a bird in my heart, its worth immeasurableTAGS: rusty-bird, scrine, something magical, words
Looking over old Scrines, I am forced to recall how magical a place Scrine was and still is. And so it will be, while my heart still beats and my mind recalls.
I can donate my time, my earnings, and, of course, my words to Keith and the ol' Rusty bird. I can attempt to wax lyrical in an effort at gratitude. I can do many things, but I can never do it justice.
There are so many places online now that people call 'communities'. They have no idea. If you need to label it a community, online or not, then it probably isn't one.
There are and were other Scrines out there. They were second homes. They were repositories of imagination. They stirred a shared spirit, in whatever the venture. There, you were not the product, you were a part of the living whole.
This rusty little place, its walls made of words, has a reality beyond anything that ordinary 'reality' can understand.
Thank you, rusty bird. As ever. My heartfelt thanks.
The creature of your making: boot.
out among the rosesTAGS: dreams, fiction, loneliness, plants, roses, storytelling
The still of morning was stark as she walked around her garden, chatting to each plant, admonishing some and encouraging others.
She recalled the dream of last night, when, quite naturally, each plant chatted back to her. They were not philosophical and they certainly weren’t aware of any current affairs. It was lovely all the same. The words they used to describe the sun left her imagination spinning. She’d had this dream before. Over and over.
On less happy days, she guessed that it amounted to loneliness on her part.
On the more peaceful, whimsical days, she imagined it was no dream, but them reaching out to her. Speaking to her and comforting her.
She sighed, went back inside and closed the door.
As she went, the wind changed direction and the plants bent towards her, waving her on her way.
All Roads Lead to DarwinTAGS: adventure, books, Darwin, science
I’ve been reading a few books lately that seem to have tendrils and threads woven effortlessly into their texts. One name that keeps cropping up is Darwin.
I am not, you may have guessed, reading books on the Evolution of the Species. That would not exactly be worthy of note. Reading about Darwinism, you say? And Darwin keeps popping up? You don’t say.
It all started with a science book. Well, not the last one. The one before it. Or was it the one before that?
Let’s start at the start, shall we?
At the start of the year I read Oliver Sacks’ Uncle Tungsten. I’m not sure how this led me to the next science book, but there was a lot of adventure and chemistry. He may even have mentioned Darwin. There were many science heroes delivered here, so you never know.
The next book was The Philosophical Breakfast Club, by Laura J. Snyder. There are many, many tales for me to tell from this book. The main thing to say is: read it. It’s leading me in all sorts of wonderful directions. So many amazing men and women of science. I can’t think where to start, so I shan’t. Just go away. Don’t read the rest of what I have to say. Get that book and read it.
In the ‘Breakfast Club’ there is mention of Charles Babbage’s likely influence on Charles Darwin. Darwin is mentioned a few times in this book and it is difficult not to want to read more of him and his works.
I found myself an online copy of Darwin’s Red Notebook and, while I’m looking forward to reading it, I’m first resting up with a little non-science reading. I can’t wait to read his work though. He’s such an eloquent and insightful writer.
So, now I find myself reading a book about writing. The Little Red Writing Book by Mark Treddinick is not a quick read, but it is a hugely satisfying one. It’s not quick, because it asks things of you. I am finding myself with little exercises on every second page. And I’m loving it.
But what else do I find? Charles Darwin. Not for his scientific prowess is he hiding in this book. No, he’s here for his writing style. For his ability to state the complex simply. To make the most difficult ideas understandable and to say it well.
Well, well. Mister Darwin, it appears you wish me to read you.
Who am I to resist?
grittyTAGS: analogies, gritty, mini-nanowrimo-scrino, sandpaper, wooden
His eyes were sandpaper.
Not like sandpaper. They were paper balls, covered with a fine layer of sand.
His face was wooden.
Not, as you will have guessed, emotionless and still, but wood. Knotholes and all.
He was an analogy and an anachronism.
He feared sleep. He feared fire.
He lived his whole life trying to avoid rubbing anyone the wrong way, but especially himself.
And hay-fever season was hell.
gloriousTAGS: hair, heady, mini-nanowrimo-scrino, senses, water
The woman stopped in mid-stroke suddenly. She looked at the swimming pool, glistening wavelets rocking her slightly. She scratched her plastic-coated head.
She turned to begin another lap and paused again. She was a woman of habit. A swim each day. Her hair in its tight plastic cap. The same red bathers. The same stroke. The same, the same, the same.
She peeled her much loathed bathing cap from her head and flung it to the side of the pool. And she swam.
As she swam, her gloriously long, curly hair straightened out down along her sides. It swayed and enveloped her. It was incredible. It was a rivulet of senses running down her back. It was years since she had done this. It was a thing of silken beauty. It was a sensory overload. It was, it was, it was....
It was glorious.