Reminiscing...

This morning I have been on a virtual walk...wandering through the once familiar lanes and alleyways of the internet...stumbling upon long forgotten but one time regular haunts.

It's too easy to be distracted by the very present, shiny, social media stuff. Twitter and Facebook dangle baubles that catch the light and sparkle brightly but oh-so-fleetingly. But of course as one glittering tweet fades the light bounces off to light  up another. They are like fairground candy floss...satisfying for a second but with no substance. Blog posts and writers websites on the other hand glow with a constant, gentle luminescence that can be overlooked as we dash from shiny to shiny. So today I have revisited and indulged in a few old favourites. 

One in particular I stayed at for a while - it kindleakindle a little spark which brought me back here to my own stagnant blog, searching for a piece of my own writing...I didn't find it and so I am posting here today, six years after it appeared on Richard Hearn's Geowriting site as part of the Brighton Digital Festival. 

If I remember rightly, the prompt was a boy in a yellow T-Shirt ...

This is what I wrote: 

I made my way from the station. Keeping to the narrow back lanes and side streets. Off the beaten tracks, away from prying eyes. I couldn't risk being spotted. That would raise too many questions, too many puzzled looks, the risk of discovery and repatriation. The last thing I wanted!

A movement at the end of the alley caught my attention.

A sudden breeze lifted the rubbish causing a mini maelstrom of old newspapers and Pizza Place fliers. I squinted against the tornado of dust and grit and saw beyond it, a small human crouching by the bins. He seemed as keen as I not to be spotted, and I couldn't help feeling that a less glaring choice of shirt might have helped him.

We looked at each other, warily.

Separated for an instant by the storm of paper until, as suddenly as it had begun, the wind dropped and the papers fluttered to the ground. One sheet came to rest in front of me. I looked down and saw my own face staring back. And underneath, the hideous human name.

I shuddered in disgust and shame. By the bins the boy stared at me. His eyes flickered to the paper at my feet and back up to meet my gaze. He nodded, the slightest, barely perceptable movement of his head and then stood and jogged quietly past.

Thankful of his understanding, I continued my journey leaving behind the poster offering a reward for my safe return. I hoped the human boy was as successful in his own bid for freedom.

You can find out about the project and read the other contributions from writers across the country here 

http://www.brightondigitalfestival.co.uk/

February is the worst month...

I know. January is usually my worst month, and it was pretty dire, but February is giving it a run for it's money this year. Maybe it's just another of those age things, you know? The older you get the creakier your bones, the worse your eyesight, the longer it takes to get up out of a chair, for wounds to heal, and maybe for the January blues to clear.
Maybe it's because we haven't had a proper winter this year...hardly any frost, no snow to speak of, just lots of greyness and rain. Or maybe it's because this year, more than any other, I simply fail to see a light at the end of the tunnel, no silver linings, no brightside. I always see a brightside, even - or maybe especially - when others can't. Don't get me wrong, I am sure there is one, I just can't see it yet. Maybe March will be my month. That's a lot of maybes.

February is Post-It Note Poetry Month. I have been looking forward to it for a while - it always cheers me up and gets me writing - usually badly but that doesn't matter. The important thing is to be writing. Plus it is good for my succinct style. It is perhaps a testament to my state of mind this February that in 11 days I have posted just 3 poems. Massive fail. Something must be done - not sure what yet, but for sure it must.

For now, I leave you with today's post-it poem. It's not great but I quite like it and writing and posting it made me feel better.

I hadn't intended such an introspective post to break the block, sorry about that. Onwards and upwards, as they say.

What's in a name?

I have an unusual name. It draws comment, and questions.

"Sorry, could you just spell that for me?"
"Pardon, I didn't quite catch that? Oh, I thought that was what you said!"
"Are you serious?"
"How unusual! Where does that come from?"
"Sparrowhawk? That's like two birds, isn't it?"
"Oh dear!"

The very best one was from the owner of the hotel in the Lakes on our honeymoon. We were asked to phone if we were likely to arrive later than 4pm to be sure our room would still be available. The lady later sheepishly apologised and confessed that this was not something they usually asked people to do but they suspected we might be playing a practical joke. The Hotel's name was Hawksmoor. Not the best start to my life with a new name!

So just to clear up some common FAQs.

Yes, it is really my name.
No, I am not kidding.
Actually, it's more like three birds.
Yes, it is quite unusual up north, but not so much down south.
No, I was not born with it, I got it when I married my husband - the clue here is in the Mrs...
My maiden name was Honnor, and yes, that was equally unusual, and yes, also always in need of spelling.
No, I don't know the origin of it.
No, I have not traced my family tree.
And finally, no, I am not an American Indian.


Eventually I grew used to the comments and questions, began to share the jokes. Depending on my mood, and how many times I'd had to spell my name in any one day, my responses would vary from light flippancy to deadly sarcasm.
Over the years I have had some interesting and amusing conversations with complete strangers. I am glad to say that the outright rude comments have been few and far between. Most people are politely incredulous, one or two laugh out loud. Bit rude, I think, but there you go. And just occasionally I get a lovely response, which makes it all worth it. One such was from Aidan Clarke.

Aidan came to perform his poetry in the library. Knowing the importance of a name, I am mortified to admit that we spelled his wrong on the publicity. He was immensely gracious, saying it happened all the time. I'm sure it does, though I am also quite sure from personal experience, that it irks the life out of him. We do at least have the ignominious honour of being the only ones, so far, to get both his forename and surname wrong. Sorry, Aidan. But like I said, we don't do things by half...

Aidan didn't know my surname when he met me. His response after the event, was to send me a poem which he would have read on the night, had he known. I can't reproduce it here, as it has been entered for a competition. It's a beautiful poem and I wish him luck with it. He has however sent me it's companion which can be shared.

Window on the World

I’ve sat for an hour

At a small round table

In a café window.

For a far, fierce hour

People, times and places

Have thronged

On a circle of wood.

This small circle of wood

Is an immense station

Where journeys

Intertwine and separate.

It’s a maternity wing,

Airport, motorway services,

Hospice and harbour,

Dedicated to arrival and departure.

There are armies on the march.

Celebrities come and go.

It’s an avenue, a hill

And an ocean dotted with sails.

Above it all, a hawk hovers.

I’ve sat for an hour,

(Or was it a lifetime?)

At a small round table

In a café window,

Listening to stories

Only time can tell.

Aidan Clarke

30^th April 2012

So what's in a name? Not much, really, it's just a name...

You can find other poems by Aidan here.   If you get the chance to see him perform live then grab it! 

Breaking news( or rumour, at the very least...)   Amazingly, it seems there is a possibility that i could be an American Indian after all. Well not me, actually, but maybe my husband and sons! New information (as yet unproven!) has come to light that suggests the Sussex Sparrowhawks might be descended from an Indian who came across with either the Wild Bill Hickock Show or the Buffalo Bill Show I suspect the latter, (the source of the informaion is not entirely reliable)...well I'll go to the foot of our stairs! Who'd have thunk it! 

Talking to myself!

A year or so ago (Ok a year ago to the day actually, thanks to a nifty little app) I was having a little rant to myself about those people who never reply to my emails and texts. Being something of a prolific "messager" I sway through a mixture of emotions if people don't respond to me - frustration, anger, worry, a certain amount of sadness and, not least, a deluge of self doubt. Naturally, they have not replied because I am simply not sufficiently interesting or important enough to them to merit it. Generally these feelings don't last long and I give myself a mental shake and get on with life. Eventually I do get a response and am suitably exasperated or overjoyed to discover that they are either completely unaware of the emotional turmoil their silence has caused, or astounded that I have been so bothered by it!  Well, we all have our own private megalomaniac tendencies, don't we? 

Anyway my point is, a year ago I said all that much more succinctly so thought I would share my attempt to capture the feeling in words.

Into the Ether

Letters spatter

Puddling into words

Sentences stream

Gurgling into silence.

 I think it's quite apt for blogging too....who knows whether anyone is even listening?

First Post: it's all Mike's fault...

I set up this blog site weeks ago and then sat about ruminating on what exactly I should put in it. I fear I don't have an interesting enough life to write about my daily adventures. I don't really have any adventures - daily, weekly or other... What I do have, it would seem, is an abundance of views on things...I am not at all sure if they are relevant or interesting to anyone, but I do think that they are what you are going to get. Be prepared  for musings, rantings and preamblings around an undoubtedly eclectic mix of topics. If you are very unlucky they may even be interspersed with my attempts at 'proper' writing, but I'll try not to inflict too much of that on you!

So to start the ball rolling I have cheated a bit and posted a link to a review I wrote for Mike Hunter's blog. It seems fitting as it is almost certainly Mike's fault that I have finally taken the plunge into blogdom. Mike is a Twittermate with an interest (to put it mildly) in theatre and stage. He spotted a tweet or two of mine a year ago, and rather bravely or foolishly (I thought), asked if I could help him out with a review. I had never written a theatre review in my life so with rather uncharacteristic impetuosity I found myself agreeing to it! But I must have done ok because he came back and asked for more. Today's offering is my fifth to the house of spikemike.

I should say "Thanks Mike" for having faith in a stranger and giving me the chance to prove to myself, if no-one else, that I can actually string a couple of words together. One of these days we'll have that drink and then you can tell me what you really think.

Spikemike...is breaking a leg: The Heights - Live Theatre, 4th April - Review: Wednesday evening saw me tackling the city centre traffic in Newcastle with my son, for our first visit to the Live Theatre. This is a litt...