Christmas Morning

I love the quietness of Christmas morning, being up before everyone else, no real need to go anywhere.

It’s been many years since I worked in crisis intervention and was on 24 hour call out over the festive period – not so enjoyable, as families feel the pressure. It shouldn’t be like this, but it is.

It saddens me to witness homelessness and on such a scale, in Britain. Every year I ‘do something’, like many, during this time. It’s all too easy to become bereft of home and this shouldn’t be so in our modern, apparently wealthy nation.

We have spent too long squabbling over staying in Europe. Our politicians and media seem to take the p*ss out of all of us, the citizens. Surely this is what binds us together.

I am aware of the rifts in our society, growing deeper – this is how it is before conflict. A slow build-up, a cat amongst the pigeons, the devil that is the rise of the far right. Many refer to the 1930’s. There are similarities.

The difference that could be now is this: We are more aware. We have won many fights against transgressions on humanity. We have learnt the hard way.

We also know what needs to be done to take care of Mother Earth and all her little babies.

On the wall to my right is Desiderata. I read it this morning and reflect on my own confusion, anger, sense of injustice.

Then I pour another coffee.

Peace be with everyone.

Blow Me Away!

Art reflects life they say. Only today I realised that the poster I have of Egon Schiele’s Four Trees (1917) is very much like the trees outside my front window. All in a different state of losing their foliage. Three are sycamore and I call these the sisters, one is a beech (their cousin).

The dominant sycamore is still green, she refuses to turn. She may be younger, I’m not sure. I also noticed for the first time that Mother is commanding the horizon, looking on at her children.

I used to play under these trees, planted on a patch of green which once belonged to a wealthy person. The large house is now under the NHS as a mental health care unit for day visitors. I can’t remember what size the trees were over forty years ago! I do notice though that children still play there, foxes meet and mate, crows and owls communicate.

But no one from the building sits outside, ever.

Beneath the trees is the Tiger’s Tomb. Maybe the grown ups are feart!

egon schiele four trees 1917

Literary Landscapes

I made a visit to the graveyard courtesy of an old friend. It’s a multicultural place just like Wool City of course. I tidied up, put in flowers – real ones, perused over graves of the golden oldies and tidied a few of them too.

It’s a pleasant day, cooler than the last few weeks. We took a walk amongst the stones. So many were of mighty people, with enough money to pay out for obelisks, huge Celtic crosses as befits  the once wealthiest town in the world. A section for Muslims and a small one for Jews, where there was a little synagogue. All ours are clustered together in one section too. Communities stay together through everything.

I don’t think there’s anything morose about death or discussing it – what you would like to happen, but then I was once a young Goth in the 80’s who thought it romantic to hang out by the Parsonage in Haworth, taking photos and doing rubbings of stones.

The last few days I have watched BFI films of the town I grew up in. It was once quite a slum in the centre. The number of mills present was astounding. How filthy it must have been. Now it is pleasantly green, and although it’s a busy, busy place and road pollution is high, the trees soak it all up and nature has found a way to come back.

What of the future of the old mill towns. Becoming green can only be the way, but til then, roads will be widened, houses built. Another mill burnt down in the early hours of this morning, fourteen fire engines were present. Grey smoke wafts in this direction, the main artery closed, causing chaos west of the city.

We must remember to keep writing, creating the stories, note happenings. Imagination and magic is all that is needed to breathe new life in to this old hell.

A trip to Whitby is on the cards – long time no see. That will appease more of my inner dark romantic! I wonder what it’s like to be a vampire and if there are any around here. So lucky to live in a rich literary landscape. And somewhere forever foreboding…

Whitby

From picturesofengland.com