I found this in amongst some notes from April 2016 and I really can’t remember what it’s all about. But I have had fun returning to it, finishing filling it in and weaving it into a (somewhat strange) piece of writing.
Weather: the bright intensity of a late evening sun in a mirror
Flora: the corner of a tree, turned triangle by brick walls and concrete
Architecture: the twisting of a treehouse, gnarled by children’s feet
Customs: Always place your right hand on the door handle. Never your left. Never.
Mammals/reptiles/fish: A small cat stares into a goldfish bowl. There is no goldfish home.
Childhood dream: The kitten dreamt that one day she would grow up and get a bed of her own, as big and comfy as the one she secretly snuggled down on in the day.
Found on the Street: tuppence, a fag put and an old reciept for a loaf of bread and a crunchie; a brass button, a ticket from the cinema and a penny, dirty and tired
Export: I export rainbows, but no one buys them as the shipping costs are too high.
Graffiti: An aerosol tag, meaningless and meaningful.
Lover: Quietly present
Conspiracy: Where do birds really go when they migrate? Do they fly to the moon? Do they rest in the water? Surely these are more plausible than travelling across the globe just to fly back again? Ideas found in migration folklore
Dress: Taffeta, green, velvet trim. Outdated. Hiding in a dressing up box.
Hometown memory: The way everything seemed so dirty, a layer of grime over everything, grim faces and grim futures.
Notable person: the poet who took you out of this world, who swirled you around and around and around until you lost your bearings and fell down
Outside your window, you find: the drs surgery, healthy people pushing the doors on Saturdays wondering why it’s closed, they don’t have the opening times scratched into their ill formed body; birds whistling, traffic humming, car doors closing, footsteps on the wobbly paving slab just outside the window
Today’s news headline: Everyone’s a winner
Scrap from a letter: it was a long day and whilst the weather was beautiful, I didn’t enjoy it, I was too busy searching
Animal from a myth: phoenix
Story read to children at night: one of female empowerment, of girls who fight dragons and boys who look after babies
You walk three minutes down an alley and you find: it opens out onto a courtyard, a glimmer of sun reaches between the tall brick walls and a fountain trickles away in the centre
You walk to the border and hear: nothing, you have reached the edge of the world, do not fall over the edge
What you fear: never finding the hidden courtyard, never seeing a phoenix, never being a phoenix for only one can ever exist at a time
Picture on your city’s postcard: a large church or a narrow streets; a double exposure of history and drunkenness
A small cat stares into a goldfish bowl. No one is home.
The kitten snuggles down. She dreams of goldfish not at home, of migrating birds and conspiracies.
Where do birds really go when they migrate? Do they fly to the moon? Do they rest in the water? Surely more plausible than travelling around the world, just to fly back again?
Waiting patiently for the human to return, she bathes in the bright intensity of early evening sun.
Keys rattle. Always turn the keys with your right hand. Never the left. Never.
“It was a long day and whilst the weather was beautiful, I didn’t enjoy it. I was too busy searching.”
A crack between door and frame. A world untrodden by padded paws. A world of goldfish, of birds which don’t migrate and answered conspiracies.
“What if I never find it?”
A world of grim faces and grim futures where phoenixes are searched for and never found. A high cost for goldfish, birds which don’t migrate and answered conspiracies.