I’m leaving, on a jet plane…

I thought I’d be spending New Year’s Eve at the Regency Wreck, watching the fireworks over Sydney Harbour Bridge.  Maybe even camping there overnight on a mattress.  Instead I’ll be on an airplane, somewhere over the Indian Ocean without so much as a sparkler.   I’m off for five weeks – back to the Dorset countryside and to London. I shall go stamping all over, and spend a day pottering in Spitalfields (where the streets are paved with iconoclasts); a few days in Marrakesh  (where the streets are paved with Berber rugs); and a few more in Venice (where there are no streets).

(And if you don’t believe me about Spitalfields, take a look at http://spitalfieldslife.com/, which is a true delight).

Right now I should be packing, stuffing things willy nilly into my bag.  Piles of clothes mushroom at the periphery of my vision but here I am instead, at my machine.  Odd – when I have time draped in folds around my feet I can’t get a post together but when I’m on my way out of the door it becomes The-thing-which-cannot-be-put-off.

The highlight of this last year was buying the Regency Wreck.  This time next year I want to be living there (oh, dangerous thingses, these predictions).  The rest of this year has been one of drudgery – an attempt to cobble together the right conditions for health and recovering still (STILL!) from the psychoanalytic training – my sense of humour is not yet inflated, my sense of joy still fugitive. At the end of it all I feel a little colourless, a little pressed flat.    These last few days a poem by Denise Riley has been blowing around inside my head.

As iron sharpens iron

I sharpen the face of my friend

so hard he sings out

in high delicate notes.

A struggle for mastery to most speak

powerful beauty would run any

attention or kindness clean out

of town in angry rags.

Ringed by darkness the heat pulsates.

And power comes in like lightning.

A lion in the room, fair and flowing

twists with unsparing eyes.

Whitely the glance runs

to it and away.  But let it

talk its golden talk if we

don’t understand it.

Grabbed by remote music

I’m frightening myself.  Speak

steadily as is needed to

stare down beauty.  That calms it.

Denise Riley

In this coming year I hope for a lion in the room.  A pulsating heart. Some powerful beauty to try and speak.  For you I wish whatever it is you need and much of what you want. Happy New Year!

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7 Responses to “I’m leaving, on a jet plane…”

  1. fabulous darlin’ … when pottering around Spitalfields perhaps you might swing by for a tour of the works in progress at the old shack chez fournier street ?

    • Killing time at Singapore airport. It dieth so unutterably slowly.
      And ohmagawd, I’d love to see the works in progress!
      Happy new year to you and Ralph.

      • and welcome to 2012! clearly the regency wreck is in the ascendancy this year – let’s see if we can tickle that sense of humour or tempt that sense of joy out of hiding with our fine British weather?
        Here in London’s east end we have duly instructed the resident chefs, personal assistants, flower arrangers, chauffeurs, woodwork polishers, weed pullers, doggy-manicurists and rug beaters to spruce the shack up for Mrs P’s arrival
        Indeed I shall heat the samovar and have included my email should you be able to grace us for a cup of tea and a tour
        F

      • If I’d known there was to be a samovar I’d have schlipped my mother-of-pearl-encrusted zither into the suitcase to twangle over tea…

        A cuppa and a tour sounds brillig – goodness me! And if Ralph is there I promise to try not to scare him with crazy Dane lady behaviour (I said try, note).

        Will mail.

  2. Travel always cleans my head right out. Naturally, all the old clutter returns within days. Although, I would never leave Spring for Winter in England, it sounds like a deadly combo.
    Best,
    Liz

  3. Have a wonderful journey ! It promises to be fabulous and can’t wait to see your blogs about it. Your words and your photos are exquisite !
    L

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