Day 685: Different Kinds of Porn

Today I have indulged in 'porn' of many types. It started with grammar. Reading my really rather special Spanish language textbook on the train, I caught a glimpse of how many pages it had - 253. I'm on page 46. What sensous pleasure! I was excited in anticipation of finding new words to hold in my mouth, of ingesting new rules to try out on new bits of syntax, of knowing an extra way of describing someone. I imagine that this is what it must feel like as a bondage lover zips a gimp suit closed, buckles a dog collar tight, prepares the whips. 

Or, more gently, how it feels when, before a date, and often despite the intention of the thing, I step into lovely knickers and a matching bra. I'm not planning on revealing them tonight, but there's a glory in the promise of it for a future time, the anticipation of possibles to come. 

The next was dogs. Don't get the wrong idea. I want to be a dog mama soon, possibly just temporarily, but I do. To do that, I looked up hopefuls on some rescue sites. There were many involuntary noises on my part, more genuine than many moans uttered in the throes of love. I don't think there was one of them I wouldn't want to take home, when I get a place I can. I want this dog companion so much. 

The morning's jaunt helped with that. I stuck my head inside a studio, where another woman had just gone. The artist, Jackie, was lovely. She described the project she was doing and offered me use of one of two sewing machines to make my trousers and a dress. She also accepted my offer of dog company next Thursday. I can go and love her dog for her while she's away. I think we all won there. 

I had goes on many dogs today... a scruffy, fat black lab, a tall, grey lurcher and a spindly-legged puppy, brewing itself to outgrow its larger friend. A solid staffie, dense like a rubber brick and at the station, a silky, sand-coloured lurcher/greyhound cross. His owner greeted me with the question 'are you in the lurcher world?'. Wasn't sure how to answer that. In that moment, yes. Not what he meant, though. My generic face has once again led somebody astray. 

That station (Frome) was a source of many gifts today. The lurcher; a very playful, pleasing, vocal child; a lift from lovely Jean, a stranger, who answered my question about where the town centre might be with a lift into its very heart, and lots of information about the buildings, history, finds. And later, though I didn't find a train (my app misled me), the lady in the cafe gave me tea... no charge... 

I found a library of things. That was very pleasing indeed. You join and either pay a subscription, then get things for free, or you don't pay in an ongoing way, but you pick up a tab when you rent an object. And just from that, I started fantasising about living in Frome, playing guitar, meeting someone lovely (oh, that list!)... and living in a fantastic big barn conversion with a magical mezzanine and a fistful of dogs. Fantasy is a good thing... it paves the way towards things to be. Better than the opposite - the dread, the fear, the discomfort that lead us away from what we don't want, in the direction of what we do. So, lurchers beware, solid men with laughter in your eyes, barns, and Spanish grammar. I'm coming for you!

Day 684: The Art of Serendipity

ancient musical delight

That cat - that Minou - she is just delicious. Sweet and soft and furry. One eye completely sewn shut, eyeball long gone, and a crookedy tail. Long, silky tortoiseshell fur, easy strokability, and when she's buckling in for a good purr, the other eye covers up with an opaque membrane, like a lizard, so she looks like Mad-eye Moody or some kind of horror film attacker. I love her. 

I smoothie this morning, but I didn't have much fruit, so it was a questionable mix of a fistful of parsley, some ginger, a tiny bit of grapefruit, pure cranberry juice and a whole courgette. It was fucking LOVELY and i could feel it infusing me with excellent goodness as I gorged on it. 

I've discovered my old iPod. Well, I knew it was there, but I had no way to charge it. One of the wins at the house I'm living in was a charger, so now the thing has come alive to me again. My god... Queen, funk, Joe Cocker, Kill Bill, a load of random old tracks, Techno, dirty beats... I'm LOVING IT. I've been so very bored of everything I have on iTunes for years... this is taking me back. 

And this morning, as is Bruton's way, i got up to go to yoga, but by the time it was time I didn't go. Yesterday's belly-dancing class - I went, but nobody else did, teacher included. Today, I didn't make it. I decided to go to Frome instead. I'm there now. I passed by a coffee shop and stuck my head in an artist's studio. She was ACE, turns out she made the wedding dress of the woman who's cat I'm sitting on, and she has offered me use of her sewing machine (RESULT - i have trousers and a dress to make) and I will look after her dog next Thursday. HooooooRaaaaaay!

Bruton is taking shape. Thanks, all. 

Day 683: The Blood of Seven Penguins

A finch in a bird bath, dunking itself like a biscuit. Up and down. Dunk, dunk. Shake the drops off, dunk again. Each time looking around. Reminded me of Norman Wisdom. Not sure why. Something about that half expectant look. 

There was a lady bird (not a ladybird) drinking all delicate, like she was in a Jane Austen novel. Dunk, sip. Dunk, sip sip. A little choreography of pretty nature. 

A new place to be, and a fabulous welcome to my temporary home... easy, lovely energy from the adult and wonder-eyed gorgeousness from magical trunki-wielding sisters. They pointed out the penguin blood in the bath (but warned me not to drink it when I asked if it should be drunk over ice - a suddenly serious 'it's a bath tablet!'). I was the enchanted receiver of a song about how to be gentle with the cat, and a joyful participant in a Croc-hunt. I was sorry to see them all go, in a way. 

Now the prospect of a night cat and an early morning belly dance at the village hall. Tune in, tune in. It might just happen. 

Day 682: Jackahuahua

when a cat doesn't like it

A jackahuahua called Fox stole my heart with his little bitey teeth this afternoon. I was in a shop when I heard squeaking from a cage. Maybe in subconscious anticipation of the dead rat I found in the kitchen upon arriving home, I thought that's what he might be. I crouched and put my face up to the cage. 

I looked up to find a lady looking down at me. She wasn't going to get him out, but I'd got him all over-excited, so she did. My win. 8 weeks old, tiny-faced and delicate, with none of the extremity of a chihuahua's bulbous eyes or overly delicate form. He was stocky in his body, but little in his legs. He was all licky and teethy and he kept putting his little paw, with its very small claws, delicately on my cheek. 

I had a good long go on him. I reckon he's the kind of dog who might even be passable at home, with three cats. Even the tortoiseshell sisters and gangsta street cat, Colin, would give in to such a small thing as a nut to be cared for, if also sometimes put in its place. 

The lady told me about the Dogs' Trust, where perhaps I could foster, and another place I could probably get one. I'm down with that. Fostering's a great idea, to give me time to get to grips with the reality of having a dog... quite a big load. I'm not a fan of little dogs as such, but they are, by their very smallness, portable. It's an option. I need to be a dog mama soon.

When I got back, as if reading my mind, The Dogs' Trust gave me a personalised ad on the internet: Jude, can you foster a dog? I hadn't googled them or anything. I'd just thought about googling them. I am spooked, in a 'this means I have to get a dog' way. 

Today, the wind ran though the fields, making them ripple like water, while the sun picked picture postcards from the landscape: painting by numbers sky blue, number 42, with cotton candy clouds and stuck-on hills, spotted with crows and hawks. Too perfect to be true. Even the hedgerows wave as I ride by. I feel like a parade, or a lone marathon runner, for whom EVERYONE has turned out. 

I'm still laughing about my friend's date, originally not an English speaker, who has innocently nicknamed himself Quim. Not ironic. Not in any way aware. I think it's a difference in which letters make which sounds between the languages. But 'quim' is such a pleaser. It's one of those words that means different things and although vulgar, it's gentle and sweet in its shape, kind of twee. I love it, and I love his choice more still. It would be a great choice of nickname - approachable, funny, warm - if only it weren't for the fact that... ah well. Maybe at some point, someone will tell him.*

Today was full of music. I've had the pleasure of this beauty, by Asaf Adivan, and this live glory by Nick Cave. I sang on my bike and at the cats. I videoed myself singing 'Happy Birthday' while doing the voice of a little Spanish man with a grapefruit for a head, but that's less music and more love in a less than traditional form. 

And then my cello. I loved my cello with all my shoulders today. I breathed and relaxed. I enjoyed every note just for being, whether it was spot on on not. I'm getting there. There is no need to rush if rushing cuts short the joy of the process. I don't need to be any better than I am. I just need to sit with my cello every day and get to know it. That's all, really. If only I could remember that this is also what I need to do with my own life, and me. 

Thanks, Kate Hewett - I've been meaning to work with Jonathan Kay for years - so many good eggs recommend him - now thanks to you, I shall. 

I'm off to house-sit tomorrow. From then, I'll sing and play cello to a different cat. Again, not a new idiom. I actually will. Cheers to that. I hope you like it, cat. 

* Ha haaa.. and also, 'going on a date with quim' sounds like an awful way to say 'booty call', though it only works in limited gender combinations (everyone has a booty, right?).

Day 682: Jackahuahua

when a cat doesn't like it

A jackahuahua called Fox stole my heart with his little bitey teeth this afternoon. I was in a shop when I heard squeaking from a cage. Maybe in subconscious anticipation of the dead rat I found in the kitchen upon arriving home, I thought that's what he might be. I crouched and put my face up to the cage. 


I looked up to find a lady looking down at me. She wasn't going to get him out, but I'd got him all over-excited, so she did. My win. 8 weeks old, tiny-faced and delicate, with none of the extremity of a chihuahua's bulbous eyes or overly delicate form. He was stocky in his body, but little in his legs. He was all licky and teethy and he kept putting his little paw, with its very small claws, delicately on my cheek. 

I had a good long go on him. I reckon he's the kind of dog who might even be passable at home, with three cats. Even the tortoiseshell sisters and gangsta street cat, Colin, would give in to such a small thing as a nut to be cared for, if also sometimes put in its place. 

The lady told me about the Dogs' Trust, where perhaps I could foster, and another place I could probably get one. I'm down with that. Fostering's a great idea, to give me time to get to grips with the reality of having a dog... quite a big load. I'm not a fan of little dogs as such, but they are, by their very smallness, portable. It's an option. I need to be a dog mama soon.

When I got back, as if reading my mind, The Dogs' Trust gave me a personalised ad on the internet: Jude, can you foster a dog? I hadn't googled them or anything. I'd just thought about googling them. I am spooked, in a 'this means I have to get a dog' way. 

Today, the wind ran though the fields, making them ripple like water, while the sun picks picture postcards from the landscape: painting by numbers sky blue, number 42, with cotton candy clouds and stuck-on hills, spotted with crows and hawks. Too perfect to be true. Even the hedgerows wave as I ride by. I feel like a parade, or a lone marathon runner, for whom EVERYONE has turned out. 

I'm still laughing about my friend's date, originally not an English speaker, who has innocently nicknamed himself Quim. Not ironic. Not in any way aware. I think it's a difference in which letters make which sounds between the languages. But 'quim' is such a pleaser. It's one of those words that means different things and although vulgar, it's gentle and sweet in its shape, kind of twee. I love it, and I love his choice more still. It would be a great choice of nickname - approachable, funny, warm - if only it weren't for the fact that... ah well. Maybe at some point, someone will tell him.*

Today was full of music. I've had the pleasure of this beauty, by Asaf Adivan, and this live glory by Nick Cave. I sang on my bike and at the cats. I videoed myself singing 'Happy Birthday' while doing the voice of a little Spanish man with a grapefruit for a head, but that's less music and more love in a less than traditional form. 

And then my cello. I loved my cello with all my shoulders today. I breathed and relaxed. I enjoyed every note just for being, whether it was spot on on not. I'm getting there. There is no need to rush if rushing cuts short the joy of the process. I don't need to be any better than I am. I just need to sit with my cello every day and get to know it. That's all, really. If only I could remember that this is also what I need to do with my own life, and me. 

Thanks, Kate Hewett - I've been meaning to work with Jonathan Kay for years - so many good eggs recommend him - now thanks to you, I shall. 

I'm off to house-sit tomorrow. From then, I'll sing and play cello to a different cat. Again, not a new idiom. I actually will. Cheers to that. I hope you like it, cat. 

* Ha haaa.. and also, 'going on a date with quim' sounds like an awful way to say 'booty call', though it only works in limited gender combinations (everyone has a booty, right?).

Day 681: The Heaviest Skies Make Way for Rainbows

Today's utter delights include a fabulous Hungarian traveller woman who took my hand and showed me her hairline. She had incredible eyes and a beautiful, weather-worn face. And one leg missing. I liked her very much. We could hardly communicate, but she said 'I love you too' and laughed a lot. That'll do.

Thank you, nature. Thank you, playful universe. I went out to the garden the other evening to hang the washing. I was sad, desolate and wrapped up in thoughts that twisted me around their graspy little fingers and made my stomach ache, that made me see beloved friends as enemies and sat the energy of me down low below a cramped up heart. I had wrapped myself in my own straightjacket and couldn't see past that nagging bellyful of tension. I lifted my head and saw the most rich, thick, delightful rainbow arcing itself over the whole of the tellytubby field outside the house. The first was thicker and brighter, richer and more seemingly tangible than any I have seen. The cows in front looked bathed in it. Its sister (brother?) cupped it in a thinner, but equally perfect, arc. I felt the gods teasing me in the most loving of colours. I stood humbled and took it in. The photos don't give it anywhere near the glory it deserved. Its own magnificence did, and I am grateful. 

Thank you, Grundel, wise and loving brother, for the cello challenge (oh, how pleasing that these two words sound the same). Grace a toi, I have practiced every day but one in the last two weeks or more. I have grown a more loving relationship to this instrument thanks to you, and to you thanks to this instrument. I am thankful for the love you show me in your life, with your family, and for the care and humour you bring. 

What is the collective noun for chipolatas? A finger of chipolatas? A cringe? A genitalia? A fist? A podge? There were more. I have not yet chosen my favourite. 

Thank you, Tiu de Haan, for your unwavering love and championing, and for your knifelike sense of magic which cuts through the heavy-hanging curtains of my created woes and brings me pragmatism and wonder in almost equal measure (the wonder lights the way to my own practical solutions). Thank you for being a model of commitment to self-care, which allows you to give richer care to others, but makes the distinction - that is an inevitable side effect, but not the goal. That, sweet, magical sister, is your very own flavour of wisdom.

Thank you, Kath Jones, with whom tears flow so fluidly, mostly in laughter. Excuse me, is that your... is that your wonderful singing laughing sound I hear? I think it is.

And thank you Druth, for being who you are and for persevering when I don't believe your love, for making my next steps clear, for not giving up on me even when part of me has given up. It has been so painful being at odds with you these last few weeks. I like this phase better. I know what i need to do now and I know, though I couldn't hear it before , that you support me in it. 

And thank you, Self-Assessment people. You just cancelled a bill that was eating at me. Just like that. Annulled. Phooooo. Just what I needed today. You rock. 

And Rapha... you sent me texts on self-acceptance to help you translate, just when I was in the bowels of rejection of the darker sides of me. Rainbows need dark skies, heavy with rain, to make them shine.