Fur of Gold

I own a fur of gold, one that cannot be put on or taken off, that cannot, like a garment, be loosely draped round shoulders, then later thrown aside when it gets too warm, too stifling to wear.

What could this fur be?

It cannot be seen at all times of day – in the dark of night nor when skies turn grey, unless a god – in fury or exaltation – lights them up, with blinding flashes and tremendous forks, thrust to the ground like weapons.

What could this fur be?

In summer it helps to keep me cool, in winter warm, but cannot protect against a blazing sun or chill north winds. Or rains that come, light and sharp, to sprinkle crops and saturate the earth. My flesh where covered by this golden skin is always visible, and vulnerable.

What could this fur be?

To be perceived it has to wait for Dawn to mount her glowing throne. Or for candlelight or unnatural light to pick it out; I'm not sure about the moon. Only if that light is steadfast is its full effect on view, for all to see.

What could this fur be?

In light, any shade of light – low-beamed or bright – individual hairs, brushed flat or raised, seek distinction. Some short, some long, some wiry. A few dark, some bronze, most gold. And soft when stroked, like the pelt of a young animal, or fuzz on a peach.

What could this fur be?

Robed, it's as if I've been dipped in gold, face to back. A fine gold dust for the front and gold leaf for the back, from the shoulder blades downwards, and only stopping before the tail bone. And so creates a gold-tipped torso, which Pallas Athena, the queen of plunder, might envy.

What could this fur be?

All below that point, beyond the coccyx, is smooth, smooth as marble, and the same tone of that stone, too, and shot through with thread veins of purple and blue. Royal colours. The buttocks, thighs, calves, ankles and feet unshielded by fur of any sort.

What could this fur be?

It is though light to wear, not strong; nor does it suggest it could be, like chain-mail or armour, if worked right. It would never prevent a spear or arrow piercing tender flesh, nor a sword ripping through the body.

What could this fur be?

But it can be plucked and trimmed. Or shaved. Stripped away and burnt. Though the regrowth may come in more prickly than down-like, as well as, possibly, a dirtier shade of gold that cannot be polished by the sun's rays.

What could this fur be?

A fur like this is hard to find; and yet not prized by any that admit to being in possession of such a wondrous coat. Though those darker in colouring say those fair in skin should thank the gods, any gods they can think of, that may have had a hand, in weaving it for them.

What could this fur be?

The gift of a golden fleece can mean you're favoured among the gods, or that one particular god champions (and defends) you. But if you've been so blessed then you're closely observed and dealt out tests as well as spoils, all whilst Father Zeus gazes down from his ridge on Ida.

Could this fur be that?

A splendid coat won. In battle or plunder. Loosened from a felled, and rare, beast with a fur as brilliant as golden wheat-fields when the sun's set high, and rewarded by immortals to mortals, to mark them out.

Could this fur be that? The sun rays, the sharpest eyes in the world say not.

Then, what in the world could this fur be?

Hirsute. 

Picture credit: Portrait of Adele Bloch Bauer, 1907, Gustav Klimt (source: WikiArt).

All posts published this year were penned during the last.

And So it Begins

I live in terror of the years ahead.

I try not to let that thought slip in, to catch me off-guard. If it does I push it away and concentrate on the day, the day as it unfolds, because if I don't I'll crumple. Just for a moment, though long enough for my face to end up looking like a sodden tissue. You know, like one of those thin and silky single sheets pulled from a cube or rectangular box that sit on a reception desk or coffee table, and are proffered to clients, or guests, to blow their nose or wipe away a mascara smudge. And disintegrate, when wet or used too roughly, into nothing; shreds. That then leave white tufts on clothing which you keep finding and picking off, seemingly forever. That exercise in itself, should you be somewhere where such a tissue might be offered, is enough to stem the waterworks though perhaps not a sniffing nose.

I prefer handkerchiefs myself, those dirty, germ-spreading cloths that doctors now so despise, because they're softer and perfect for cleaning specs. Knickers work just as well, better even, but you can't really, for decency's sake, carry a pair on you, or you'd die of public mortification if you forgot and unearthed an old cotton bikini, from your handbag, to give your glasses a rub; polishing each lens as if raising a genie. But at home, they serve. As does the back of a sleeve for a snotty nose and wet piggy eyes.

I did not, however, launch upon this subject to discuss knickers or tissues. Or the usefulness, multi-purposefulness of long sleeves, and apron hems.

And being terrified doesn't always result in tears, it means worries and fears; fears of what I will have to confront. Fears that will come to pass, not those that might or might not happen. Fears that were once far away but have now moved closer. Like a fairy tale that begins happily and gets grimmer.

You've very wise (I can sense that about you) as yes, you're right, there's plenty I'm not (yet) saying; I'm delaying, because well, it's both selfish and hard. The fear, that paralyses me before it's even occurred, is greater than people realise. And besides, I don't tell, preferring to brush it under the rug that creeps across the living room floor, since it's something we will all have to find our own way through, at the appointed hour (as Death decrees it), unprepared.

Nothing prepares you for loss. Actual loss. The reality of it can't be compared to the contemplation of it, and yet contemplation is all I have. At this present hour. And that leads to fear. That this loss, when it comes, will be too great for me to bear. An only child, finally (and entirely) alone. With no other to help me shoulder my grief.

It's not for that I live in horror of: being lonely, because that would be really self-absorbed and my own company has never been an issue; it's the loss of that triangular relationship – parents and child – or the dynamics of it changing from that to one parent and child. It's the loss of them: one and both.

Because it's reached a stage when, although my parents are in reasonable health, it's more possible for it to happen. For a decline to appear. For a slowed downwardness to be evident. For their age to be more noticeable. To them and me.

Mostly, it's a subject I think about and only broach flippantly. So it feels weird being more candid here. And especially since I know they'll read this, though they're aware my mind leaps ahead, magnifies fears that haven't yet arrived, or can only be spied, as a dot, on the horizon. I'm not addressing this here to cause them worry. No, my aim was to communicate the bond and the anguish that will occur when it's severed, but I find the words to do so have deserted me. The years that remain will never be enough, nor as ripe with childlike unconcern, so that like Agamemnon I'm sorely tempted to utter a similar brutal order, to the heavens: My parents – I won't give up my parents; except old age has already overtaken them in this house. Time, my time, with them is running out.

So then, though it's wrong, I invite Sleep, then his brother, Death, to take me first, or just as soon as I've repaid those years of parenting, support, counsel and friendship.

Picture credit: Sleep and his half-brother Death, 1874, John William Waterhouse.

All posts published this year were penned during the last.

Editor

I can never write short messages. Shortish, but hardly ever a line or two. How people do is a puzzle, because I see white space and want to fill it. And a line, even if that's all that's necessary, doesn't seem to cut it; there's too much space aching to be filled with witty, unnecessary remarks or a fuller description.

What's ironic is that I feel that need less in conversation – do people still make that these days or have we all turned monosyllabic?- since there, I rarely feel that same urge; the silence stands for itself, sometimes awkwardly but more often comfortably, or in a that's my cue to leave or resume the task I was doing before, even side by side a fellow worker.

Sometimes there just are no words. So why doesn't that occur when I'm talking to a page to myself, mostly, or talking to someone – a friend or relative - via a page, a page of type for one pair of eyes, or for countless pairs, with no idea of their shape or colour? With the latter, I just hit 'publish' and barely give a thought as to who its readers might be. And what they might look like, facially.

The urge also don't occur with walls. Painted walls. And decorations for, I mean. As there, I'm happy to let them breathe i.e. to have some almond-white space around the framed hangings. To let them make their own statement and not be too crowded, get lost in a forest of other images, or have to get up close-to to really see. I prefer standing back, appreciating them and getting their full measure from afar, by standing in an open doorway or learning casually against a door frame. And to do that they, the images themselves, have to be able to command the space they're hanging against, as well as that of the room. It's hard to get right, and I'm not sure I do. I don't think, for instance, it would pass a critical gaze, like that of museum curator or art critic, without some slight being made, an adjustment, or comment as to how to improve its position in terms of light and framing.

Though we do that, all of us, with words too. Pass judgement. On those used or how something has been said. Or note a grammatical error, to ourselves or even, if we're that way inclined, bring it to the attention of others.

Lately even I've been looser, grammatically speaking; been so in the flow, with some articles, I haven't wish to interrupt the style and let rules take precedence. Because sometimes the structure of a sentence, though not correct, to the ear sounds better. I occasionally talk what I'm typing, as I type, aloud. It's more poetical than prose yet still prose. Isn't that what prose is, essentially?

I don't know, is the honest answer.

Some prose is very correct; some is very lax. And that, too, annoys me. I like, for instance, the proper use of apostrophes and and full-stops outside brackets, and speech marks where they're used to be double rather than single, which are quotation marks, but which are more often used now; wrongly, in my opinion.

So, against this, this modern changing of some rules, I've found, as others no doubt have done before, it pays, in terms of creativity, to be a little slack. Do away with speech marks altogether! Structure sentences differently, based on sound and rhythm, rather than what's correct.

Yes, I've been pulled up on it. But it's the sound, the sound, I say. It doesn't sound right, the right way. Very few, however, particularly those schooled at a earlier time, understand what I'm on about; and those schooled after me, well, I haven't a clue what they're on or on about.

This relaxedness, however, doesn't come from them, or from any particular generation, but from reading, and allowing myself to enter my own space of what feels good, what feels right creatively speaking, where I might default to the thesaurus on the odd occasion, as well as incorporate a phrase or style I've seen elsewhere. Why this laid-back approach then doesn't transfer to the area I plan to fill I cannot say. I know less is more, yet the words continue to trip and spill across the page.

Am I in need of an editor?

Picture credit: Cary Grant and Rosalind Russell in His Girl Friday

All posts published this year were penned during the last. 

But Today is Friday

As I was applying my going-out face, kneeling on a cushion, to save my knees, much like a gardener does when planting or weeding, in front of a full-length mirror, my sensitive ears, which some might say are bat-like, heard a truck pull up that sounded suspiciously like a Wednesday delivery.

It was too. But today is Friday! I thought. And then uttered thanks (to the mirror) that I'd done all my thinking already that morning, of the list-making kind, because these would now be disturbed, until I either went out or the truck and what was left of its contents travelled on.

The former transpired. Though not because of the truck but because I was ready. I even walked past the humming, clumsy-looking vehicle, on my way to the shops, without a grumble though not without a sidelong, evil-eyed glance.

These events are not supposed to happen on Fridays.

No, the day is more noted for its speed, Fridays seem extraordinarily keen to depart once they've arrived, and, for me, usually herald (annoyingly too) a flurry of emails, from all those I hoped to hear from earlier in the week, or hadn't heard from in a while; and because I only check my account mid-afternoon I then either spend my time replying or deferring those replies, and therefore further shorten the time I have and what I thought was possible to achieve.

Is this a whine, like that of a bluebottle? Or more that of a woman with a horsey laugh, neighing and braying her complaints to all and sundry, almost proud of having them to tell and spread, repeat a number of times in a number of different ways? I have people that want to know me! Want to connect with me. Over email. I'm not sure that says a lot, actually. She sounds like rather a sad case.

No, it's not like that. I'm not like that, really. It's just Sod's Law. That what it is; that's what Fridays are.

Fridays are the same numbered bus turning up in threes e.g. nothing, nothing, wrong number, single decker, a hopper, than one, two, three the same, on the same route: all of them in service and stopping, and mostly empty.

What more do you want? Jackpot! Yes, BUT...the timing's always a little off. When you feel as if time, all time, is about to run out. On you. On the world.

I should expect it, surely, if this is typical Friday territory? Yes, but somehow I never do, and so somehow I always feel a trifle hounded.

Why? Because I want to shove it all away. No different than someone tidying their desk from a week's work. Or clearing their In-box, ruthlessly. Delete, delete, move to, move to, delete, delete, delete. Junk, junk, block, block, block.

But you can't treat people like that! I treat everything like that. Done. Done. Done. About to be done. Will do. The more minor tasks I can tick, the more I can concentrate on what I want to concentrate on, instead of those left taking up brain-space, knowing they're still to do. Other days, fine, but Fridays are different. And are when I also think my bristling to nobody but myself, well, now to you too, is justified since Fridays are in such a hurry to be over. Vamoose. I'm outta here. See you later alligator! Its tail already disappearing round the bend.

The bend of what? I don't know, a building?, on its way to the station or pub. Oh sorry, bar, because that sounds way more refined, to a Londoner, where they might even have, though it's unlikely, plinky-plonky music, and bar persons properly, more elegantly attired, who can make cocktails and know how to show off while doing so.

I'm getting carried away aren't I? Next, I'll be thinking of pools and indoor sun-loungers round the pool-side, and be reminded of holidays in Wales.

Wales? Yes. Wales. Where they served fruity non-alcoholic cocktails in tall glasses with striped straws and colourful umbrellas. I hadn't yet reached double digits, so how grown-up (and privileged) did I feel! It's easier to feel that way when you're under age; you appreciate that scene less, or take a dislike to it, once adulthood's here to stay, here for good.

Picture credit: The Bar El Gaucho, Seattle Bar, Nina Mikhailenko (source: Google images)

All posts published this year were penned during the last.