug.
‘Mum, don’t start,’ she giggled. ‘And, you’re looking great.’
‘Yes – I suppose I am,’ she winked, ‘I had my hair styled yesterday.’
‘Very chic, Mum,’ Poppy said, leaning over to give her a kiss.
‘How are things going with you both?’
‘Where’s dad?’ Zahra asked, as she arranged herself cross-legged on sofa.
‘Sorting out tea, I think.’
‘I’ll go and see if he needs a hand,’ Poppy said, vanishing to the kitchen, carried by her long lissom stride.

After their evening meal, Laurie decided to tell them. It was a staggered confession of sorts – her decision. She steeled herself as she watched each face drain its colour. She knew she had to hold it together – for her sake and theirs. Poppy was the first to speak.
‘I can’t believe what I’m hearing. I don’t believe what you’re saying.’
‘I know this will be difficult on all of you. But I’ve thought about it long and hard, and for me,' she paused, 'it’s the answer.’
‘To give up,’ Poppy half-shrieked. Her eyes flashed with fury and brewed with tears.
‘What would you have me do? To stay? Unhappy and useless?’
‘No – yes – I don’t know. To stay for us,’ she whimpered. A strained smile formed along Laurie’s lips as she noticed her daughter's clenched fist. From birth, Poppy had always been the stubborn and feisty character. As a baby, her trombone sounding lungs had always given clear guidance on her likes and dislikes. Not selfish exactly, just wilful. She wished she could reach out and stroke her daughter’s wet cheeks.
‘I have to do this,’ Laurie said resolutely, in no more than a whisper.
‘Dad, what do you make of all… all this?’ She threw her hands in the air, unable to find any other words. Three pairs of eyes gathered to stare at Martin.
‘It’s your mother’s decision. I – we – have to respect that,’ he said, uncrossing his legs. While he spoke, Laurie noticed how grey he looked. Like a wilted plant. A twang of guilt washed over her. Was this really the only way?
‘I agree with dad,’ Zahra said. It was the first time she’d spoken. ‘If it’s what Mum wants to do – we have to respect it.’ At this point, Poppy stood up and ran out of the room. In turn, Zahra came forward and knelt down to give her mother a hug.
‘I love you, Mum,’ she said, squeezing tight.
‘I love you all very much.’ Laurie said, kissing her daughter’s recently shampooed locks, ignoring their tickle on her nose and chin.
‘I’ll go and check on Poppy.’ She unclasped her arms and disappeared.

Later that evening, before Laurie turned in, she stood at the doorway watching Poppy and Zahra sleep. Lying in beds side-by-side in the room they had always shared. She heard Zahra’s gentle snore – purring rhythmically. Poppy, as she had done since infancy, lay curled up in a cat-curl deep under the duvet. Some things never changed.

The rest of the weekend had been difficult. Poppy remained moody while Zahra put on a brave face. On the Monday, the girls left to return to their lives in Middlesex. And as they were leaving, Poppy embraced Laurie and made a strange remark: ‘I won’t let you do this. I can’t and I won’t.’

Catherine Mark

I've decided to post this short story (WIP) that I'm working on... I have an ending in mind... but I thought it might be fun to see what endings my blog readers come up with:) Let me have your thoughts/ideas/comments... Thanks for reading!!!

SHORT STORY: Uncle Jock and the girl in the barn

2008-12-08T04:45:00.000-08:00

I blow a bubble of cloudy O on the window. Follow it with another, and another. Then, with my stubby, half-chewed finger I trail my initials through the mist formed by my mouth. The door slams. Mother enters the car. ‘Indigo,’ she barks, ‘why aren’t you wearing your seat belt?’ she says, casting a nervous glance in the front mirror. I struggle with the strap. Tug, tug. At last, it extends. I press the buckle in and it lodges with a click. Mum gives me a side glance before revving up the car. The engine sputters in the icy cold. Reluctantly, it springs to life. We are on our way to see Aunt Mavis and Uncle Jock.

Their cottage is nestled on a large farm in the Cotswolds. It is a grand dwelling brimming with wealth. Aunt Mavis and Uncle Jock don’t have any children. ‘Too busy making their millions,’ my mother would often TUT. There is a purpose to our visit today, but I can’t remember what it is.

When we arrive, Aunt Mavis and Uncle Jock meet us at the door. Aunt Mavis is looking immaculate, perfectly coiffed like Nicole Kidman in that perfume commercial. Although well presented, Uncle Jock – short and stout – looks awkward standing beside my aunt. Greetings and kisses are exchanged. Mother and Aunt Mavis head off to the kitchen while Uncle Jock mutters something about going for a walk. I decide I will explore the woodland around. ‘Don’t go too far,’ my mother says, disappearing down the hallway.

The trees stare solemnly while I stroll through their doorways. Their bare barks look bleak, barren. With each breath I exhale a conical cloud rises as it hits the freezing atmosphere. Even underfoot, the ground is glazed with ice. Temperatures had dropped to 2 degrees overnight. There is no plan in my mind as to where I am going. I just walk, ambling along a muddy frost-crusted path.

I don’t know when my feet stumble on a derelict barn. Non-descript, it resembles a shack. Even at this distance, I can tell that large chunks of the flat timber are rotten through – dead wood. My size-fives break a twig, surprising a black bird. It swoops off a branch and flies away. I watch until it becomes a black dot against the November mist. Averting my eyes back to level ground, I walk around the rectangular structure. I am quiet. I sense that I am intruding. On what, I do not know. That is, until I hear something – a whining sound. Like the whimpering noise cats make when they are sick, or suffering. I stop. Listen hard. Perhaps, I have imagined it. But it comes again. I lean against the wooden wall, as if wanting some sort of a camouflage. I wonder if I should make my escape. No – my curiosity gets the better of me. Now at the rear end of the barn, I move closer to the wide window, and crouch beneath it. I take a deep breath, trembling slightly: a mixture of cold, excitement, and fear. I count to ten before edging my body upwards. My eyes hover halfway then peer through the dust streaked panes. I blink, widen my eyes, and press my face against the window – flattening my nose. I see nothing; only the outline shadow of a pile of hay and a scattering of disused farming equipment. I stretch myself fully. A wave of disappointment drifts through me. There is no mystery here. In that moment of contemplation, in the stillness that envelops, I hear a strained, soft moan. Following the direction of the breathy whimper, I walk past the window and notice a loose panel – no longer overlapping – revealing a slit-hole. I peep.

Inside, there are two figures. First, I see the fresh, freckled face of a girl. Not much older than me. Thirteen? Fourteen? I cannot see her eyes, but the paleness of her skin tells me she is frightened. Her red curls are sprawled in a tangle on a bed of hay. She lies still; pinned down by a flushed fleshy mass. His back – a blanket of grey wiry hairs – faces me. I recognise the thinning patch on his head. He is still wearing the green pullover he greeted my mother and me with. My chest tightens. I cannot think what to do. Transfixed. I watch the rhythm of his bulge move back and forth. With each thrust a moan escapes; a cry of pleasure and power. 'Get up. Run.' The words ring in my mind - over and over. A sharp pain stings my chest, as I will the girl to move. She doesn’t. Stiff, stoic – she remains as silent as I am.

Catherine Mark

In this... I'm experimenting with the present tense (very much work-in-progress). Let me know what you think.

A lesson in God's wisdom (the hard way!)...

2008-12-02T03:06:00.000-08:00

Well, I’ve finally arrived at my temporary digs over the weekend (on Sat 29/11). For the next few weeks – until I complete the new term and as I await all my visa paperwork to come through – I will be sharing a lovely house with a primary school teacher. The move operation ran like clock-work. Three friends helped out with their three cars and we were loaded up and arrived at the other end by around 3:30 pm. However, it wasn’t an uneventful move with my landlords turning evil on me and threatening to withhold my deposit of almost £600 – for a moth ruined carpet caused by damp (possibly condensation). To say the least, I saw red – especially, as I have sought for months to highlight these problems (structural issues of poor insulation and ventilation with the house) with them, hoping that they would engage with the situation and find solutions to remedy the deteriorating condition of the space. Their plan: to allow me to continue in a false sense of security i.e. believing that they were fair, decent and Christian human beings – and, then on the date of my departure inform me that they would not be returning my deposit. This deposit of which every penny is accounted for! I was fuming – angered by their lecherous greed and pretty much fell apart. (Unfortunately, this is a failing of mine – whenever I get that angry, I am no longer able to muster up the ability to communicate in a reasonable manner – all my words choke in my throat or go jammy in my mouth – and, I often end up child-like in a flood of tears!) This encounter was no different (sigh). After accusing Mr and Mrs Evil of being ‘thieves’ I fell apart on the phone to Joel. It never ceases to shock and infuriate me when I encounter such manipulation and wickedness of this kind, or magnitude. How these people can live with their consciences when they blatantly endeavour to derail others (me, in this case) with their lies and untruths, I do not know!?! Joel often chides me that I need to develop a ‘thick skin’. I find it offensive to see this level of depravity fuelled by greed (in this situation). Then, I ask myself why am I surprised by the extreme acts of terrorists (note my blog entry below)? Okay, okay – perhaps, I’m being a tad melodramatic placing these two, Mr and Mrs Evil, in the same breath as terrorists – maybe… but, not so farfetched in that they fall within that spectrum of human nature that has the propensity to be sinful, to do wicked and cruel things. To be egocentric! To find myself on the receiving end of such ugliness is quite unpleasant. It’s not the first time and I know it will not be the last time. True, a part of me is sick and tired of fighting injustices of this kind. And I wonder whether the time, energy and money that I will expend should I take these two to a small claims tribunal – is it really worth it? The old adage comes to mind: choose your battles carefully. And, for me at this juncture in my life – preparing for my relocation to Oz – I don’t think this is a battle worth fighting. So, against all my principles, I decided to take the deal that was eventually offered to me yesterday (Mon, 1 Dec) at around 5 pm – they’ll take £100 and return the rest. Life is so unfair – but, at this point I feel that I just have to cut my losses and hope that Mr and Mrs Evil choke on every penny of the £100 (i.e. their greed).

In all of this, what has been the lesson? Funny you should ask. Well, I remember when I first saw the house and fell in love with it – quaint, and quintessentially English. Postcard perfect (on the outside)! I prayed so hard that I would get the lease on the house – pressing God not to let me down on this. If only I had allowed myself to LISTEN to God’s will and purpose as with regards to this house. He probably would have told me that although the house looked great on the outside – it wasn’t the house for me… because he would have known about all the internal problems with the place, and the evil landlords. But I wanted it my way… and twenty months on I have paid a heavy price! Yes – it pays to ‘wait on God and heed his voice’!

‘For the wisdom of this world is foolishness in God's sight. As it is written: "He catches the wise in their craftiness"…’ (1 Corinthians 3:19)!

Terrorism: An indictment of our generation

2008-11-28T05:04:00.000-08:00

Once again, the terrorists have struck. This time, in Mumbai. There was a period, in the distant past, when terrorist attacks were a rare occurrence. However, it seems that these tragic events have become a part of our human landscape, eroding our human psyche – to the extent, that we now see terrorist attacks as the norm. Like the media depiction of the malaise that blights the continent of Africa: corruption, war, disease – it has come to the point, where we (me included) observe terrorist assaults and are immune, immobilised by the onslaught unfolding on our TV screens. I confess, that the sense of outrage and injustice that I felt on the dawn of 9/11 (in America) diminished with 7/7 (in London), and has ebbed even more with 26/11 in Mumbai. Of course, I am angry… and think that these acts are depraved and wrong… but, somehow… with every additional act of terrorism on the world stage, I'm acutely aware that I am becoming desensitised, as a part of me responds to these affronts with: ‘It (terrorism) is one of those things: an evil that we have to live with, and contend with in this century’. I find it frightening that my response, so obviously lacking in zealous rage, is an indictment of our generation. In my mind, when things like this happen, I find myself numbed by the horror, fettered by my powerlessness – and, after I watch the mayhem on the streets (as people cling on to fragile life) of this commercial and entertainment centre of India – I do nothing.

Interesting site - The Changing Faces of Terrorism:
http://www.bbc.co.uk/history/recent/sept_11/changing_faces_01.shtml

Tinkering with a song!

2008-11-24T02:43:00.000-08:00

I am not much of a songwriter, but this composition kinduv' tumbled out of my soul as I walked to school this morning. There is a tune going round and round in my head... and, I'm hoping that one of my more musical friends will help me get the music down soon. Let me know what you think!

Jesus give me a faith…

Jesus give me a faith that is true,
That comes from you
Jesus give me a faith that is real,
That can heal

A faith that makes me walk on water
A faith that will never falter
A faith that can move mountains
A faith overflowing like fountains
…and sees you more clearly, loves you more dearly

Jesus give me a faith that is true,
That comes from you
Jesus give me a faith that is real,
That can heal

A faith that fills and possesses
A faith that fulfils and blesses
A faith that praises your name
A faith that raises my game
… to see you more clearly, and love you more dearly

Jesus give me a faith that is true,
That comes from you
Jesus give me a faith that is real,
That can heal

A faith that grants eternal wisdom
A faith that glorifies your kingdom
A faith that is strong in every decision
A faith that gives me Godly vision
…and sees you more clearly, loves you more dearly

Jesus give me a faith that is true,
That comes from you
Jesus give me a faith that is real,
That can heal (X3)

Lyrics written by: Catherine Mark-Beasant
Dedicated to: Joel Beasant (24/11/08)

Melbourne Beckons!

2008-11-23T04:37:00.000-08:00

Apparently, one of the top FIVE most stressful events (alongside divorce and death) is MOVING... and, boy don’t I know it! With an upbringing as a diplomat’s daughter (my father worked for the UN), MOVING is something that I am well accustomed to. As a child, we moved from Egypt, to Jerusalem, and then to Syria (which was my father’s final duty station). After boarding schools in Shropshire and then Kent, I went on to university in Virginia (US), and then returned to the UK to complete further studies in Hertfordshire. In adulthood, I have moved around a lot within the UK: London, Gloucester, and Birmingham. But now I am preparing for the biggest move of my life - a relocation to Melbourne, Australia - to establish house and family with hubby, Joel (who I married last July).

Despite the fact that I moved around a lot in my youth (which I did come to resent in my twenties), England has been home for 20 years or so... hence, this relocation to Australia is a huge upheaval. To be honest, it has taken me about a year to come to terms with this relocation; that is getting my mind and heart in the right frame of mind for such a mega move. However, now that D-Day is looming I feel my stress levels rising with all the things that still need to be organised between now and Jan '09. I finish my teaching term in four weeks, and around working fulltime, I am busy with packing up my current house to move into temporary accommodation until I fly out in Jan. To give you an idea of the things I’ve had to sort out in recent months: pack up all my books, CDs, photographs, bags, shoes, bike, etc. (38 boxes in all)... and put them in storage; sort out all my furniture, kitchenware, etc. and organise charity collections; and pack my suitcase for the move into my temporary digs. This week... I have arranged the final charity pickup, I will need to defrost the fridge, and then clean the entire house from ‘top-to-toe’... YIKES... so much to do, so little time. Well, I’ll be out of here on the weekend, and that will be such a HUGE relief. Then, it’s a matter of awaiting visas, organising my tickets for travel, and making arrangements to ship my things across.

I must say, that the way I have managed to keep my stress levels in check over the last few months is in the following ways:-
· Writing: I am working on some great short stories at the moment.
· Knitting: I have rediscovered knitting again in the last month (mum taught me how to knit when I was about 9 or 10 years), and I’m loving it. My current project is knitting a scarf for Joel.
· Scrapbooking: Yes – I’ve recently started a scrapbook, and again I’m enjoying the process of collecting my interests and memories in a collage.

Indeed, I am finding writing, knitting, and scrapbooking very therapeutic in keeping the ‘zin-zen balance’ of my soul. And of course, my friendships; daily walks to and from school; and lots of prayer is all part of what’s keeping me sane during this stressful juncture in my life.

Two nuggets of wisdom that I hold on to at this time:

God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change; courage to change the things I can;and wisdom to know the difference. Living one day at a time; Enjoying one moment at a time; Accepting hardships as the pathway to peace; Taking, as He did, this sinful worldas it is, not as I would have it; Trusting that He will make all things rightif I surrender to His Will;That I may be reasonably happy in this life and supremely happy with Him Forever in the next. Amen. (Reinhold Niebuhr)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Trust in the LORD with all your heartand lean not on your own understanding;in all your ways acknowledge him,and he will direct your paths. (Proverbs 3, 5-6)

The Obama Odyssey!

2008-11-08T05:46:00.000-08:00

Where were you when history was unfolding on the shores of America on the 4th of November 2008? On the other side of the Atlantic (here in the UK), I chose to watch on the BBC, minute-by-minute, the arrival of a new chapter in America’s history books. After an intense night, at around 4 am, the verdict was given. The American people (and indeed, the world) were rewarded for their desire for change and hope for a new and better future. The first black man, an African-American, was elected as president of this century’s leading superpower. Barak Obama has risen from obscurity to the global stage as the leader of the Western (free and democratic) world. It was a momentous victory that inspired pride and vision. Truly, it is rare occasions like these, which cause an outpouring of cliché and commentary. The media, minions, and millions across the globe were revelling in rhetoric such as: ‘dreams can come true’, ‘miracles do happen’, ‘fiction has become fact’, ‘the American dream concept (that long-held fantasy) has proved to be a reality’, and on and on. The cliché that continues to tumble out of my mouth in discussions with family, friends, colleagues, and even strangers, is: ‘I never thought I would live to see the day when a black man became president of America’. To be perfectly honest, I never perceived it, nor conceived it in the realm of my imagination. Not surprising, as I was raised in an era blighted by subtle and overt racial prejudices, encountered during my upbringing and schooling years in the Middle East, US and UK. In the main, for most of my thirty-seven years, I have been surrounded by the white populace (both in terms of my schooling and work settings). It is these white dominated environments that have been my daily truth, and fed my aspirations as a young black woman. Therefore, it never crossed my mind to dream or imagine that such an event could occur in this century, let alone in this decade.

For many black people born before the 80’s (I speak from my experiences), the truth of the plight of the black man globally, both in the first and third worlds, caused many to stop believing in the dream that one day a black man would ever have the ‘top job’. For most of the black masses in the West, the only grass-roots dream available to them is to: ‘survive life, have a good job, and raise a family’; in the developing nations, this dream is further muted. Decades of the deflowering of the black man has meant that the drive to dream for, and achieve the impossible has remained stifled, and a daily battle. Of course, countless many have continued the struggle in their various corners of the earth, be it as an activist in Australia, a teacher in England, a minister in South Africa, or a senator in America. Definitely, the face of the struggle that I talk about, is evolving: from slavery; to the right to vote; to equal rights at work; to what I would call, an eradication of the racist DNA that is endemic to the American gene pool (which of course, equally affects many other Western nations in a similar fashion). In light of this pervasive DNA, we cannot talk about an ‘ultimate victory’ for the black man at the entrance of President-elect Obama. However, what we can take away from this incredibly symbolic outcome is a shift in humankind that is moving from a place of discord and polarisation amongst racial communities, towards one of working towards greater unity and understanding. It is significant that Obama arrives at a pivotal moment in our times, to act as a key to bridging the divide between black and white, past and present, and play a vital role in moving people forward towards a post-racial American world.

In my time, I have witnessed three life-changing events of this magnitude, both incredible and incredulous: Nelson Mandela’s release and presidency in South Africa, the 9/11 bomb attacks, and now the election of the 1st black president of the United States. As an African and as a Westerner, I am proud to have played my part in the role of a witness to this historic event. Sure this is only the beginning, and the task that lies ahead for Obama is monumental in terms of rebuilding the wasteland that has been created by the Bush-Cheney years – particularly, in terms of the global economy, and international policy. In addition to this, he will encounter a lot of opposition from his critics (let us not forget that he won by only a slight majority, in terms of the popular vote), suffice to say that as he enters his term of office in the White House, he will in fact be entering a ‘lion’s den’ where many will seek to devour him. As a black man, he will have to work twice as hard as any of the 43 white presidents that have gone before him – to prove his promise of bipartisan and pragmatic leadership to the American people, and the world. It is unlikely that a term of four years will be sufficient to re-establish a paradise that recaptures the essence of the American Dream. However, in as much as, Obama faces a colossal task ahead, it is important not to minimize the symbolic victory that has been achieved by Obama because he has opened up the gates for people from every corner of the pigmentation spectrum, to make a bid not only for this ‘top job’ of presidency, but for top jobs in every aspect of industry and society. He has given people of colour (ethnic minorities) permission to dream again. Thus, his campaign manifesto ‘yes, we can’ has indeed raised the benchmark across the world!

Autumn's hope!

2008-10-16T03:51:00.000-07:00

Walking home from school yesterday evening as I waded through the river of golden brown leaves, it struck me that autumn has arrived. It never ceases to amaze me how after the wet rains of the English summer, autumn seems to appear unnoticed until we are captivated by the beauty of the changing leaves, especially when captured under a streak of autumn sunlight. It is a special season. One that is full of irony, in that as the leaves die and fall (producing much beauty to the eye) it whispers ‘hope’ and the promise of spring. We can take a lot of comfort from the changing seasons, in that there is a cycle to all things – life, death, pain, joy – everything has a season, as the book of Lamentations alludes to in its mantra: “There’s a time…”! Personally, I'm encouraged by the optimism that autumn brings because I'm at the cusp of entering into the next phase of my life. There is a lot of fear, anxiety and uncertainty, as I wait for things to unfold in God’s perfect will and time – but, I know that this season of ‘waiting’ will also come to completion. And for me the lesson is, that while I wait, I should look out for, and enjoy the nuggets of beauty occurring in my midst (even at this difficult time in my life); because every season has beauty to offer – it’s just a matter of our perceptions and how we view our difficulties and challenges from where we are at. I found this quote by an unknown author which sums up where I'm at: 'When the world says, "Give up,"Hope whispers, "Try it one more time." '

Goodbye little toe-nail...

2008-09-19T13:11:00.000-07:00

This evening I decided to trim my toenails, however, when it came to my little toe on my right foot – the entire toenail came off. Yikes!!! I must say, it looks very strange being toenail less on that foot, but I seem to be able to function without it. This got me thinking... what is the function or purpose of a toenail? On further reflection, it reminded me of some of the awful stuff that happens to us in life – sometimes there seems to be no rhyme or reason to these events... just like the toenail... seemingly, no rhyme or reason to this hard and translucent nail plate! But perhaps there is a purpose to it being attached to our human bodies... it’s just that I’ve no idea what it is!?! In the same way, it could be that some of our life struggles do have a purpose or function in our soul's journeys – even if we are unable to understand or decode them at the time (or ever)! Ah well, enough philosophising for one day. Oh yes, I’ve had a much better day... could be because it’s Friday and I’m craving a weekend of chilled out ‘me-time’! p.s. I do hope my toenail grows back (apparently it can take between 12 to 18 months to regrow).... hmmmmmm... one more thing to try not to worry about... (lol)!

One of those days...

2008-09-18T12:38:00.000-07:00

Not feeling my mojo today. Truth be told, I feel as if my sense of ‘inner calm and balance’ has taken a bit of a nose dive this past week. I can’t quite put my finger on it – although, I know that it’s probably not helped by a number of life stresses and pressures that are pressing in on my life. I had the day off today due to hospital appointments all morning at Heartlands (I’ve got a follow-up appointment in two weeks). Nothing serious, just keeping tabs on the progress with my health! On returning from the hospital, I’ve been in bed pretty much for the remainder of the day. I’m feeling really achy and shattered – physically, mentally and emotionally. I slept a bit, but I’m finding that my sleep in recent days is not at all refreshing – because of the life concerns burdening on my mind – I’m having loads of restless nights. I’m resisting going back on the anti-depressants. Personally, I’m so ANTI being on anti-depressants -something about me feeling relinquished to the status of ‘failure’ for not being able to manage my mental and emotional health without them – even though, I must admit they have helped me in the past. Two significant periods that I’ve been on anti-depressants for a period of time, include: first, in 1996 after my Masters degree, I went through a particularly difficult time, and I was on them for about six months; the second occasion, is this year in coming to terms with a number of life-changing issues that have affected me deeply since July 2007. Anyway, I stopped taking my current prescription - which I've been on since the beginning of the year - about a month ago, thinking that I was over the worst of it (whatever 'it' might be) - maybe not!?! Thank goodness, I meet up with my counsellor tomorrow (Fri 19th Sept). It’s meant to be our final session – but I may need to request for more sessions. I get so frustrated when I think things are looking up and then, again and again, I come crashing down! Hopefully, all this fog that I’m in will pass. Well, life's getting busy again – in terms of my writing courses start back up next week – and maybe that focus will help me get back on track with ‘being and living’. It’ll be good to get back into some serious writing, with regards to my poetry and prose after a lull over the summer. Incidentally, I came across a great tune on You Tube today titled: It’s your love (Tim McGraw & Faith Hill). Funny, how a song can make you smile or weep depending on how you’re feeling inside. With my mojo gone (fingers-crossed, not for too long!), on listening to the song (several times today)... I wept. But, it’s still a great little tune! p.s. started reading Salmon Fishing in the Yemen (Paul Torday) - so far, so good...!

Does the tortoise win the race?

2008-09-15T12:16:00.000-07:00

Sunday, 7th September... it was an exhilarating feeling to complete the Adidas 5K Challenge – albeit a power walk – in 47 minutes! I recall that I did the London 10K Run (about ten years ago) in about the same time – however, back then I was fitter and healthier and in fact I completed the course in a run. Nevertheless, after the battles I’ve had with my health in recent years – which has indeed affected my fitness levels – it was a great personal achievement to complete the course in the time that I did it in.

Despite the drizzle and grey weather it was fantastic to see the commitment of so many women who came out to complete the Adidas 5K Challenge in support of their sponsored charities. An incredible buzz infused the atmosphere during the mega warm-up session with a fitness team. All revved up and rearing to go, the race started earnestly at 10:30 am. The serious runners began the race from the right lane, and both power and casual walkers commenced on the left lane. The serious runners completed the challenge in record times, and I believe that the first place runners ran the race in fifteen minutes flat. The rest of us had up to two hours to complete the challenge. As I’ve mentioned I completed mine – with a fellow power-walk partner (who I met on the day) – in forty-seven minutes. The course was a relatively flat and direct route which catered to all abilities of runners, joggers, walkers, and even those with visible disabilities; for example, I spotted a lady in a wheelchair, and there was another blind lady who completed the course with her sighted helpers.

There were many highlights to the event. One of the more rewarding experiences on the day was the sight of all the charities on a rainbow-colour display of T-shirts sported by women of all creed, colour, shape and size – a beautiful montage to both the multitude of charities represented, and the sisterhood of womankind. I stood amongst many, playing my part to raise money and awareness for my chosen charity: Action Aid. Each step I took – inspired by the support of many colleagues, acquaintances, and friends – led to the fulfilment of both a personal and charitable endeavour. And although I’d made the decision to participate in this Adidas 5K Challenge around June, it wasn’t until the beginning of August that I began fundraising in earnest for the event so it’s been such a satisfying accomplishment to have fundraised nearly £250 in a month. Hoorah!!! Definitely... this has very much been a team effort and success – namely, the combined effort of all those who’ve supported me financially and/or in prayer – in contributing to the work of Action Aid.

My sense of achievement from this challenge has given me the impetus to continue to improve my fitness levels, and look ahead to perhaps a bigger challenge next summer – again to help with raising money for Action Aid, and in particular their HIV/AIDS work. Many of you may not have been able to support me financially in this endeavour, but I hope all of you will stay connected with my news/blogs – and may feel inspired to sponsor me in future events of this kind that I may engage in as I (with your help) strive to ‘be the change I want to see in the world’ (Ghandi).

Once again, huge thanks to everyone for all your support with helping this tortoise win her race!

Digging deeper!

2008-09-15T11:55:00.000-07:00

This weekend (Sat 13th & Sun 14th Sept) I undertook a WORKSHOP course titled: Creativity & Life. It was an incredibly challenging, and thought-provoking course helping us to explore a myriad of ideas and concepts e.g. one area we looked at was – the imagination, wonder, playfulness in Jesus-centred spiritual growth. I found the course contained great insights and revelations – in my opinion, quite revolutionary – as to helping me think deeply as to seeing a more robust picture of the nature of God through Jesus. As I've said, I found it to be an incredibly challenging course and I look forward to attending other courses being offered by www.workshop.org.uk in the future.