commets of thoughts

The thoughts beat against my head like the mysteries of an African drum.

Constant and reliable; growing louder and more urgent as time passes.

They swirl like the water in a fountain, circulating back through the channels to visit me at a later date.

They are scattered, like the scribble on this page with no real meaning or direction.

They're of the 'discount plays' in the credit crunch bin at the bookshop,

no longer even worthy of the shelf they once belonged to.

They're of the book titled 'all my friends are dead',

apparently suitable for the eager minds of young children.

They're of the homeless man on the footpath,

resting on a shaggy blanket, sleeping dog on his lap and cigarette hanging out of his mouth.

The irony self explanatory.

They're of the couple I saw today in the park, unable to resist each other -

their wondering hands visible for all to see.

Unashamed of the blush that gathered in my cheek, or the jealousy of others around them,

they continued to fondle at what I once thought were private bits -

apparently not on a Tuesday afternoon in the park at Waterloo.

They're of the play I just saw, another to add to my ongoing list of brilliance.

So close I was to the action, that I could see the shower of spit coming out of the actors mouths;

a characteristic I once told my students was a true sign of a brilliant actor.

Men in stockings, women in girdles... a story of a revolution slightly foreign to me.

Finally they are of the city at night time,

as I wonder along the banks of the river on my own.

It is so quiet, aside from the drunken stumbles of students enjoying their last moments of summer holiday freedom.

I smile at their determination to stay out late,

refusing to even think about what it will be like next week.

But the city... it's sparkling. It's there for me to enjoy.

I take a moment and watch the water,

letting these aimless thoughts continue to swirl...

and eventually make my way towards the tube...

where no doubt another story or thought will tickle my fancy.

fringe feelings

The grass squelches under my feet and the coldness penetrates my skin.

I move my 'picnic towel' back into the sunshine, making the most of the Scottish rays.

The local rugby team training to the left of me, the friends catching up over wine on the right;

festival creativeness all around me... I feel like I am an observer of something special.

The people are bold and committed to their work,

the fear of embarrassment or failure non-existant.

I envy them, yet am so excited for their accomplishment.

They are doing it: creating, producing, writing, acting, volunteering...

regardless, they are not observing.

They are participating.

This amazing opportunity has been grasped,

artists who are excited about doing what they love.

So I watch this year, immerse myself in the way the festival works without being a tourist at all.

I don't visit the Lochness or Highlands, let alone explore the castle.

I watch the actors; admiring their strength and talent.

I scout out the venues; exploring what would work to my advantage.

I observe the locals; testing what would interest or offend them.

I look at the writers; and draw on their bravery and composure.

I sympathise with the directors; their projects on the line to be judged.

This year, I observe and am in awe.

Next year, I will produce, act, direct, write or volunteer in it.

I will empathise and wait with anxious breath for reviews of something I am part of.

No longer an observer, but an artist who has faith.

One who has thrown caution to the wind.

friday night

You hope you've done the right thing, that it was the right decision.

Then you miss the times you had and the way you felt when you were in them.

Things weren't good, they became mundane and taken for granted,

but then maybe that's what you liked at the time.

The safety of knowing, or simply being part of something.

Much easier then being part of nothing, and simply being on your own.

My own company doesn't bother me, the trouble is I love sharing life with others.

I love sharing a laugh, or a cup of coffee.

I love seeing something exciting and chatting about it for hours, or merely minutes.

I love watching a show and shedding a tear, then someone looking at me afterwards saying I am a giant sook.

I love cooking something amazing and getting compliments, or something terrible and throwing it in the sink whilst paying each other out.

I miss driving in the car to a destination unknown, or a regular spot where we always meet.

This crave for conversation will be the death of me!

I laugh now, on a Friday night with my glass of wine and candles lit,

using the time on my own to write a play that may just be worth seeing one day.

But the reality is, this song that is playing has made me feel this way.

This nostalgic remembrance of a life I once knew, compared to the life I have now.

Godda love music, godda love wine.... maybe a bit more with someone I love?

Maybe just now, until the next song comes on and it's slightly more uplifting :)

Ahhh ... I love my scattered thoughts!

searching

I find myself searching for him,

the familiar and friendly face.

A smile that is contagious

and instantly makes you grin.

I would see him and know that it is right,

that he thinks I am simply magic.

His arms would wrap me up, secure in his chest.

We would talk incessantly about an array of topics,

yet nothing in particular.

He would make me laugh just by being himself,

and wanting nothing more then to hear my cackle.

We would share moments of calm and excitement,

then awe and lasting passion - never hiding how we feel about each other.

The comfort of being, simply a given with him;

never censoring the vivacious person I am in fear of being too much.

In him, I would find a companion and a friend -

most importantly a man who loves me, adores me...

and will never forget to see me for who I really am.

a little faith

When one asks me about religion, I, like many others, devoid the conversation any further.

It is, after all, one of those taboo topics, the ones not to have with other people in fear of offending them.

In recent times when I have wanted something so badly, but had no control over it, I've had to think about this.

Whether it's an opportunity or audition I want,

or a message about someone I may care about, these things are out of my hands...

I can't make them happen, despite how badly I may want to try.

So it's bought me to the question... faith.

I believe there is something. But what I'm not sure.

I want some things so badly. But yet have no one to ask for it.

I guess the reality is, I must have faith in myself, that it will happen for me in it's own sweet time.

If not this audition, then there will eventually be another.

If not this intriguing man, then I will eventually stumble upon another one.

I must have faith, that it will happen for me.

That despite the mystery of religion in my life, I must have faith in me.

That I will take care of it....consciously or not.

It will happen for me.

annoyances

We are so different in so many ways.

When coming home, the energy and drive to converse with someone to share my day...

overcomes the annoyance I have for the dishes piled 10 ft high.

I want to share everything; elaborating on what I saw, felt or thought throughout the day...

so I ignore your small answers and responses to what I am saying.

I like order and cleanliness in my house, respect for each person's company.

So I ignore the dripping bath mat on the floor and the remnants of baked beans you had for lunch in the living room.

You are not malicious, or a drug addict, so I ignore the lights left on when no-one is in the room, or the windows shut up.

Despite this, I get so hurt with your cold attitude towards me when I slip up...

when I am not my usual perky self.

It's not me normally, just when I am finding it hard to ignore the annoyances just because I like you and think you're great.

It should work both ways... shouldn't it?

haunting of age

He approaches each step with trepidation, his cane not providing enough support.

His wiry hair, upright in statue, the only thing that has not stunted with his age.

His worn face, exhausted and spent - yet his eyes still sparkle as he moves towards the theatre door.

It takes some time to find his seat, squinting at the little letters on the side rows.

He moves gingerly down the isle, smiling cautiously at the other patrons.

He watches in awe, remembering his younger days of performing.

The act of ageing gracefully hard enough, but losing the ability to be on stage devastating.

During intermission, someone offers him a chair and holds the door.

'I don't deserve it' he shrugs off.

I watch him with fondness and immense sadness,

the decrepitness of age haunting.

I feel terrified, no doubt it happens too quickly to even realise before the glory of life...

the options for potential is effortless blown away.

protection problems

The need to protect the people we love creates complications...

it makes our intentions unclear.

We are so busy, putting ourselves in front of them to cop the brutal force,

that we forget that they are standing behind us.

We learn the lessons, make the mistakes

and grow another layer of skin;

whilst they become vulnerable and sensitive to the world.

Having been the protector for so long,

I never realised how frustrating it must have been to those around me.

Until now.

Now I am a million miles away and life is going on without me,

and they have chosen to not 'bother me'.

Now I feel the annoying sensation.

I want to teleport myself over there to know what is going on.

I want to be there to winge about it, or to try and solve the problem.

I want to be there to protect them.

I want to scream down the phone 'stop fucking not telling me stuff'

or write them an email demanding an explanation.

Instead, I simply agree and move along.

I hang up the phone and play an angry song.

I stew about it whilst I walk down the road,

now negatively distracted from my op shopping.

I sit in a coffee shop, alone, and write and think about it.

Feeling extremely protected and pissed off.

it weeps

the house groans with age,

weeping at the peeling walls.

it's high ceilings, once dawned with pristine chandeliers and decor,

are now cluttered with dust and mildew.

the bay window, once a resting place for a lady in waiting,

now bare and deserted.

the gardens expand for miles,

still well kept and manicured.

yet the house remains a ghostly figure.

the hidden bedrooms and ballrooms tell a story of British history,

yet foretell it's modern future.

stately houses 'found everywhere' are transformed into modern slabs of brick,

fulfilling the high brow market.

a precious gem dating back to the second world war,

I find myself in awe of it's grace and elegance.

three days spent exploring this ageing beauty,

and i feel sad leaving its beaconing doors.

it cries out to it's visitors,

hoping one may try and stop its quietus.

hope fades like the paint on it's walls,

and it rests regrettably.

moments shared by fruit

I stand over the sink and peel the skin off the fruit.

Despite the sweet flavour, and the juice that dribbles down my chin;

I can't help but feel a little glum.

I am forced to remember the last time I ate this delectable fruit -

oh so long ago on the shores of Byron Bay.

The sun was glinting down, the sand between my toes;

the crystal water just meters away and mine if I wanted it.

The young lady beside me was shaded by an umbrella and chatting about anything to keep our minds off the fact that I was leaving just days away.

We laughed about ridiculous topics and flicked fruit skin at each other.

She so flippantly said

'I don't really know if I like lychees' whilst continuing to devour the slimy fruit.

After encouraging her to go for a swim, my persuasion was quickly cut short by a visit from a jelly fish -

apparently it was out to get her, particularly on her newly formed scar!

After fresh seafood and loads of laughter, we climbed back into the car.

The drive back to Papa's, only short, but seemed to take forever.

Silence filled the car as we were lost for what to say.

How could something so easy, so taken for granted be swept away and gone for a while.

We were more then sisters, we were friends who enjoyed each others company.

So I stand here now, in my little London kitchen, and miss her incredibly.

The fruit a simple reminder of the good times we had,

the laughter and ease at which friendship brings.

Thank you lychee, for taking me back to this moment.

prattling thoughts

Dusk falls and the clouds part,

light rain falls down in the garden.

The music drifts softly out the door,

and I close my eyes in a wine comforted sensation.

The smoke wafts from their cigarettes,

their soft Swiss-German murmurs barely audible as we sit.

Trees rustle in the breeze and the smell of fresh cut grass tickles my nose.

We break the moment by a shared joke,

my uncontainable laughter echoing through the complex.

The prattling of our thoughts is endless and lasts several hours;

only broken by fine wine and food.

A taste of friendship built on a volcanic delayed few days,

is now something sustainable for years.

Blessed I am to know these wonderful women,

such a great feeling to see them again.