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It was during the dream time. The time when we were suspended between universes, between light and dark, life and death. The time when I saw the falling star and the fox.
 
The world was in semi-sleep and dreaming, but as always with dreams, the dark mares flitted with manes like black water, through consciousness and unconsciousness. Tales of horror and trauma infiltrated those almost silent sunshine days. Echoes of far off battles, corridors and machinery, exhausted running feet, precious breath, the push of the ventilator and the beeping of monitors… the valiant and the dead… yes that was there, even in the quiet of the night and even in our deepest sleep. We were there, and not there.
 
Death waited in the touch and in the breath.
 
I had trouble sleeping. Woke at four each morning with heart pounding, and speeding, circling, go-nowhere thoughts. Fear prowled the room. What if. What if. Guilt blacked out all hope of dawn and made the future dark. I was alive. Did I deserve it. Would it even last? What if. What if. I rose. Made tea. Tried to read. Went to a window and watched the sky to the east and waited. Weeks… months… we were all waiting, so what was one more hour, to sit and watch and wait? We also serve, who only stand. And wait.
 
I thought of the Bristol churches with their watch towers looking eastwards, the faithful watching and waiting for another kind of dawn.
And waited.
And looking eastwards, there it was. My first ever falling star. A lonely Lyrid, falling… falling… briefly a light to our world.  Out there was hope perhaps.
 
As the sky greyed, things took form outside.
 
A moving shadow caught my gaze. It stopped. A glow of white fur under the body and face. Darkly silhouetted ears, inscrutable eyes, and stillness. Our eyes met through glass: the human being, trapped inside, locked in my own darkness and the small fox out there in the dawn. And I heard her, as if she spoke to me … no… not heard… sensed?... a message without words.
 
This is not a dream.
 
There is always hope.

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Pandemic

April 30th, 2013

30/4/2013

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Where to start for the first ever page of a blog? 

Oh well.. may as well leap into it...

I've just finished writing a synopsis for a novel which a friend and I wrote aeons ago.  On looking at previous versions of the book I see several.  Apparently the 90's are retro fashion now, (smile) so it won't matter that we're 15 years late in trying to get a millennial novel published.  

You might think synopses would be easy peasy for someone with a degree in English and European Lit (let's face it you could be forgiven for expecting this blog to be elegantly and wittily written as well...) but you'd be wrong.  Writing a synopsis of your own oeuvre (ouevre? or is that and oeuff/egg?), not to mention a first blog post using pesky French words, is bloody difficult. ..

The trouble is with this novel is that it's a panoramic view of a small city at a certain year-long moment in history and it has a massive cast of characters. 

And the trouble with a synopsis (according to friend's husband, who kindly and meticulously attended a talk on 'Getting Your Work Published' on our behalf) is that it mustn't be more than 10 pages of double spaced typing. Aaargh.

Well hooray it's done. A blow by blow account in brief. And how dull it makes the book sound. But it's sent to the one person - the patisserie chef of the written word - who might turn it from something stodgy and indigestible into something lightly tempting and delectable .

I've just noticed my eighth sea-gull lumbering over the garden with a clump of something soggily undistinguishable in its beak. Must be nesting season.  they perch on chimney stacks in lieu of cliffside nooks and sometimes you catch sight of a grey hairy head rearing itself up above the roof-line as the adults swoop in to feed the young gullet.

Perhaps that's enough for today. I'm avoiding painting again it seems.  More tomorrow...
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