she built a blanket fort

So I have an edit for you - my blanket fort poem, now complete with a photo! Elou from ElouCarroll Photography, also known as KeyChild, helped me bring my poem to life. The "blanket fort" was constructed, the fairylights strung, and the red balloon aquired. And Elou added the magic :)

in a blanket fort constructed from fragile sheets of securities,
padded out inside with cushions of collected comforts,
the little girl curls in the love-light of the lamp through the fabric
and puts her hands over her ears to block out the rage of reality.
if she squeezes her eyes shut in her creatively constructed cocoon,
bites her lips together and hums a childhood lullaby,
the notes will add a throbbing bass of bars to her security.
she's hiding from the adult road to adolescence,
the years of awkward promised pretence before a foothold is found.
in her childish dreams she doesn't have to walk that way.
she thinks she's found a safe-place, and so she sings in her sleep.
tangled between her fingers she holds the string of a red balloon.
her gift to her grandchildren. if she can hold it that long.
the fairy lights above her head pretend to be stars.



<3

Quick post - No. 8

A little piece of magic.

From here.

Night drive.

It's like flying. In the dark, the lights speed past me like a stream of living stars. Between the warmth of two bodies, staring with wide eyes at the night in front of us, I pull my knees up under my chin and watch with wonder in my eyes at the misapplied beauty of the highway. In front of me, pairs of red lights scatter and skip. Like the eyes of some strange beasts, they back away as we advance. We follow them and weave between them as though we are one of them.
In my pocket of soothing music I feel as though I no longer exist. With my view between the seats and the images rushing towards me, and the movement I can feel through the windows on either side, the sensation of motion is enough to pull me from my body and deposit me in a place of sound and sensation that lulls me into a wide-eyed sleep. I sit with my arms wrapped around my legs, and rest my chin on my knees. Even as I relax, still and quiet, I am tearing through the night with the stars.

And the only thing that keeps me from flying off with the tide of lights is the flickering movement that jumps to catch my attention as my companions shift and move and shuffle next to me.

Camden Market.

The scent of incense. This place needs a ghost. But wait... I think I can see one. A dark shadow, a simple human shape. She steps silently over the flagstones. Brushing past the visitors, the stall owners, the tourists. Although part of me wants to wipe the slate clean of modern influences, to wash the canvas clean of this century's clothing, to rub away the imprints of our culture's footprints, another part realizes that the mix of now and then, the collision of the periods, and the compilation of evidence of the ages, is what makes this tapestry so bright, so attractive. And this ghost of a figure beckoning me through them seems to fit in with both.

But does the camera move towards the modern? Nope, it is the antiques that catch my attention. I gasp as I turn from one corner to the next, my delight making my heart beat fast and my cheeks flush. The shape I am following clasps metal bars between her two hands and stares through them at the collection of the past. She trails her hands along the keys of a piano covered in music sheets. She stops to study a wall of old suitcases. She spins in the shattered light reflected off the mirrors stacked in a locked room. I follow her in a daze. It is only when I pause to look at the photos I have collected that I lose her.







But by then I am in a different realm. The taste of piracy is in the air. Silver fob watches spin on thick chains. Flattened bottles laze on a black table, cupping glass beads. Oh, do we covet. But within all these treasures we find... perfection. One each. We hold them in our hands as if they are made of fairy dust, and clutch them to our bodies as though they are living and breathing: A chance corner leads us to colour. Thick, smooth, durable leather, bound around notebooks and decorated with tarnished metal. KeyChild finds her dream, in the shape of a purple leather notebook with a brass coloured key and heavy cream pages. She holds it as though she'll never let it go. A few meters later and, still clutching her prize, she points out a white-lit stall. Lined with heavy vases, it glitters in the light. From its ceiling are hung dozens of sparkling glass creations. Birds, magpies, flying horses, fish, faires; all spinning and glinting. I am filled with awe. And BlueBird finds her beauty, in the form of an aqua glass bird, with a dark head and wings uplifted in flight. I cup it in my palms as though a breath of air would wake it, and lift it, fluttering, from my fingers. Before the day had even properly begun, we had found our inspirations.

Austin Kleon.

Austin Kleon is a poet-of-a-kind. He 'writes' by blacking out passages from newspapers. Click the links to have a look, I've picked out some of my favourites.
Deborah reminds me of my KeyChild. Replace the name "Deborah" with her name, and we have an almost perfect description. I'm sure many other writers out there feel the same way. Home Alone makes me smile, cause I know exactly how that feels. And Fireflies is almost a perfect memory in a few words...
I've been challenged by my Little Black Book (a gift from KeyChild) to create a few of my own. Only problem is, I have nil newspapers in the house. Will a magazine do..? I shall have to try it and see. Some of my attempts will be up here soon enough, I predict.

The Mad Hatter's Tea Party!

The Caterpillar came with bubbles instead of a pipe, and spent the afternoon drinking red nectar from a teacup. The White Rabbit was at one point spotted up a tree, and ended up marrying the Queen of Hearts. The Dormouse didn't fall asleep once, and was the children's favourite during our stroll through town to our Tea Party area. The Queen of Hearts left felt hearts almost everywhere she went, and beheaded everyone at least twice. The March Hare was shockingly late, and transformed before our eyes from normality to apparent insanity. Alice finally caught the White Rabbit, and even remembered the prizes for the Caucus Race.
The Mad Hatter danced with wild abandon across the grass, scattered invitations left and right, and was wished a Happy Birthday by three complete strangers. Silly people. Did they not know it was my Un-Birthday..?

Kudos to you, my old friend, whose idea it was to celebrate an Un-Birthday in such a way. I can still feel the cold touch of my teacup handle and the jolt of each and every *Clink!*. I can still see the colour and variety of the costumes and the laughter on every face. I can still hear the cries of "Taaaaaart!" and the terrible puns that circulated. I can still taste the strawberry jam and the pink icing on the cupcakes.

Here is an offering: Snapshot images of parts of a Mad Hatter bedecked in black and grey and blue, and covered in buttons and ribbons and lace.

Fob watch - an early Birthday present - and waistcoat.



Hat! An awkward angle, but there it is.



An old pair of black heels, especially decorated.



Finally, here she is. Dancing in bare feet on sun-dry grass, the Queen of Heart's fan in one hand.



For once in my life, I had a real excuse to go completely mad. I loved every minute of it.

"... Auntie's wooden leg, Auntie's wooden leg! Dee da, dee da, Auntie's wooden leg..."

I saw you today.

I'm on my feet. Heat against bare legs so
oddly out of place; sun bright spotlights your
brown hair and white shirt. That unique walk. Oh, I do
remember. Sheepskin coat. River. White cotton soft.
Three notice my movements and misinterpret them.
They don't see you. But I do.
Sunglasses shield my eyes- and my identity?
Maybe with long hair and baggy shirt and clear eyes
I could have caught you. Dark curls between cold fingers.
I watched as you walked out of sight, away from me.
Busy bodies and open mouths and coloured words.
They don't see you. But I do.

Meeting.

And there she is. Black shape against the grey, crumbling wall. A smile spreads across my face. Her head is bent over her phone and her bag is at her feet. It's been, what, two months? Feels like so much longer; it's funny how slowly time goes when you're waiting for something. And suddenly I can see the end of college ahead of me, and the start of summer, and the days and nights and weekends with those I love. No longer just a wish, but a slowly approaching reality.

The relief is crippling. In two weeks this will all be over. A new set of responsibilities, but a new, beautiful freedom.

She lifts her head and returns my smile. Hello, summer.

Persona.

She stands next to me. A shadowed silhouette against the bright light, her face and hour-glass figure in perfect profile. The fingers of one gloved hand rest gently on the brim of her top hat; playing cards and a long peacock feather tucked into the band. The high collar of a ruffled cream blouse rests against her neck, the top buttons open to show an ornate brass key on a double chain, heavy against her skin. Black cinch, laced up at the back, with a gold pattern; a Celtic swirl that dizzies the eye and confuses the mind. A heavy Victorian-style skirt sweeps over her hips, in a cut that sits above her knees at the front, but curves down in flouncing bustles to a trailing train at the back. Lace tights lead down to brown boots, laced at the front and buffed to a shine. The only sound is the tick tick of the fob watch pinned to her waist.
She turns. Slowly. Her hand flickers through the air and a crimson rose appears in her fingers. Blue eyes soft behind the glint of her glasses. The tangled chains of her many necklaces clink as she moves. A twist of her wrist and from the point where her lace glove meets the tight cuff of her shirt, a purple ribbon slicks out and flutters through the air, the gold letters on its surface shining in the light, “… fact and fantasy.” The rise of violin music and an arc of her arm sweeps her hat from her head and she bows low, one foot elegant in front of the other. The ribbon sinks to the floor. The dark lips curve in a smile. “My dear.”

Steampunk

So. A series of photos (depending on how many I can fit in here) taken by myself and a friend on a trip to a Steampunk exhibition. Some of the stuff we found was absolutely wacky. Amazing ideas... Some of it was so pretty... Like the three clocks which made us feel decidedly covetous.

You too?

Well, it seems I am not alone in my emptiness.
She sits, as I do, at her keyboard, and the beauty of her mind turns the feelings into words that can allow her to pour out her pain onto the page and perhaps, just perhaps, ease the tightness and relax her emotions.
Some people talk about it. Some people hide it. Others, like us, the WordOnes, write it down.

I have nothing in particular to remind me today. Only the lingering hurt that crouches like a small child just under my ribs. Every now and again it uncurls itself and stretches arms and legs and body to reach far down into my stomach and up to the base of my neck. It sighs and my throat tightens. It sighs and my shoulders tense. It sighs and my fingers twitch. In my momentary panic I obey it's commands and I feel the fear rise up through my gullet to stain my tongue with the bitter taste of soured truth. Such power this small child has.
But sometimes the elf that brings to mind such saturating memories also brings a slight relief. With a laughing word she cuts a cord and it flicks back to sting at my skin and release a breath full of thanksgiving. A Uni course. A healthy body. A job. With each tiny bit of news she unlocks a further portion of my tiny hidden cage and lets out a little more freedom. The relief is incredible.
And then suddenly all the doors slam shut. A punch in the stomach. A thud round the side of the head. A broken rib. She didn't mean it, I know. She didn't know.

Does she have a place she goes? Or a place she avoids? Is her music disunited and segmented as mine is? We take refuge in our loved ones. But when all else fails we return to our writing. What else is there to do? We are the WordOnes.