writers on fibreglass trees...

I meant to post this photo with the previous lot, but as always, trying to squeeze blog writing (or any writing, anyTHING, come to that) in between other activities is usually hurried and incomplete...

Crysse and I have so few photos of us both. This feels fairly typical, posing on the blue fibreglass tree at Longleat - that sense that we're kids playing in this big old world. The photo is courtesy of Peter (all the more appreciated because he doesn't take shots for himself, doesn't own a camera as he find it interferes with his writing process!)

I understand that. It works for me in different ways; first the expense of f***ed up films when I was always so short of cash, then my partner was 'the photographer' and I was the writer (although he took forays into 'my territory' - ha!, now there's a metaphor...). Then it just became a matter of priorities...

The first day I walked with the camera, I barely wrote. And I have used imagery as an alternative way of representing my blog journey here, having been so short on time to write, time to reflect... poetic time, attuned to my own cycles and rhythms. Making the time to train for this trek yet holding down a job in Bristol throughout feels nothing short of miraculous, SO much stepped-up working, walking. I've also slotted in freelance work and WEA work... I have frequently been a little crazed and crazy...

On Thursday night, I had the opportunity and inclination (not usually any energy left!) to indulge in the rhythms of music, and language, and looking back over my journal for the last few months and forward again to the trek and beyond. I played with an acrostic so I'd be able to show the kids at Somervale if they needed a demonstration, and wrote a poem about being Atholl's mum... I've spent most of his life fighting to be me rather than 'Atholl's mum'...

I had a wonderful evening - and most of the night... I've so missed writing in the evening; most of the time I either don't dare (in case I end up on a roll and don't sleep) or I just can't do another thing except veg in front of the telly.

I got to Somervale having had three hours sleep (albeit late, rotten weather and appalling map reading taking me via Midsomer Norton's Sainsbury's car park), and I had a great time. Cruising on adrenalin, maybe I fired the kids' creative energy - they produced some wonderful poetry. Their teacher intended writing a review of the week's workshops for the local paper, so I gave her some info on the trek - I won't be doing my press releases now, no time... I can do a follow-up instead - after trying to sell those travel pieces!

A question posed by a year 9 poet; what does love look like?

Love looks like a journal, patchworking a life into a work of art.