Blue was the sky on her wedding day.
Blue were the flowers in her bouquet.
Blue bruises were evidence of last evenings fight.
Blue were the lights that came into sight.
Blue were the eyes which sparkled with tears.
But white was the dress she'd saved all those years.
This was emailed to Mslexia 02/03/22
It happens every time Mslexia arrives. I am inspired to write.
So the latest in fiction is "Up-lit" is it? No more misery memoirs then. I no longer want to know what the "latest is". I do not want to write in a certain genre because it is the latest. I do not want to be boxed to suit the publishers.
I no longer want to be published. I never did. OK I lie. There was a short time when I thought that maybe? - or- perhaps? - or - well you never know? Then I read some where that J K Rowling's work was rejected 12 times before it was finally accepted. I knew that I could never be a professional writer so I contented myself with self publishing. I entered minor competitions where I had some success. I had a few letters published in magazines. I also derived great satisfaction from reading my work to the writing groups of which I was a member.
So to continue with Mslexia's inspiration in this issue. (March April May 2022)
Extraordinary in the ordinary. This was a sub heading in the piece about "up-lit ". I wonder from where this expression was derived..
I love the term that Arnold Bennett used, "The interestingness of ordinariness". I know it's clumsy but I have used it frequently.
In fact I used it on 14/08/2021 in an email to Mslexia which included
a piece that I had written--
Rainbow Woman I am Not
I am not an
exciting, brilliant red woman,
nor a dynamic,
energetic orange woman.
I am not a shining,
beaming yellow woman,
nor a peaceful,
calming green woman.
I am not a
communicative, opinionated blue woman,
nor a shadowy,
spiritual purple woman.
nor a dainty,
blushing pink woman.
I am a plain,
ordinary, BEIGE woman.
BUT Arnold Bennet
said that he was fascinated by
"The
interestingness of ordinariness".
by Jean Wild
I know the piece was run of the mill or even a bit pathetic but I note that the quote was, shall I say, useful?
Oh, and by the way I should come clean. I have many pseudonyms. Mostly I use Fleure Sauvage when I blog about gardening. Jean Wild is my writer's name. I have been over the years Victoria Richards, Victoria Wild and any combination I cared to use. I have a few email addresses.
wildjean@hotmail.com
fleuresauvage@gmail.com
fredabateman22@gmail.com
and the one I used to subscribe to Mslexia vickbateman@hotmail.com
These days I sign,
Keep safe,
Freda Bateman
P.S. My self published book is called,
Seeing *, hearing *, smelling *,
tasting *, touching *.
The surface shimmers like jewels.
Shivering I dip my toes into the icy water.
My feet feel the sharp shingles.
Goose bumps appear on my arms.
The roaring waves break and smash onto the rocks.
A silver spray reaches my nostrils and lips.
I smell the salt. I run my tongue over my lips to taste it.
Walking deeper into the waves the icy water creeps up my legs, then my body. I dip down until the water engulfs me. I leap up and shake my head and watch the sparkling droplets fly around me like stars.
Red - Red sky at night, shepherd's delight.
Red sky in the morning shepherd's warning.
Crimson, blushing, danger, red flag warning, no swimming, STOP,
Orange - trumps face, amber get ready, on your marks
Yellow - sun, cowardly, custard
Blue-- sky blue, sea blue, marine blue,
Grey was the sky, the day of the funeral.
Black were the clothes which everyone wore .
Blue was the mood of family and friends.
Purple was the face of the aged preacher.
White were the cassocks of the choir boys whose soprano voices soared to the rafters.
Green was the colour on which I visualised to calm myself.
Red, Orange and yellow were the flowers which emblazoned her coffin.
Grey remained the colour of the sky as we walked at a snail's pace to the open grave.
Blue were the forget-me-nots I threw into the grave. I knew I would never forget her.
The sky remained grey as we walked away to the sound of the slow chiming bell which augmented the melancholy of the mourners as I returned to my life without her.
Character number 2
Her name is Ethel. She sits like a frightened bird. Everything about her is sharp. Especially her tongue. She stabs visitors with words which leave wounds.
Her life has run down and wound in around her, like the ball of wool which is always at her feet and sometimes wraps itself around her ankles as she shuffles to answer the door.
Life is closing in around her and wrapping her in a cocoon. She is trying to resist by getting sharper. She tries to pierce the cocoon with her sharpness. She jabs at the wool with her knitting needles. She is like a swan swimming in circles on a freezing pond trying to keep her world open. Everything is against her. Time especially is against her.
Aspellin, Espilin, Asilone and Algitec are just four of the medications she uses to ease her aches and pains. She is of a generation who believes that doctors are akin to gods and they can cure everything.
She doesn't know the names of the medications but calls all of them 'that stuff'. That stuff she takes before meals, that stuff she takes after her meals or that stuff she rubs on her leg and that stuff to move her bowels.
So how can this woman who can barely move from her chair except to go to the toilet control so many people.
Her body has forsaken her. She can barely see or hear. She can barely lift a spoon or cup to her mouth. What does she live for?
Her mind still works and likewise her mouth. Oh yes and so do her bowels and kidneys, sometimes.
She informs visitors of progress in this department. If she is not going she has just been or as she puts it she's just been but she didn't go. It was only wind.
Ethel knows a lot about the neighbours. In fact she knows the neighbours' opinions about everything. It seems that what the neighbours think is the controlling voice in her head. She knows the neighbours' views on everything. She might often forget their names but my God she never forgets what they think.
When her husband died and there were decisions to be made regarding commemorating him it was suggested that a seat with an engraved plaque on it would be suitable.
Her split second reply to this suggestion was, " I bet them next door didn't have a seat".
Her name is Carmel. I met her first when she came to help her husband to erect my green house. I noticed her strong arms as she lifted and carried more than he did. Her height enabled her to reach the panes of glass in the roof. She was dressed for the job in baggy trousers and a too large pullover. At first I mistook her for a workman.
I took a tray of tea and cakes and I joined them for their tea break. Carmel continually let her hair down to her shoulders then wound it up again and tied it into a bun.
She invited me to see her house. I say house but it was as big as a manoir or a Breton chateau. Three stories high with huge out buildings, sitting in five thousand square metres of land it felt like an estate.
I followed her around in the long grass and viewed the three circles of young willow, which she informed me would be where she would teach tai chi, meditation and reiki.
Her vegetable garden was set out like a giant wheel. Each partition of the wheel was "a no dig bed" for vegetables. She liked to be self sufficient and I could hear the newly installed poultry which would supply eggs. As we walked back to the house past fruit trees Carmel filled bags of peaches and apricots which she gave to me.
We went into the house where she put the kettle on. Then she took me up three flights of stairs to her studio. The studio was full of her paintings. Some were finished and hung on the wall, others were stacked against the wall. Perched on the two huge easels were obviously works in progress.
On the way back to the kitchen Carmel pointed out a half modelled bust. "I am doing that for Michelle, but I am waiting for her to come for another sitting."
As we drank our tea and ate the homemade cake Carmel said," So you have a french group on Monday afternoons. I would like to join. Is that possible? My French isn't bad as I was married to a French man. Now I am married to Dan. He doesn't speak French so I need to refresh mine."
"That would be great," I said.
"I could bring you some willow whips and while I'm there I will help you with your veg patch. "
"Oh before you go," she said, " come upstairs and see the lounge."
It was on the first floor and was lined with shelves full of books. "This is where I like to read".
Such a variety of books were there. Gardening books, self help books, autobiographies, biographies, novels and books on Buddhism.
When I arrived home and checked Carmel's Facebook page I read that she was indeed a Buddhist.
This was a difficult topic for me. I can remember being told frequently as a child, " You are in for a rude awakening my girl." Is remembering the same as re-awakening? Returning to Kidsgrove my birth town after living in France I began a new blog which is called Living Life in Reverse because everyday I am reminded of the 60 years I lived here. The houses I lived in are still here. The school I taught in has been demolished and replaced. The Leisure Centre no longer exists.The shopping experience has completely changed. The old railway line has been transformed into a tree lined walkway. So some of this is positive and some negative. I arrived just before the first lockdown and I was taken to a grand exhibition in Stoke called the British Ceramics Biennial. Then the pandemic arrived and all thoughts of pottery disappeared.
Last week however I experienced a true re-awakening when I visited the Gladstone Pottery Museum. I am a Potteries girl. My sister was a figure paint-tress at Royal Doulton's. My mother and I always turned over the figures to search for my sister's initials. My next door neighbour worked in the clay-end and frequently regaled us with stories from the clay-face. My first job when leaving school was lab assistant at the British Ceramic Research Association. I worked in the plaster lab. We were researching how to make plaster moulds last longer. I had to go to college to two afternoons and three evenings a week to study pottery.
When I was a teacher I went to pottery classes for teachers one evening a week. My main subject at college was pottery. When I was in France I went to pottery classes. The corny cliché applies to me you can take the girl out of the Potteries but you can't take the Potteries out of the girl.
The TV programme "What's my line" had a contestant who was a saggar maker and the following week he had a saggar maker's bottom knocker. I watched the programme in our next door neighbour's house. He said " Oh yes that's Jim Jones he knocks bottoms for Jack Hancock."
