Then This

image

News of terrible natural and man made disasters blight the days, then this: warm sunshine and a flower blossoms like a ray of hope.

Advertisements

Writing! What a business

image

The joy of the local word fest, Wrexham Carnival of Words, in its inaugural year, was the mingling,  the bubble of optimism and injection of energy (much needed).

The theme of the event, not literary and ponderous, but business like.

Finally it dawns, writing is all about business.

Ahead of the game: Child 44

For once I’ve already devoured the book before it comes out in film.

Not my usual choice, it was a great holiday read and almost brought about a conversion. The hostile claustrophobic atmosphere of the fifties Soviet State was well covered and all too plausible. That it was about child abuse and murder that the Soviet state refused even to acknowledge is an irony, if nothing else, with the DPP’s recent catastrophic blow to victims (not in the public interest to be seen to act fairly.)
It seems iniquitous not to shout out at the injustice done by our liberal state to the victims of abuse.

A shame then that they say the film has dulled a taught psychological thriller and immersed everything in a ‘cloudy brown soup’

Waiting

I have been waiting for an email, as in days of yore people waited for signs and portents. It’s a way of procrastinating, obviously. If stuff happened simply because you wished it would, no one would do much at all.
There is a post prandial feel to the day. The holidays are over, no guests about to arrive to necessitate a bit of bustle and elbow grease about the place, although the lack of imminent arrivals does not remove the need for a clear up.
The weekend was spent singing in the company of singers. A festival chorus to celebrate life and the life achievements of not one hell of a musician, but two ( well three actually): John Huw Davies, a gentle, but excellent teacher, singer and conductor whose patience knows no bounds and the somewhat overlooked Cherubini, whose Mass in C is not just a revelation, but a joy not to be missed.
So much so that the concert will be broadcast from Stockport Town Hall, on Radio three.
Music , musicians, soloists and conductor irresistible.
To say nothing of JS Bach and his Magnificat which we also rehearsed and sang.

The waiting will have to wait. The day clamours, subtly, gently but loud enough to be heard.

The secret of life 

Lacks motivation. Could try harder. It begins to sound like a school report. 

A novel that has taken blood sweat and tears to write, (do they all?) needs editing and a decision made. These characters who have shared their story with me, writing themselves, forcing their way in to the world are now languishing on the lap top saved variously, by date mostly, as each re write and modification is made. Is that where they should stay? 
Before I consign them, I will seek advice. Send them to a clinic and see if they are worth rehabilitating.
Of course they could be fine. It could just be the story that is at fault: that equation of tension over time has too many or too few inciting moments and all wrongly placed.
So writing is maths, after all and the secret of life and the novel comes around page 42

Spirit of Nijinsky

 

GetAttachment.aspx

There is a new horse in the field behind the house. I think he must be young. He is certainly wild. It is as if the other horses school him, try to calm him. I have seen one, the black horse with a rather dull coat, corral him, separate him and mete out hefty kicks and bites.

This could be jealousy, I suppose. Why not? I don’t contend with dumb animals. I think they are as capable of emotion as you or I. Especially horses. Surely you can see love, loyalty, trust in their eyes?  then they are capable of the opposite. Although they say horses’  bad temper is due to bad treatment.
This new horse let’s call him Joey, is eye candy. I’ve watched the sun on his auburn coat as he prances he’s never still; perhaps Nijinsky would be a better name. Yes I’ll call him Nijinsky. Muscled haunch, fine legs and when he praces and runs, it takes your breath away: a gold streak searching the confines of the field.
It’s as if he has a message to impart. The other horses watch him, I’ve seen them. Especially the mare. He unsettles them makes them frisky too. So sometimes they are all thundering through the field and the noise of their hooves like a drum beat thrums my chest. The freedom. They could jump the fence if they wanted, especially Nijinsky. I guess he just doesn’t want to. He can put up with the occasional kick from old blacky it’s not so bad to have your food delivered, to have the run of the field. That is their life. They may dream of running Great Plains in America or Arabia but they are for working or for sport. This one is not a plough horse or a worker. Too pretty too fine. Perhaps someone will realise what they’ve got. Someone who knows and loves horses surely would appreciate him.
I spend a lot of time watching him.
The other day he was tethered the whole day. He stood in the rain tied and tethered with his mouth in a bit . They’re going to kill him. Kill his spirit at least. That is the objective for some.  He was too highly strung to be of use, so instead of letting him go, they would rather subdue, tame, break his spirit.
I can’t watch him now. There is no joy now, no prancing, no exciting the others to run wild and free with him. He is docile. Soon he will be meting out kicks to the next new comer till that horse learns to pull the plough, to fit in not to stand out.