Further adventures in Surreality

Well, when I was weeding this morning, I started thinking about my heroine's first sexual experience, as posted yesterday.
And the more I thought about it, the more ideas I had... so when I had a coffee break, I took out my pencil and note book and wrote some more of the scene.
and then, when I was weeding the path, I started thinking about vol 2, and coming up with a few ideas for that... like...
- a lesbian relationship
- a time as concubine (along with her lesbian lover) to a rich merchant
- the unwitting seduction of her long lost nephew
- the unwitting seduction of her lesbian lover's long lost son... at the same time as the nephew? Well, that wasn't what I had in mind, but.. what the hell
Amazing what a bit of fresh air and sunshine can do

Before...

And after...

Now, THAT'S cute
Her first car

Sunday, 09 December 2007 6:19 AM

She felt his breath against her neck, the warmth of his lips close to her ear.
‘You know me, as I know you.’
His hands were on the crude stubble of her head, the softness at the nape where the hair was growing back. They moved down over the stiff leather of her tunic. Gently, he undid the fastenings and her body emerged from its crude shell. Gently, he lifted the stained linen shirt over her head. Gently, his hands unwrapped the bands of fabric pressing against her breasts, then bent his head to kiss them.
The tingle which passed through her body from that contact focussed the frustration of the last few months into a craving for something she had not understood until this moment. Anticipation thrilled through her as his hands moved down to the waist of her leggings, carefully untangling the drawstrings, with no haste or urgency, his hands now cupping her naked buttocks as his mouth moved back up again towards her face. The urgency was all hers, as she clumsily turned her mouth to his, not knowing what to expect.
He released her delicately onto the bed where she lay smiling and watched as he removed his own clothing. Now he was beside her, and her mouth found his again, her hands against the firm flesh of his back.

Well, that’s a start! Nor sure I want to say too much more. ‘Draw a veil’ I think is the expression. I don’t know what that might read like, I don’t want to say anything more explicit, but I don’t want to leave it out, there has to be something. I seem to have got away with the first rape, anyway, and I didn’t know how I was going to describe that. That was easier I suppose because of the tension in it. This is just a bit too nice. But hasn’t everyone been there? Doesn’t everyone know how that felt? I don’t want to be crude about it, but given her history I had to describe it somehow. Maybe a lot will hinge on how I describe her relationship with the other chap. How that builds. We will see.
But I don’t think I need to write too much more than that, just the circumstances leading up to it, and then perhaps what is said afterwards. Or maybe not too much needs to be said. Does she know that he will go away and this will be it?

... I won't be blogging.
Because I'll be...
,,,in PARIS!!!
Now, come on,
That HAS to be an improvement...
... doesn't it???

Be sensible.
Act your age.
Everyone agrees.
That's the only way.
What alternatives
Can there be?
The brandy bottle?
Not a good plan.
So drink........
..........decaf?
That's the best way.
Read a good book.
Eat chocolate.
Watch 'Heartbeat'.
(No, nothing
could be that desperate.)
Never think
Of how it could have been.
Act your age.

What is my age?

So... Hubby's going to be late.
So late, he rang up when we were eating dinner (our daughter and I) and said (to her, not me), not to leave it in the Aga, because by the time he gets home it will be dried up, so take it out and he'll just microwave if he wants it...
And what difference does it make? No different from any other night this week. so why should I care? Because every other night this week I've been out when he got home anyway...
So, I could go down to the pub, and chat to our daughter, who is working there tonight, but it would only embarrass her...
And I've drunk the brandy, and half the wine, and maybe I'll drink the other half, because, really, is he going to want it?
And if he was here, he'd be downstairs, watching the telly. And I'd be up here, blogging, or in the other downstairs room, reading, and what difference would it make?
And really, I don't care. And that's what bothers me. Because I should.
Should, should, should.
I'm sick of should.

Delta

Waking
Stream of consciousness
On a sleeping
Street of dreams

Thoughts
Like scattered leaves
Slowed in midfall
Into the streams

Of fast running rivers
Of choice and chance
And time stops here on the delta
While they dance, while they dance

I love the child
Who steers this riverboat
Lately he`s crazy
For the deep

And the river seems dreamlike
In the daytime
And someone keeps thinking
In my sleep

About fast running rivers
Of choice and chance
And time stops here on the delta
While they dance, while they dance

David Crosby

Now I REALLY must get on with some work

‘How does it feel to be/One of the beautiful people?’ popped into my head this morning, I think it’s from the Beatles’ song, ‘Baby you’re a rich man’.
That phrase, ‘the beautiful people’, was used a lot when I was a youngster, to describe (I think without irony, though maybe I was just too young to recognise it as such), the kind of people who these days would be referred to, rather disparagingly, as ‘A-listers’.
A few names, plucked randomly from the air: Julie Christie, Terence Stamp, David Hemmings, David Bailey, Marianne Faithfull, Jean Shrimpton, Faye Dunaway, Jimi Hendrix, Steve McQueen (OOOOHHHH, just typing his name still gives me goosebumps!), Oliver Reed, George Best, Bobby Kennedy (when he was still with us – or even afterwards), Jackie Onassis, Omar Sharif. Impossibly, ridiculously glamorous people. And closer to home, my brother and his friends, and girls at school with breasts and lipstick.
I never aspired to be like any of them – how could I? They were beings from another world, gods and goddesses.
Maybe it’s just age and cynicism, but I can’t think of anyone in today’s ‘celeb’ culture who comes even close to having that air of wonderfulenss and unreality. Except, possibly, Johnny Depp, before he started taking the piss out of himself as Jack Sparrow.
Come to think of it, the song was full of irony. But then, ironically enough, I don't think I would include any of the Beatles themselves in my list.
Maybe Eric Clapton though. And Roger Daltry. But NOT Pete Townsend.

No one listens.
No one speaks.
What is there left
To say?
Love dies
And life is empty.
Who can speak
Of that?
Who would want
To hear?
The world turns.
Where is it going?
Better not to ask
.

What is this place
That life has brought me to?
I look around
And wonder where I am.
And yet I rise each day
And try again.
Perhaps today
Will be the day
When something changes.

... of what a beautiful voice David Crosby had (has?), no matter how raddled and abused his body.

So badly, I must cry out loud:
'I am lonely...'

Can't know the fears,
That your elders grew by.
And so please help them
With your youth,
They seek the truth,
Before they can die...

Don't you ever ask them why,
If they told you, you would cry,
So just look at them and sigh...
And know they love you.

Why did I think
I could spend my life
With you?

I thought you were
A good man
(Which you are.)
And a kind man,
(Which you are).

I thought you’d be
A good Dad,
(Which you were,
And are).

I thought that you,
Would listen to my thoughts,
And dreams.
Would talk to me,
Would help me through
The times to come.

But now it’s only us,
Why do I feel
This emptiness?
This loneliness?
What is there left
For me?
And is it wrong of me
To ask?

I went for a routine, regular cervical smear this afternoon.
So, I’m lying there, naked from the waist down (apart from my toe socks, naturally), with my knees in the air, making casual conversation (as you do), with the nurse, while she pokes around and gives me a running commentary, viz:
‘Can’t see what I’m doing... that’s better, a bit more light on the subject… hmmm... sorry this is taking so long, but.. I can’t find... ooh, there it is – sorry, my thing’s a bit wobbly, still can’t quite get it in there.. oh, here we go… hmmm... have you ever had children , at all?’
‘I’ve had two caesarians’ (I could see the way this conversation was going...)
‘Oh, that explains it then...
It’s just that...
It’s all very NEAT in there’.

Now, I’ve had a few compliments in my time, about various parts of my anatomy (even, I must admit, about THAT one), but I have to say...
That’s probably the most BIZARRE one it’s ever been my privilege to hear!
Still, at least it made me smile

* A handbag, cardi and necklace, bought by me on Hubby’s credit card and handed over to him to wrap (it’s the best way…)

* A mug with a picture of a cat, a mug with a picture of a penguin, and a cuddly penguin from daughter and boyfriend (they went to Whipsnade zoo on Saturday - and before they went I told them that was the place where my love affair with penguins began - when I was 18 months old!)

* The new REM CD from son (supposedly their best for 10 years… it’s a rocky one, like ‘Monster’, I prefer their sweeter, more reflective songs, like on ‘Automatic for the People’, but I’m sure it will grow on me)

* A tea pot with a cartoon on the side and the caption: ‘Instant human, just add tea’ (VERY appropriate)

* A bottle of Campari – yum! (to sip on the patio on those long, summer evenings – which WILL come)

* Lots of books – including volumes 5-8 of the Niccolo series by Dorothy Dunnet (they’re out of print, so I’m collecting them all then I will read them right the way through – so far I’ve only read the first one, and that was 12 years ago)

not a bad haul

oooh, and I nearly forgot:

* Coupon for a free box of Lindor truffles, from Mr Sainsbury!

I can't upload piccies any more!
the Polish toy boy pushed me to the limit
To see my photos from now on, you'll have to visit Cass
http://cassandra-of-troy.blog.co.uk/2008/04/07/beautiful-spring-afternoon-4009334

See you there!

I have said in the past that I don't really do telly any more.
the exceptions that I concede being Dr Who and the old movies they wheel out at Christmas.
Well, it was the start of the new series of Dr Who tonight.
And I recorded it, because we were eating dinner (and washing up) when it was being shown.
So, I've just watched it.
And I thought...
I spent 40 minutes of my life, doing.... THIS????
when I could have... I don't know... had sex 3 times????
Or sat in front of the computer and typed drivel into the ether?
You know something?
Life is DEFINITELY too short for that.

Recently, I keep coming across the name 'Melinda'.
It's not just Kaimi Achava's friend with the wandering ear (ouch!)
I'm mentioned in the first line of a song by the Grateful Dead (Cumberland Blues), as I discovered when I transferred their 'Europe 1972' album from vinyl to my computer.
I looked it up on youtube, but couldn't really find a decent video - most of them are covers by rather dubious looking people (apart from a nasty one of men cutting up whale meat, which I don't really understand).
There's also a song called 'Brown eyed women' on the same album.
and I didn't know they cared

A couple of weeks ago I blogged a rough sketch of a poem. I tend to go for free/blank verse, because for me the emotion always takes priority, and I think if you’re trying to come up with a rhyme, that can detract from it and distort it. I don’t have anything against rhyming poetry per se, and if it works for you, that’s great, I admire people who can do it, but it’s not something that works for me very easily.
But it happened that there was a bit of a rhyming pattern at the end of my recent poem, and I thought, maybe I should take it as a kind of exercise in trying to write something that would rhyme. Especially as, at around the same time, La-spice suddenly burst into blank verse, and I thought, if she can try something different, so can I.
So, here it is. It turned out to be in rhymed couplets, iambic pentameter (which is a rhythm I tend to fall into naturally if there is any structure to my poems at all). Eight pairs of lines, which fall into two sets of 4. some of them are a bit Hallmark, I may try and work on it some more, I’m not sure, depends whether or not it will leave me alone now. If I took out one of the couplets (I’d probably go for the 6th or 7th, they’re not necessarily the weakest but they would do least to disturb the flow of the rest), it would be a sonnet. Don’t think I’ve ever written a sonnet before!
And it still doesn’t have a title.

What do you think of me when I’m not there?
To conjure up an image from the air?
The image of a woman in your dreams,
A woman who can be just as she seems.
The one who answers to your wishes, thoughts,
And fantasies. Whose words, forever caught,
Within the hidden circles of your mind,
Will be the one you always hoped to find.

But what about the woman you don’t see?
The shadow who is waiting to break free?
The one who lives outside of words we share,
Who wanders through the hours when you’re not there?
Who grieves for that which she can never hold,
Whose story is a secret never told.
And do you think of me? Can I believe?
Or is it just myself that I deceive?

© Melinda Belynda, March 2008