ever feel the strong inner desire to write madly and endlessly on and on concerning all the conflicting thoughts and emotions within, a physical need to purge one’s heart of all cumbersome clouds and vulnerable joys alike, yet lacking all energy to do so? that is me in this moment. and has been for the past few days. i lack any drive to record and relate all recent events.

that’s not to say that there haven’t been things worth writing about. quite the contrary. and maybe that’s just it; maybe there’s too much. too many new thoughts. new ideas. new experiences to try and pin them down in paragraph format.

i possess a fragmentary mind that pauses and ponders on the most vague and obscure of things. my thoughts are swathed in cellos and deep blues. some of my most cherished moments are collaborating and constructing metaphors with a friend who sees in much the same way.

i often daydream things in colours inverted and shapes disproportioned. my mind is a madhouse.

today is a day i can smile at. we awoke early to grocery shop for our co-op lunch and ended up at the church with time to spare and spend on the steps serenading those who strolled by in the sunshine. then volpone and noodles. then ant and cleo and a sunset and fat chips. sustenance of the soul!

i need to work on my lists of favourites…

oh dear. what else. shakespeare. we made the commute to stratford and dutifully went round to all the historic houses and museums, perhaps taking more delight in the malteser fudge we bought in the candy shop. or the circle of stones we stopped to see on the way back, taking flying photos through the fields.

that was saturday. sunday jilllian took bethany and alisha and i to some rubbled ruins in the country somewhere and a little town that started with a ‘b’ where we poked around some shops and galleries and a church, afterwhich we headed home for some true english tea and crumpets. and then i read macbeth with one eye. and watched rugby with the other…

our heating was broken for the past couple of days so we survived the cold on a couple heaters and a fire. i feel rather triumphant for braving it through such great adversity.

we mingled with the ghosts of the inkling poets tolkien and lewis at the infamous eagle and child. and then out again to the theatre to travel through three different time periods of the intertwining plot of ‘a trip to scarborough.’

life is funny sometimes. like on friday when i was fed up with my too long fingernails so i finally clipped them out of exasperation only to ironically enough end up playing guitar in chapel that evening. it was nice to strum again. oh! the message that evening was achingly beautiful, perhaps the highlight of my week. an older bearded man with a little bounce in his step spoke in so eloquent a fashion he held me spellbound in my seat. twas pure poetry merely glowing with the truth contained therein. he was painting the picture of God as the artist working with us the clay with all our traits and flaws, elaborating on the relationship between the creator and ourselves, how we’re each formed uniquely by his gentle hands that move with the clay, guiding, not forcing. he said it far better than i but the message left its golden imprint.

also, i am going to lisbon in two weeks and i have a ticket for les mis in london. joy joy joy!

a new air.

nights in charlbury are like turning over rocks to see what’s really going on underneath.

for the most part, though, from an outsider’s perspective, they’re quite hauntingly hushed. it seems as soon as the sun sets, everything is serenely silent. masses of people coming in from the city scurry off the trains at dusk and disappear into their homes where strains of muffled music and mirth can sometimes be heard. everything shuts down and peace settles; even the pubs close relatively early.

the city is another story, as you can imagine.

one of the first nights i was here i became somewhat lost and a gentleman walking a dog directed me to ‘ye olde three horseshoes’ pub, where he told me to ask for a certain barry who could supposedly set me on the right route. so in i went, announcing i was a poor lost canadian looking for my home, and sure enough, the good sir barry pointed out the way and told me not to mind the haunted graveyard. i think they may have been slightly amused as i thanked them with a gracious heart and headed home with a greater confidence in my step, trying not to think too deeply about the cemetery comment…

around midnight sometime last week i locked up the church and began to head home when i paused and saw that the streets were shrouded in a heavy mist; the entire town was frozen in a fog; i held my breath.

while there are street lamps every few hundred feet in Canada, here there may be the odd light every couple of roads or so. they suggested we bring a ‘torch’ to light our way but i much prefer to let my eyes adjust and not disturb the darkness, for there is a different kind of depth to the dimness of night. in the chilled air, things can take on an altered shape or sheen, appearing or disappearing, as the lack of light allows. i walk boldly now, my feet familiar with the stones and sidewalk below. more often than not my eyes are more concentrated on the sky where the stars seem to be simultaneously singing and swaying -- or maybe that's just me.

the raindrops are reverberating off the rooftop of the church and echoing into the sanctuary sending 'sheer brilliance' soaring to the ceiling...

one night in particular i simply had to stop mid-step and pay homage to the beauty that begged to be acknowledged above me. to humbly quiesce. in the very middle of the graveyard i paused to lay flat upon one of the raised tombstones as i stared unblinkingly into the sky and imagined marvellous meandering meteorites mingling with their mirrored mimes in the murky seawaters below. no great philosophical thoughts graced my mind as i fancied the planets dancing in the ballroom of the universe. instead i wanted mostly to empty the mess, clear the clutter, blank-out my brain to allow the immensity and majesty of this dazzling scene to completely consume and cocoon my entire self, to be in pure communion with the creator.

when i walk home late at night my lungs tend to inhale more deeply than usual for i find the air of charlbury is laced with the lovely scent of tea leaves.

last night we peered beneath the stone, however, as we ventured over to ‘the shed,’ to take in ‘the green weasel,’ an evening of eco-tinged music, poetry and performance. to see that creative, talented side of the town was fantastic, especially considering we were barely able to squeeze in to join the low-lit and lively atmosphere. we were astounded by some of the young voices, and were marvelled by their beautiful small-town pride. this initiative to embrace and showcase their gifted locals displays a wonderful appreciation for the arts and i found myself wishing i had grown up with similar opportunity. and though there was laughter and love all round, i was somewhat glad i wasn’t american…

the differences between canada and england are sometimes quite amusing, especially when you’re noticing the bizarre contrast of roadkill; in the maritimes you find poor raccoons, skunks, and porcupines along the highway, and here you see foxes and badgers. bizarre.

wednesday of last we ventured off again to view yet another of shakespeare’s histories, henry v. studying this play has meant more to me simply because of my father’s influence. i remember watching the kenneth branagh film with him when i was younger and being excited about it because he was excited about it; the scenes of the saint crispin speech and the tragic death of the boys stood out most vividly in my memory. unfortunately i went in expecting the same sort of performance and found myself frustrated with what seemed to me to be misplaced humour and lackadaisical monologues; i was quite disappointed with henry. i am just being honest. but it was still spectacular in many ways, with the flying frenchmen, elaborate costumes, and dramatic battle scenes that sent me out of my seat a number of times. so while it didn’t entirely match up with what i had envisioned in my mind, the show went on most beautifully.

friday meant more auditions, choir, formal hall, karaoke, missed trains, and nando’s.

there is an owl in the train station.

we rose early saturday morning to head over to warwick castle. (pronounced warrick.) there was plenty to fill the hours we had there. going up and down spiral staircases in tall tall stone towers. and then through dark passageways where waxen figures looked so real i was perpetually bracing myself for any one of them to suddenly jump out at me. and then through rooms lavish and rich. we dressed up. we went bravely through the ghost tower. we wandered about the grounds looking for peacocks. it was quite the workout. following the castle we drove to coventry cathedral, a newish building to replace the old church which had been bombed during the war, the remains of which are still there as a reminder of mercy and forgiveness. the new cathedral, though, was overwhelming in its magnificence. you couldn’t dismiss the aesthetic beauty and creativity that went into its design. the colours of the towering stained glass windows glowed in a deep and bold radiance. each little chapel off to the side contained work from different artists. mosaics. tapestries. sculpture. i struggle sometimes, though, with what seems like an awful lot of money put into only solid, material things, when it could be put into people and programs. but on the other hand i saw a church that seemed to value God-given artistic ability, hopefully using it to give all glory back to Him, instead of attracting mere tourists and profit. this is my prayer.

we also finally made it out to the charity shops in oxford. mark joined us girls in hunting for fashionable bargains as we filled the tiny shops with our loud canadian laughter.

today jillian made a most delicious feast of cottage pie and vegetables followed by british pancakes, the thin kind, sprinkled with sugar and a wee bit of lemon juice, folded up and topped off with some ice cream. so tasty. my goodness.

watching rugby makes me want to tackle someone.

revised:

between the time of two heartbeats...

a fraction of her finger feels
the cool, clean circumference
of the bottomless lake.
unfolding she dares her feet
to take a step blindly
into the brim of the basin.
her pale flesh
is slowly, easily overtaken
by the fluid, rhythmic flow
of charcoal.

the majestic movement of the water
orchestrates an opus on her
scarred and pointy knees.
against her protruding ribs.
over her delicate shoulders.
and into her cluttered mind.
a murmured spell is magically cast...

down.
darker.
down.

the thickness presses in.
suffocatingly resonating within.
a hazy muteness tempts
an eternal disappearance...

down.
darker.
down.

all dilemmas drowned out.
her resistance weakened by
this dark, ethereal world.
of surreal serenity.
of solitary security...

down.
darker.
down.

completely adrift.
suspended in a distracted daze.
a stupoured trance.
a raptured reverie...

down.

yet a faint sound swiftly sails through
to reverberate on the drum of her ear.
recalling a dim echoing of a yesterday songbird.
sending her thoughts
to the infinitely endless sky...

down.

pockets of air
race past her face.
as precious life
from her lungs
so fleetly escapes...

drown.

as if awoken
from an enchanting death.
from a spell of sleep...

she rises.
higher.
she rises.

breathless.
wide, desperate eyes
transfixed upon the stars
seen beyond the glossy coverlet.
her fists fight the film
to feel the air...

she rises.
higher.
she rises.

fingertips unfurl
and frantically fix fast
to the moon...

higher.

a poignant, melodic force
an orchestrated symphony of sound
builds to a grand finale...

higher.

she shoots through the surface
in the last still seconds
escaping death's domain...

higher.

a glorious note of life
inflates her lungs.
her mind.
her heart...

she rises.

(and a songbird sweetly sings.)